Campaign Of The Three Worlds
by Kar-Vermin
Summary: A D&D story in the classic style.
1. Introduction

The following story is based on an adaption of the D&D campaign that I ran from 1980 to 1987 (Yes, a long time ago; before many of you were born, I expect). The story as it currently stands is already posted on the "Community Fiction" forum on the official Wizards of the Coast website message boards. I am posting it here as well because... well, because you can never have too many people telling you how much you suck.

A few things before we start.

First, this is a very, very, OLD campaign. I'm picking up the story about (real-time) 1983. Yes, it's 1st edition rules, although I have "retroconned" several 3rd edition elements into it where I thought they were warranted. The campaign itself was divided into three roughly equal segments, each featuring a different cast of characters. What you will be reading is actually the second half of the second segment. Unfortunately, all my notes before that are mostly gone. What's left are mostly fragments, and not enough to base a strong narrative on. The third segment will be presented on a separate story thread.

Second, please note this is NOT a strict adaptation of the campaign. It is a story based on the campaign log. Thus, while I have tried very hard to stick as close to possible to what happened, I have made a large number of additions, subtractions and changes for the sake of the story. If there was an irreconcilable conflict between the campaign and what made a good story, the story won.

Third, it is important to realize that this is a _serial,_ not a novel. The best analogy I can give (even though I don't like it) is to a soap opera. Although it does eventually come to an end, it will only be after what I'm estimating at three hundred chapters. You have to enjoy this tale for what is happening, much as you tune into a soap opera to see what is happening that day, not the next day.

Fourth and finally, I feel compelled to give you fair warning. This story is rather more "character-driven" than "plot-driven." These are not epic-level, all-powerful characters here (if you're interested, they averaged about 6th level). There are a lot of them, as well. The story is told through the eyes of the seven PCs and the three major NPCs, and there is a huge "supporting cast." Some people may find it a bit slow or "talky." Most people on the WotC site either love it or hate it. You are free to do either, you won't hurt my feelings.

Coming in on the middle can be frustrating, I know. I apologize. Chapter 13 contains a fair bit of exposition that gives the campaign back-story.

My campaign is called "Three Worlds" because the action takes place between (duh) three different worlds. One is Rolex, the second Aarde. The third is Oerth, setting for Greyhawk, and that is where we pick up the scene. Like most DMs, I have wrought my own changes upon Oerth. For example, the Asgardian and Olympian gods are worshipped here, alongside the more traditional (and popular) Greyhawk gods.

The party, now retired from adventuring, owns the Brass Dragon Inn, situated about 30 miles northwest of the city of Willip, in the kingdom of Furyondy. Note that the game year is 565 CY, anywhere from 10-30 years before most games set in the Flanaess.

For better or worse, here we go. Don't be shy. Tell me what you think!

All characters and places not of my own design are copyright Wizards of the Coast, as is the game Dungeons and Dragons itself. Like you didn't already know that.

* * *

**THE PCs**

**Elrohir**, Male Human Ranger, 6'0", 175#, 26 years old, straight black hair, deep blue eyes

The leader of the Tri-Worldians prefers actions to words, mostly because many situations leave him at a loss for them. His charisma derives mostly from his good looks, as opposed to social interaction skills. Still, he is honorable, brave, and fiercely devoted to his wife Talass and son Barahir.

**Aslan**, Male Human Paladin, 5'5", 155#, 25 years old, brown hair, worn long in back. Sports a beard. Light blue eyes

Not exceptionally handsome in the traditional sense, Aslan acts in what some might falsely call a "standard" paladin manner. He tries to steer the Tri-Worldians away from their more "impulsive" ventures. His arguments with Argo over what course of action to take are legendary. However, all this is secondary to his psionics.

Aslan's incredible Talent has shaped his character since puberty. He can polymorph, teleport himself (and one other) and heal himself and others, almost without limit. He needs only to rest and regain his psionic strength when needed. These abilities have made him very confidant in his adventures (some say overconfident). Psionics themselves are very rare. A Talent such as Aslan's is unheard of.

**Argo Bigfellow Junior**, Male Human Ranger, 6'4", 215#, 26 years old, dirty blond hair, auburn eyes

This imposing figure is sometimes the spokesman for the group, unless Aslan wants it. Passionate in all things, Argo can be diplomatic when needed, but sometimes wears his heart on his sleeve, and can erupt into a fury when threatened which that he loves and protects. For him, that is currently his wife Caroline, followed by his friends and companions.

**Cygnus**, Male Human Wizard, 6'5", 175#, 29 years old, brown hair, brown eyes

Tall and thin, clad in robes, Cygnus fits most people's expectations of wizards. Cygnus' main interest is increasing his own magical knowledge and prowess. While he is indeed eager to defeat evil, some detect a manipulative streak in the mage. His wife Hyzenthlay died giving birth to their son, Thorin.

**Tojo**, Male Human Samurai, 6'0", 175#, 21 years old, black hair, tied in the traditional topknot. Violet eyes.

Yanigasawa Tojo is normally quiet, even shy. Often one does not even notice he is in the room, but when action calls, Tojo is often the first one into combat, heedless to any personal risk. The Tri-Worldians are still not exactly sure why Tojo has joined them, but they know his heart is pure.

**Zantac**, Male Human Wizard, 5'10", 210#, 39 years old, uncombed brown hair (medium length), light blue eyes

Of "stout" build, this mixed Suelois-Oeridian wizard is generally jovial and carefree. He makes both friends and enemies easily.

**Nesco Cynewine**, Female Human Ranger, 5'6", 130#, 25 years old, brown hair, worn short, green eyes. Skin an olive, "Mediterranean" tone.

Nesco has come to the party from a lifelong service to the royal family of Furyondy. While highly admired previously, Nesco is now keenly aware of being the "third ranger" in a party that is already at or above her ability level. This (along with the discovery of how much she really does not know) makes her insecure, and she is prone to impulsive actions to prove her worth.

* * *

**The NPCs**

**Talass**, Female Human Cleric of Forseti, 5'6", 130#, 29 years old, blond hair, worn short, blue eyes

Talass makes her presence known within the group. She supports her husband Elrohir foremost, but otherwise will usually side with Aslan over Argo. Talass loves her son Barahir deeply, but service to her god has always been the primary focus in her life, and she will not hesitate to argue her point of view to anyone. Others often consider her cold and unyielding.

**Caroline Bigfellow**, Female Human Fighter, 5'6", 120#, 19 years old, black hair, hazel eyes

Argo's soul mate, Caroline is as passionate as Talass, but is far more likely to respond emotionally and dramatically to any given situation, much like her husband. Caroline often bristles at Argo's overprotectiveness of her.

**Tadoa**, Male Elf Fighter, 4'8", 100#, 65 years old, black hair, green eyes

Still a child, Tadoa Falail is extraordinarily mature for his age. Not technically a member of the party, he often allies with them. He was a friend to Elrohir's father.

* * *

**The Children**

**Barahir**, a two year-old male human

**Thorin**, a seven year-old male human

* * *

**The Animal Companions**

**White Lightning**, an "awakened" heavy warhorse. She bears Elrohir, as she did Elrohir's father.

**Perlial**, an "awakened" heavy warhorse. She bears the paladin Aslan, as she did Luthor, a friend of Elrohir's father.

**Gylandir**, a pegasus who willingly serves Argo.

**Sequester**, a pegasus who willingly serves Caroline.

**Mirage**, Aslan's wardog.

**Grock**, Argo's wardog.

**Dudraug**, Elrohir's cooshee (elven dog).


	2. A New Year

**2nd Day of Needfest, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Woompf... woompf... woompf...

The regular beat of Gylandir's wings made a soothing rhythm to Argo's ears. Coupled with the cold air rushing past his face, it was doing a good job of clearing the cobwebs from his mind. He was, not for the first time, functioning on less than four hours sleep. He scanned the ground, passing by about fifty feet beneath them. There was a trace on frost on the ground, but the early morning sky was crisp and clear. Gylandir was circling their property. He could see The Brass Dragon inn, Aslan's house and there it was; his brand new home. Like the paladin's home, it was little more a simple, two-room stone cabin, but to Argo it was a mansion. Finally, he and Caroline could have a little privacy. Besides, compared to how he had lived in the Lone Heath, years ago, it was a mansion. Despite the grim events of last night still clamoring for attention in his mind, he smiled.

Thorin shivered and snuggled up a little closer to him. Despite being dressed in the warmest clothes they could buy for him in Willip, it was undoubtedly a little chilly up here for a boy not yet accustomed to a lifetime of harsh travels. Argo could smell the scent of crushed flowers in the boy's hair. Caroline had washed it about an hour ago, and Thorin had run to his father and begged to be taken for a ride on the pegasus. His father, studying his tomes (again), had told Thorin to ask Argo or Caroline for a ride. Gylandir and Sequester belonged to them, not him.

Argo's smile faded. _Damn it Cygnus, you've got a son! Spend just a few of your precious hours with him, why don't you? You know as well as I do that either pegasus would be happy to take you and Thorin for a ride! Is this what Hyzenthlay..._

His mind veered swiftly away from that gruesome image as Thorin spoke without turning around. He hadn't said much since they had first taken off.

"Uncle Argo, did you really see Scurvy John last night?"

Argo tried to keep his voice level. "Yes, Thorin, I did."

The boy seemed to be trying to find the right words. "Father said that he's been a lot of trouble for everyone. Why does he hate you so much?"

Argo sighed. "I don't really know. I guess just because I mouth off to him more than anyone else. People like Scurvy John irritate me. They bully other people, hurt them, even kill them, just to make themselves feel better. In the end though, they have it coming."

"Are all pirates like Scurvy John?"

"Most pirates aren't very nice people, Thorin. Although John and his crew are the only pirates I've ever met. And hope to. In any case, I don't think he'll be able to come after us any more. Hey, there's Caroline! Wave to her!"

They could see Caroline come out of the inn, bearing a box of clothing. She was still bringing things into their new house. She looked up, saw them waving, smiled and blew them a kiss. Argo smiled again.

_At least I know how lucky I am. And once we have children of our own, I'll be the happiest man in the world. On three worlds, in fact._

"Uncle Argo?" Thorin had turned, and was looking right at the ranger now.

"Yes, Thorin?"

"Uncle Aslan said you'd pick a fight with an angel. Is that true?"

_Did he now?_

"Well," he said, keeping his smile fixed on the child's serious face, "If the angel had it coming..."

Thorin gave him a wide smile and turned to face forward again. Argo, lalso ooking forward again, saw the glint of sun off of armor. Lots of armor.

About three dozen mounted figures were approaching the inn. About one third were knights and the rest were their entourages; squires, servants and so forth. Their shields bore the heraldry of the local ruler, Baron Chartrain; a black ship against a white background, sailing atop wavy stripes of blue and green. Argo frowned and urged Gylandir to land. He could already see his friends and companions coming out of the inn, getting ready to greet the soldiers.

_Mighty Zeus,_ Argo thought. _It's a new year. Please don't let this be a new problem._


	3. In Arrest

**2nd Day of Needfest, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The company of men slowed and spread out as they approached. The front line of horses stopped about thirty feet from the front door, and three of the knights dismounted. One was clearly the commander; a knight banoret. Carrying a leather tube in his hand _(His left hand,_ thought Argo. _He wants to be ready to draw his sword, if needed),_ the noble strode as briskly as his full field plate would allow up to the eight individuals assembling outside. His opening remark was addressed directly to Elrohir and Aslan.

"Elrohir and Aslan, citizens of Furyondy and subjects of the Crown..."

Elrohir folded his arms across his chest. He knew he wasn't going to like this. "Yes?"

The soldier cleared his throat and continued. "I am Sir Charlt of Willip, loyal servant of Baron Chartrain. Both are you are to be taken, in arrest, to the Lord Magistrate of Willip, there to be tried of your heinous crimes."

That caught everyone off guard. An off-key chorus of "What?" erupted.

Sir Charlt seemed prepared for that reaction. He continued without missing a beat. "Two days ago, upon the morn, Elrohir and Aslan were observed in several areas of Willip, committing most grievous acts of murder and bodily harm upon the innocent civilians of that fair city. Storefronts were damaged, property stolen- I have the full list of charges here," he stated, indicating the scroll he held.

Elrohir shook his head. "We don't need to hear that. We did none of these things! How could you-"

"Please read the charges, good sir," interrupted Aslan, causing both Elrohir and Argo to glare at him. "I for one, wish to know the full scope of these falsehoods against us."

Sir Charlt shook the scroll out of the tube, unfurled it and began to read. As to the manner of the assaults, Aslan and Elrohir would appear out of thin air in one section of the city. Elrohir shot arrows at anyone nearby, using his sword if anyone managed to close within melee range. Aslan meanwhile, would change into several monstrous forms, primarily an ogre, and would go on a rampage, although not mindless enough as to miss robbing several storefronts. When the city guard would close in, Aslan would simply _teleport_ himself and Elrohir to another part of the city and begin the cycle anew.

There was silence when Sir Charlt finished reading and returned the scroll to its tube. It didn't last long. Aslan spoke first.

"Of course, we want to clear our names. I can transport myself and Elrohir to Willip immediately-"

"I'm sorry Aslan," Charlt interjected, raising his hand. "I have strict orders that the two of you are to accompany my troops back to Willip. If you vanish from my sight at any point, the Lord Magistrate will consider that an admission of guilt. You must divest yourself now of all weapons and armor."

"I think not!" shouted Elrohir. Talass whispered something in his ear, but he apparently shook it off. "After all we've done for your people, you now accuse us of this? We have obviously been framed! Do you really believe we would be capable of such evil acts?"

Sir Charlt was clearly making an effort to look unperturbed. "I am not the one with the power to judge this matter. The Lord Magistrate is."

"You realize, good sir," Aslan said, "that many witnesses can place us right here two days ago."

Charlt raised an eyebrow. "Many more will place you in Willip. And besides," he noted, a smirk barely visible, "does not distance matter little to a man of your abilities?"

Aslan fell silent. He hadn't thought of that.

Argo chuckled and shook his head. "I always knew you'd crack one day, Aslan."

_"Argo!"_ snapped Talass. "Your stupid quips won't help us here!"

Argo assumed a nonthreatening stance. "Do not worry, my good lady. I am sure that Sir Charlt here does not truly believe that _all_ of us have turned evil, for we would have to be, to shelter such vile criminals," he finished that statement with a look towards the knight. Sir Charlt appeared to silently consider that line of thought and found it disquieting. His tone when he spoke again however, remained firm.

"Will you comply with these orders?"

"Of course they will," replied Argo, looking at his companions. Both nodded, Elrohir somewhat sullenly. "But first, you must have been traveling at a hard pace these last two days. All of you will be served food, drink, and lodgings if desired, all free of charge!" Argo gestured grandly.

Cygnus frowned. "Argo, that would cost us-"

"Not any less than our due, good Cygnus!" The ranger cut across the mage. "We are after all, subjects of this land!"

Sir Charlt however, shook his head. "We have our own," he stated before moving off to speak to his men.

* * *

The party made preparations while the knights and their hirelings ate and rested. It was decided that Argo, Cygnus and Talass would accompany Elrohir and Aslan to Willip. Caroline was not happy at being left behind.

"Talass is going," she pleaded to her husband.

"She is the wife of the accused. I promise you, love, when I am accused falsely of a crime, you can come with me to the Magistrate." He kissed her lightly on the cheek. Caroline did not seem very mollified, but managed a half-smile and led the children back inside the inn.

Cygnus approached Elrohir. "I'm guessing it's a wizard who's doing this, but he'd have to be a pretty powerful one, to _polymorph_ and _teleport _like that. Who, and why?"

"I don't know," the ranger replied, "but be careful, Cygnus."

"Me?" The wizard seemed surprised. "You're the one heading towards the chopping block."

"I believe he means," offered Aslan, coming up behind him, "is that if this unknown mage can _teleport_ around Willip, he could _teleport_ here, too." His gaze moved to the inn. "We have children to protect. And much else, beside."

Argo went over to Tojo and Tadoa. "There's a lot of ground to cover here. I'm counting on you guys to help Caroline out here."

Tadoa nodded soberly, but Tojo almost seemed amused. "You assume your wife needs our herp. We may need hers. She is stronger than you think, Argo-san."

"I know," he nodded. "I hope so. I've got a nasty idea forming in my head, and it makes me frightened. Very frightened."

He turned away and started outfitting himself for the trip to the city.


	4. The Lord Magistrate

**4th Day of Needfest, 565 CY**

**Baronial Residence, Willip, Furyondy**

_This is not going well,_ thought Aslan.

The chamber of the Lord Magistrate was crowded, and more unstructured than the paladin had imagined it. A crude fence of wooden planks divided most of the room in two. Aslan and his friends were in one side, along with Sir Charlt and several soldiers and servants. The other was packed full of common folk, merchants and their families, all witnesses to, and/or victims of, his and Elrohir's horrible crimes. Only a number of guards prevented an open riot from erupting, and it still seemed a distinct possibility. It was little different from the procession from the city's outskirts to here. Despite the route being at least partially cleared beforehand, enough rotten fruit, mud and stones had come hurling their way to let the party know that their earlier goodwill had pretty much evaporated like water in the Sea of Dust.

Seated behind a long table on a raised platform in front of them, sat the Lord Magistrate of Baron Chartrain of Willip. With the Baron himself currently visiting Chendl, the kingdom's capital, the Magistrate wielded the Baron's authority in "canon law," as he described it. He was a ruddy man around fifty years of age, who managed to give the appearance of bulk without being either muscular or obese. Of course, under the voluminous robes of office he wore, it was hard to determine. He wielded a short ceremonial mace with which he repeatedly banged on a well-worn spot on his desk. He did so again now, again warning the accusers to be quiet, and achieved a small reduction in the tumult.

On either side of the Lord Magistrate stood a cleric of Heironeous. One was a stern-looking man in his early forties. He had been introduced as Ethelred, second-in-command of the Church of the Archpaladin in the city. Opposite from him was a female priest, possibly in her early twenties. Aslan thought her name was Jinella, but he hadn't heard quite clearly enough to be sure. She seemed more curious than anything else, acting as assistant while Ethelred cast spells to verify the veracity of the citizen's tales of woe. To every one, he had said, "I detect no untruths," and glared at Aslan, who had decided the stoic approach was the best one at present. He and Elrohir would have their say soon enough. Their words would also be seen as true.

"Now then," the Lord Magistrate continued, laying the mace back down on the table and folding his hands in front of him expectantly. "You two- speak your story."

Elrohir had just opened his mouth when a loud voice came from his right.

"Praised be the Invincible One- justice at last will be served!"

It came from a non-descript middle-aged man who had just entered through a side door leading further into the Baron's villa. His clothing was more notable than he was- a colorful tabard with fringe and tassels attached, bearing the likeness of a sailing ship with a large crown attached to the mast. He wore a bright orange cloak and several silk pouches on a jeweled, leather belt. On his face was an intense hatred directed at Elrohir and his party.

"The Socman Atlanter," Aslan declared.

Atlanter irritably slapped one of his elaborate epaulets, never taking his eyes off the paladin. "Address your betters correctly, you cur! I am now a Sea Emissary, and I act now as a direct representative of my masters, the Great and Honorable Sea Princes!"

A hand gently clamped on Atlanter's right shoulder.

"If it pleases your Eminence, we are here merely to observe. All will be handled through proper channels." Such was the mild appearance and gentle demeanor of the white-haired LaSalle Main, Lord Mayor of Willip, that his entrance alongside the Sea Emissary had gone momentarily unnoticed. The two men slowly walked towards the table in front.

Atlanter smoothly switched to a more refined manner. "Of course, your Honor. I meant not to interfere. I beg your pardon, I simply could not contain my joy at knowing that the deceitfulness of these reprehensible individuals will not escape the piercing eye of the Lord Magistrate," he finished with a slight bow to the judge, as they arrived. Servants quickly brought two chairs for the aristocrats, who seated themselves next to the Elrohir party.

For his part, the Lord Magistrate seemed neither flattered nor patronized. He nodded curtly to the officials and then returned his steady gaze to Elrohir and Aslan.

"Speak."

And so they did. Argo, Talass (not-very-subtly displaying her holy symbol) and Cygnus all vouched for their compatriots. Ethelred seemed somewhat surprised- though no less grim- as he announced likewise, "I detect no untruths." The noise of the crowd to their left abated still more.

"Our mere presence here should be proof of our innocence!" Elrohir announced. "After all, we came here of our own free will. Certainly, you could not have apprehended us by force!" The noise level of the crowd rose again, while Aslan, Cygnus and Talass groaned. Atlanter smirked again as the officials glowered, while Argo spoke quietly to Elrohir.

"You do not help your cause, my friend"

Elrohir seemed about to retort, then fell silent again.

Aslan stepped forward.

"My Lord, I am a paladin, a holy man of my god, and of my cause," he began. Atlanter sneered.

"If I were guilty of the charges brought against me, Asgard's own retribution, more severe than any this court can impose, would be visited upon me. I ask that your servant of the Archpaladin use his blessed power to view my soul, and determine its composition."

The Magistrate looked over at Ethelred, who considered this, and then nodded over to Jinella. She raised the silver lightning bolt she held in her hands and peered intently at Aslan. A smile slowly crept onto her face. "He is holy, my Lord!"

"Meh!" The Sea Emissary stood up, gesturing dismissively. "Divinations can be deceived through dark magic, or at the least, be used to cloud the minds of men. So what if these two think they are innocent? The evidence clearly shows otherwise, and with Aslan's terrible powers, we cannot take the chance! They must be-"

"We?" The Lord Magistrate asked loudly. "Have you renounced allegiance to the Sea Princes, your Emissary, and pledged yourself body and soul to King Belvor of Furyondy? I will decide this matter, and I speak for the Baron of Willip!"

Atlanter managed to shrink on his chair without using any magic at all.

The judge turned back to Aslan and Elrohir. "A most vexing case, indeed. I shall consider all I have heard, and render my judgment tomorrow. In the meantime, the two are you shall be sent to the-"

"If I may, Lord Magistrate," began the soft voice of the Lord Mayor. All eyes turned to the elder official. "I humbly request of your Lordship that Elrohir and Aslan be remanded to my custody, where they shall stay at my house until sent for by you. I shall accept full responsibility for their actions, including their punishment, if they should flee justice."

The room grew quieter than it had been yet. Atlanter was whispering to LaSalle, who seemed to have gone selectively deaf to his voice. The Lord Magistrate considered. He did not seem to relish the idea, but finally nodded. "As you wish, your Honor." He banged the mace on the table. "This case is recessed. Next!"


	5. Atlanter's Sham

**4th Day of Needfest, 565 CY**

**Residence of the Lord Mayor, City of Willip, Furyondy**

The Lord Mayor of Willip, LaSalle Main, gazed out of the parlor window as the last of twilight's light faded over the city. He closed the shutters, then turned and addressed the five individuals scattered about the room.

"I bid you a pleasant evening, good people," he said, moving towards a door in the rear. He paused after opening it. "I have placed my trust, and indeed, my life in your hands," he stated softly. "I feel confident that I have not misplaced that trust."

The door closed behind him. Argo opened the shutters again, gazed at the starry sky briefly, and then turned around to face his friends. He was scowling.

"I don't like being here. When you're found guilty tomorrow, the Mayor will suffer for it, whether you submit to punishment or not."

"We will not be found guilty, Argo," said Aslan, who was sifting through a pile of blankets on the floor.

"I think you will be," replied Argo. "The people want justice, and the Lord Magistrate wants to be able to tell the Baron on his return that he can handle any complications that might arise in his absence." He paused. "We need to show more than your innocence. We need to find out who the guilty party is. Ideas, anyone?" He looked from one face to another.

Cygnus, who was perched uncomfortably on a divan next to Talass, said one word. "Iuz."

Everyone looked at the mage. "The Old One hates us more than anyone else, at least at the moment," the mage continued. "He has the resources, and powerful enough minions to do this."

Elrohir looked alarmed. "You don't think that false Aslan was actually-"

"No," cut in Talass. "I don't think it was Iuz himself. He's already put in one-" she stopped, aware she had just reminded everyone, especially Cygnus, of a nightmarish memory. She drew in a deep breath and continued.

"-one personal appearance. He won't do that again. He has larger concerns than us. I do think it's likely that he is behind this, however."

"What about Scurvy John?" asked Elrohir. The others looked at him. He continued, somewhat defensively. "He has that wizard that travels with him on his ship, what's his name," the ranger snapped his fingers, "Ali... Alu... _Alabin!_ That's it!"

Aslan turned to his friend. "What do you think, Cygnus? You've seen Alabin in action. Is he powerful enough to do this?"

Cygnus frowned. "Maybe. It's not that easy to tell. Short of asking him directly, or sneaking a peak at his spellbooks, it's impossible to know for sure."

There was a brief silence. "What about you, Argo?" Talass asked, rising to her feet. "You always seem to have all the answers."

Bigfellow gave her a pained smile in return.

"I am not devout enough to confer with the powers above as you can, my good lady."

"I already told you the results of my divination. _Seek upon the water._ That could mean anything."

"Yes, but it might mean one particular thing. Our good friend Atlanter. I know," Argo raised his hand to forestall the coming objections. "He doesn't, or at least shouldn't, have access to that kind of magical power, but I'm just not that much of a believer in coincidences. He shows up here just in time for our trial? Illusionist, let the sham be exposed!"

"What?" asked Talass.

"An inside joke," Aslan explained. "Argo, the Lord Mayor told me that Atlanter's visit here is an official one, and was scheduled weeks ago! That just doesn't add up to him being behind this."

"Maybe," the ranger replied, starting to remove the straps of his plate mail, "But I've had a bad feeling in my gut ever since this started, and I want to check it out once and for all. Cygnus, there's a dressing room this way," he pointed to the door he was now heading towards. "Come with me and help me get this armor off. Then, I need an _invisibility_ spell from you."

"Argo, there's something you're not telling us!" Talass said sharply as Cygnus rose and headed out the door Argo was holding open for him.

"You're right, my good lady. There is." was the ranger's reply as he closed the door behind him.


	6. Case Dismissed

**4th Day of Needfest, 565 CY  
The Dockyards, Willip, Furyondy**

Cloaked from sight, Argo Bigfellow Jr. moved through the darkened alleys of Willip towards the piers where the merchant ships were docked. He was not a thief by trade, but by removing his armor and moving at a slower than normal pace, he was hoping that he would remain undetected.

He spotted his quarry- the merchantman _Cutbert_. No lights were visible on the ship. He hoped the crew- and the Sea Emissary- were out carousing the taverns or other diversions available. The gangplank was down, and he boarded, trusting to the creaking of the ship's hull to mask any noise he inadvertantly made.

Argo had been unsure of whether to try for Atlanter's quarters or the captain's, but fate had made that choice for him. Both cabin doors were locked, but the captain's door was so warped by long exposure to sea air that it was not too hard to force the door open.

The ranger glanced around. No one responded. He had thought he had heard voices below decks, but he hadn't been sure. He entered the dark cabin, and began to look around.

The captain's log. It was lying on a large, freestanding bookcase that was set several inches from the wall opposite the door. That looked good. Argo picked it up and opened it-then realized that it was too dark in here to read it. His sword did shed some light, but that would be visible a long way off. Instead, Argo positioned himself in the open doorway of the room, holding the book so as to get enough moonlight to read by.

He started about three weeks back. The log mentioned Atlanter's presence as a passenger on the ship, but it all seemed above the board, as Aslan had mentioned.

Then he found the log entry he had been looking for. After spotting what looked like a shooting star strike off in the distance, the crew of the _Cutbert_ had spotted two individuals in the Azure Sea, apparently in the grip of a giant squid. As they drew near, the squid had suddenly sprouted wings and flew to the deck of the ship, depositing the two individuals unharmed upon it. Then, the winged monstrosity had suddenly transformed into a human being.

The description of the squid-turned-human matched Aslan exactly.

The other male human was an exact match for Elrohir.

The female human, Argo wasn't sure. The description sounded similar to Talass, except that her hair was black, not blonde.

According to Captain Kyle, Atlanter, who had run back to his cabin when the squid had first sprouted wings, came stomping back on deck now. Apparently, he thought this was Aslan and Elrohir, as well. _Interesting_, thought Argo.

Atlanter had railed against "Aslan," until the aristocrat had suddenly screamed in pain, grabbed his head and collapsed to the deck, writhing in pain. "Aslan" had then introduced himself to Captain Kyle as "Nodyath." His companions were "Mendoleer" and "Talat." He had roughly pulled Atlanter to his feet, slammed him against the mast, and hissed at him, "So, you hate these people, this _Aslan_ and this _Elrohir?_ It would be in your best interests, your Eminence, to have a little chat with me." The four of them had then disappeared to Atlanter's quarters.

And that was about it. Nodyath told Kyle that neither he nor his crew were to mention to anyone about their "rescue." After a brief demonstration of his powers, the captain and crew readily agreed.

Argo gritted his teeth. He had been right. Nodyath was-

"To arms! To arms!" There's an invisible intruder on board! Check the captain's quarters first! To arms!"

_What the?_ How in the Nine Hells had that happened? Argo gauged the approaching footsteps, then lashed out and kicked the bookcase against the cabin wall, then ran out onto the deck, still clutching the logbook. The cutlass-wielding crewman ran past him into the doorway, turned around as he saw what looked like a flying book zip past him, and then crashed to the deck in a heap as the bookcase rebounded from the wall and toppled on top of him from behind.

As Argo ran down the gangplank, he spied a darker shape in the water below. From what he could make out, it looked something like an otter ten feet long, except for its evil, toothy grin and red eyes, which were turning to keep track of the ranger.

_It's Chic! Dammit, I didn't know he could see through invisibility!_

"He's leaving the ship! After him!" came the voices from behind.

_Hmmm. Guess he's telepathic, too. Why doesn't anyone tell me these things?_ Argo tucked the logbook under his cloak, and it vanished from sight. He'd be okay once he got away from the water, unless Chic was foolish enough to come onto dry land in pursuit, which the ranger doubted.

Sheer adrenaline kept Argo running at full speed. Now that he thought about it, the crewmen might guess where he was heading. They'd certainly tell their captain. Atlanter would know soon enough.

* * *

Argo banged on the door of the Mayor's house. When a servant opened the door, Argo burst in, but the young man hadn't opened the door very far, and Argo plowed into him, sending the two of them tumbling to the floor, Argo now very visible. The servant, apparently not used to people materializing out of thin air in front of him, promptly screamed and ran further into the house. Cursing, Argo closed and barred the door, then ran to the parlor.

* * *

"I was right! It's them!" Argo declared as he burst into the parlor and slammed the logbook down on a table.

"Who?" demanded Aslan. "Argo, this racket is not going to win us any-"

"Your counterpart, Aslan. Your counterpart from Rolex! His name is Nodyath, and yes, he has your Talents as well." Argo turned to Elrohir. "Your counterpart is with him, Mendoleer by name". He then turned to Talass. "And someone named Talat?"

"That can't be," interjected Cygnus. "Talass was born here, on Oerth! She can't have a counterpart!"

"I have a sister," said Talass quietly, looking at the floor.

"A sister?" repeated Elrohir. His wife nodded.

"Named Talat?" he began to shout.

"Yes. Keep your voice down."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"What concern was it?" Talass retorted angrily. "She left home twelve years ago, and I haven't seen her since! I had no idea she was still alive, let alone that she had somehow been to Rolex!"

Elrohir grew uncharacteristically silent. "I'm sorry, Talass. It just seems like things are happening so fast-"

"They're about to start happening a lot faster, Elrohir." Argo said. "Chic was in the water near the Cutbert. He telepathically alerted the crew. If Atlanter doesn't know yet, he will soon."

"Chic?" Aslan asked. "Why would he be helping Atlanter?"

Argo shook his head, and put one hand on the paladin's shoulder, and the other on Elrohir's. "Sometimes, my friends, I think there is a tavern somewhere where all our enemies gather and discuss ways of finishing us off once and for all. We have to find out where this place is- and undersell them on ale. We'd be safe and secure in no time!"

Everyone, even Talass, smiled at that. Just then, the door flew open. Sir Charlt, sword in hand and two soldiers in tow, burst in.

"Argo Bigfellow Junior of The Great Kingdom! Drop your sword!"

Argo rolled his eyes, but made a great show of loosing his scabbard and laying his sword down on the floor. Sir Charlt kicked it away as the Lord Mayor LaSalle Main entered from another door.

"I do not think violence will be needed, good sir knight. I think it is best if we all stay together, right here. I have sent out messengers, and we will have more news shortly."

* * *

The following ten minutes would have seemed much longer to Elrohir and Aslan if they hadn't spent the entire time trying to convince Charlt and Main to let them go. They were rebuffed, roughly and politely, respectively. Argo spent the time having Cygnus help him back into his plate mail. Sir Charlt eyed him, but did not object. Finally, a servant burst in.

"Your Honor," the panting youth gasped out. "The _Cutbert!_ She's left dock, and won't answer to hails! It happened so fast, six of her crew were left behind! It's-"

"I want that ship stopped. Dispatch a squadron," the Lord Mayor said quietly, but with great force. The youth spun around and ran out. Aslan stepped forward.

"Your Honor, please! With my Talent, I can-"

"Your conditions of arrest still apply!" declared Sir Charlt. "If you vanish, you are guilty!" Aslan sighed as LaSalle Main stood up.

"All of you please, follow me," the Lord Mayor announced. "We are going to the docks, but I must warn you all to stay with me". The Mayor's eyes bore into those of Aslan, who nodded.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, the Lord Mayor and his guests were crowding onto the prow of the _Thrommel_, a warship setting sail after the Cutbert. Despite the darkness, they could see that the merchantman had turned into the wind, and had apparently stopped, less than a mile out from the harbor. Now a lone figure could be seen, being roughly pushed into a small rowboat. It was Atlanter.

Argo pointed. "By the Aegis! It seems like Captain Kyle's got more gumption than I gave him credit for! He's seen Atlanter for the bad apple that he is. Of course, this probably means Nodyath and his friends are long gone, but we still-"

He broke off. Chic had surfaced, and taken the rowboat's guide rope in his mouth, and was towing Atlanter away. Argo drew his bow, snatched a cold iron arrow from his quiver and let it fly, before even considering the extreme range.

The arrow struck the creature, and embedded itself in Chic's shoulder. A high-pitched bout of squealing and thrashing ensued, and then only widening ripples on the surface could be seen. Chic had fled.

Argo turned to his friends and grinned. "Case dismissed!" he shouted.


	7. A Day At The Brass Dragon

**5th Day of Fireseek  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Argo Bigfellow Jr. opened the door of his house and stepped outside, holding the door open until his dog Grock ran out past him. The tan-colored beast ran a few steps, then stopped and looked his master's right hand, which held a goose drumstick. A few scraps of meat still clung to it.

Argo hurled the bone as far as he could and smiled as he watched Grock run after it. The sun had just come up, and was painting the cloudy sky a magnificent shade of red. The last few days had been somewhat warmer, with the prevailing winds south to southeasterly, coming off the Lake of Unknown Depths. Still, this was Fireseek, so it was chilly and damp. The ranger was not quite sure why he had donned his plate mail armor this morning, but it had not yet begun to fatigue him, so he decided to keep it on for now.

Grock had worried the bone, and was bringing it back to Argo when a bark rent the still morning air. Aslan's dog Mirage came tearing around the corner of the inn, followed closely by Elrohir's cooshee, Dudraug. Grock looked at the approaching dogs, then turned back to Argo, then dropped the bone and raced off to play with the other dogs.

"That's okay, Grock! You can go play with them!" Argo shouted redundantly, as the dogs raced off. The ranger chuckled to himself. "My loyal companion."

He turned to look around. If Mirage and Dudraug were outside, that meant Elrohir and Aslan were probably up already as well.

He soon spotted Elrohir and Talass. They were standing about a hundred yards away to the northwest, speaking with a man Argo recognized as the same builder from Willip that had planned the construction of his and Aslan's houses. The paladin was nowhere to be seen, but Argo assumed he was probably in the inn.

The ranger walked towards the stables that were situated on the far side of the inn, hoping to spend some time with the horses and pegasi, but there was a crowd in and around them already. A party was preparing to saddle up and head out, and a wagonload of supplies for the inn sat outside. The wagon's horses were being led into the stables, while the workers began to bring food and other supplies into the inn. Argo caught a glimpse of Thorin bringing a horse out for a guest.

Argo walked around to the front and headed into the inn, slipping past a worker carrying in a large sack of flour. None of his party was in the main room. He was about to turn to leave when he saw one of the serving girls come out of the door leading to the Tall Tales Room, carrying an empty serving tray. She nodded and smiled shyly at him as he moved past and opened the door.

Argo loved this room. The fireplace (already lit), the comfortable, padded chairs, the many mementos of their adventures. The head of the blue dragon Sandcats dominated the far wall, staring blankly at everyone who entered.

Aslan, Cygnus and Tojo were inside. Tojo was eating a type of fish stew served over rice. It was a crude approximation of a dish he had described from his native Nippon. Argo didn't care for it himself, but he noticed Cygnus enjoying a bowl of it. Aslan was putting down a glass of wine.

Argo spread his hands apart in a mock gesture of surprise. "And here I thought I was the early riser today! What news, good friends? And Aslan," he added as he plopped down into a chair next to him. The paladin gave him his own version of Argo's strained smile, then nodded towards Cygnus.

The wizard set his bowl aside on an end table and stood up rather stiffly, as if he was getting set to address fellow mages at a wizard's guild. Clasping his hands behind his back, he cleared his throat and began. "I spoke with Elrohir yesterday, and we are in agreement. We feel we should be more aggressive in dealing with our numerous enemies. Considering all that we've been through in the last year, we can still count our blessings. Despite our," and here he closed his eyes briefly, "losses, we've still managed to defy the odds and carve ourselves out a happy little home here. I want to keep things that way, and I think that involves taking the fight to some of our foes before they bring it to us."

"An example?" Argo asked. In response, Cygnus indicated the dragon's head to his right.

"Bellicose. She may not be as powerful as her father here, but she's still more than capable of destroying this inn with a surprise attack. Why wait for that? We've heard rumors that she's vowed vengeance against us, I say we hunt her down and take her out first!" He stared hard at Argo, as if waiting for an objection.

The ranger merely took a sip of wine from Aslan's glass, ignoring the paladin's glare, and asked, "Who else?"

"Chic. We know he's in the Nyr Dyv. We could charter a ship, maybe hire some help from the Sailor's Guild, maybe even a wizard or two from their guild, and go out after him."

Argo considered this. "You're the one who's usually concerned about our finances, Cygnus. How are we supposed to afford all this?"

"Depends on what we're willing to sell," Cygnus replied, while shifting his gaze towards the large chest sitting in the far corner.

Argo's mouth tightened slightly. "There's not a lot in that chest that I'd be comfortable with selling, Cygnus. But let's hold off on that for a moment. Who else do you have in your sights?"

"Well," Cygnus shuffled his feet. "I don't think Atlanter's much more of a threat to us, but Scurvy John for certain. Wouldn't you like to see him dead once and for all?"

"Let me put it this way Cygnus," Argo sighed. "I wouldn't shed any tears to see him dead, but these are basically assassination missions you're describing. That involves a lot of risk. Are you willing to risk Thorin's upbringing that easily? The boy needs his father."

Now it was Cygnus' turn to go tight-lipped. "He needs his mother too, but that obviously isn't going to happen."

Argo jumped out of his chair and strode up, nearly nose-to-nose with the wizard.

"Damn you, Cygnus! Stop feeling so sorry for yourself! We all know what happened to Hyzenthlay! We were all up there in that room," Argo indicated the upstairs with a tilt to his head, then eyeballed Cygnus again. "Your most important concern is Thorin! And if anything else conflicts with that, it has to be discarded!"

"But that's exactly what I'm talking about! Thorin's safety!"

"No, that's _not_ what you're talking about, Cygnus! Your constant quest for more magical power, your obsession with killing- face it, Cygnus; it's Iuz you want dead. It's Iuz who killed Hyzenthlay, and you know damn well that there's no way on Oerth we can kill him! Your thirst for vengeance against all our other foes won't bring her back."

Argo slowly backed away, and sank back down into his chair, still pointing at the mage. "Now, I'm not against all of this _per se_, but it depends on who you want to slay, and _why_. I saw a lot of blood feuds at the Lone Heath, and let me tell you, it didn't create anything except heartache, widows and orphans!"

Cygnus, shaking badly now, slowly sat back down as well. "I just want us to be safe Argo, that's all," he said in a tired voice.

Argo nodded slowly. "I know, Cygnus. So do I. But we can't bite off more than we can chew here. People like Nodyath could-"

"Nodyath?" Cygnus interrupted. "You're not putting him in the same league as Iuz, are you? Nodyath we can take!"

Argo stared at Cygnus. "You're insane if you think that, my friend." He turned to eye Aslan, but continued speaking to the mage. "Just imagine what Aslan here would be capable of, if he weren't bound to his paladin code. " He turned back to the wizard. "You've seen him turn into a fly, land unseen on someone's shoulder, and then _poof,_ they're gone!" He paused briefly. "You may think this cruel, and perhaps it is, but every day for the past week I've thanked almighty Zeus that Nodyath and his allies have gone on to whatever purpose they've decided on, whether that's to return to Rolex or to cause havoc here in the Flanaess. If he decided to destroy us, I don't think there's any way we could stop him."

Aslan cleared his throat. "That may not be the case, Argo. In fact, I've been considering that very-"

The door flew open as Thorin burst in. Instantly, all four adults were on the feet.

"Thorin!" Cygnus roared. "How many times have I told you to knock before you enter this room?"

"Yes, Father. I'm sorry," the child said quietly, staring at the floor. Then his head snapped up again. "But there's a messenger from Willip here with an important message for you-for you all! He's says it's from the Lord Mayor himself!"

Thorin returned to the dining room, the quartet following him. A young man stood there, about fourteen years old, Aslan guessed. He had wild sandy hair, and light blue eyes. He held an envelope in his hands, with the seal of the Lord Mayor upon it.

Aslan, in front, strode up to the boy. "You have a message for us?"

"Yes, my lord," said the youth, looking up. It's for-"

He stopped dead as his eyes met Aslan's He looked absolutely thunderstruck for a moment, and then the expression faded, like a long, slow wave receding from a beach.

Aslan tried not to show irritation, but his impatience leaked through. "Yes, young man? May we have it?"

The youth slowly handed him the envelope and stepped back. "I'm sorry, my lord," he swallowed hard. "It's just- I mean, I've heard of the mighty Aslan, but I never thought I would see..." He gestured clumsily with his hands.

Aslan glanced up as he was breaking the wax seal. "Yes, of course. Sit down, boy. Take a rest."

"Barkeep!" exclaimed Argo. "A free drink for this lad, on the house. His choice!" The man behind the bar nodded.

"Thank you, good sirs," the youth said, and took a seat at the bar.

The quartet clustered around the note.

**Elrohir & Companions-  
Mendoleer and Talat captured. Held at prison. Come at once.  
-Lord Mayor LaSalle Main**

The four of them locked eyes. Aslan spoke first.

"Should I _teleport?"_

"No," replied Argo. "If our faithful steeds don't mind a little extra exertion, we should be able to make it there by nightfall. I think we all want to be together for this. Suit up, Aslan. Thorin," he turned to the boy who was trying very hard to be close by and out of earshot at the same time. "Give Elrohir and Talass this letter, have them don their armor and join us. After we've gone, go over to my house. Wake up my wife if she's not already up, and tell her where we've gone. Have her and Tadoa watch the place until we're back. Let's go, people!" he said, heading out the door. Tojo quickly caught up to him.

"Your wife not happy you reave her behind again, Argo-san."

"Yes," agreed Argo ruefully, "but this might be dangerous." He smiled at the samurai. "Hey, you never know. Maybe I'll get lucky and get killed before I have to come back and face her!"

Tojo did not return the smile.


	8. The Prison

**5th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY**

**The Prison, Willip, Furyondy**

The iron door opened slowly, emitting the loud groan that the sextet expected it would. That fact made the noise no less unsettling. The old jailor leading them did not appear to notice it in the least. He looped his key ring back over his belt and motioned them on with the torch he held in his left hand.

"Stay close," he said through cracked, yellowing teeth. "Deh stairs been crumblin' sum time now." He led the way down a steep spiral staircase.

_The pale-skinned, elderly man had not seemed happy when Elrohir and his companions had presented him with the Lord Mayor's letter. After staring at Elrohir in amazement for what seemed like a very impolite amount of time, he had peered at the letter very closely, his bent, beaklike nose almost brushing the parchment. Finally, he had handed it to an assistant with a scowl._

_"Tawt the Mayor wanted dis kept quiet. Ah well, why tell me? Come on," he had said, and after dispatching the assistant to notify the Lord Mayor, had started a sporadic series of low mumblings and complaints directed at no one in particular as he began leading them below the Baronial Residence._

Elrohir, Aslan, Argo, Cygnus, Tojo and Talass followed as close behind as they could, using their hands for guidance along the wall as they descended.

The stairs ended after about thirty feet, as best they could estimate, and headed off down a short corridor. After about twenty feet, a side passage, only five feet wide, led off to their right. Their guide took it.

"You know what's sad?" Argo spoke up, taking in the nearing smell of urine and the squealing of rats. "This is probably the cleanest prison I've ever been in, and it's still a cesspool."

"Been in many?" Aslan queried with a slight grin.

Bigfellow turned to eye him, but without his trademark pained smile.

"One."

Argo turned back and quickened his pace to keep up with the jailor. Aslan was silent.

"According to my mother, one of the tribes in Samseed Wood had a prison. I never saw it, but she said it was beautiful," Elrohir spoke almost wistfully. The others regarded him with some surprise. Elrohir almost never spoke of his youth. Argo, up ahead, turned around again, a frown on his face.

"Forgive me, Elrohir, but did she ever say what is was about any prison, even an elven one, that could possibly make it beautiful?"

His fellow ranger shrugged. "The fact that it was empty."

Argo considered this, nodded and again turned back to the front.

The party could see another torch-bearing figure approaching them. Everyone flattened up against the wall, so that the individual could squeeze past them. He was a middle-aged man, dressed in a reddish-brown robe. He had a long, almost egg-shaped head. He was bald, but he sported a stylish goatee and thick eyebrows. He said "Done" to the jailor as he passed, but he did not look at him, or any of the party, until he was directly opposite Cygnus. He immediately stopped and stared into his eyes. "Cygnus?" he asked in a patently false questioning tone.

The Aardian mage stared right back. "Yes?"

The man put on a smile so fake, Cygnus thought he should be arrested for forgery. "Thormord. Been to our guild yet?" he asked in the same tone.

"No."

"You must drop by." With that, he moved quickly on. Cygnus stared at Thormord's' retreating back, then shook his head and moved on with his companions.

The corridor widened out again. Alongside the right wall were benches, narrow tables and torch sconces with unlit torches in them. There were three, spaced twenty feet apart. The jailor lit them with his torch, and then slowly sat down on one of the wooden benches. Whether the creaking sound came from his bones or from the rotting wood was subject to debate, but he groaned audibly, and then glared at the party. "There dey are," he waved at the row of cells opposite him.

There were four cells, each one about ten feet square. Each sported a stone bench with a tin cup and plate resting on it, a chamber pot, and what looked like a small trough carved into the floor that led out through what looked like a large and ragged mouse hole in the back wall.

In the first cell sat Mendoleer. The second and fourth cells were empty, but the third contained Talat.

Elrohir, Aslan, Argo and Cygnus walked up to the bars of Mendoleer's cell, while Talass walked over to her sister's cell. After a moment's hesitation, Tojo followed the cleric, but stood against the wall opposite the cell.

Mendoleer stood up and walked to the bars of his cell, and grasped them. He stared in amazement at Elrohir, who returned his gaze with equal astonishment.

I_'m glad I don't have a counterpart,_ thought Argo. _I don't think I'd like to have to look into my own face like that._

Mendoleer, dressed in a ragged prison smock, was about fifteen pounds lighter than Elrohir. His skin was a bit ruddier; his face had more wrinkles. Still, it was an eerie sight to all involved. Slowly, the identical expressions on both faces returned to differing ones- a stony glare for Elrohir and a sneer from Mendoleer. The prisoner spoke first.

"I expected more from me."

Elrohir snorted. "Who's the one who got caught?"

His counterpart's eyes blazed. "Come in here and say that."

Aslan stepped forward. "Where's Nodyath?"

Mendoleer gazed at Aslan with an expression that was half wonder, and half- what? Aslan was puzzled, and then thought he almost detected a pleading look in the prisoner's eyes.

_He's hoping I'm Nodyath,_ the paladin realized. He briefly considered a deception, but quickly dismissed the idea as dishonorable. He adopted a body language that he hoped would get his point across.

Apparently, it did. Mendoleer turned back to his counterpart. "I don't know. He could be anywhere, but I'll tell you this. He'll be back for us."

"How can you be so sure?" asked Cygnus.

"We've been together for a while, and he's a man of his word."

Aslan raised an eyebrow. "He is?"

That's right, you stinking paladin!" Mendoleer spat. "You think you've got a monopoly on honor? Nodyath can afford to keep his word. After all, it's not like anybody can stop him."

"I look forward to the attempt," Aslan stated. Mendoleer smirked.

"Power unused is power wasted. You've got nothing on him, paladin. By the way, _Aslan_, what's your real name? I'm curious."

"None of your business," Aslan said, looking grim.

"So how'd you get caught, anyway?" asked Elrohir.

Mendoleer seemed about to retort, then shrugged. "We were staying at Ye Bitten Dog, that dockside inn. Me and Talat were having breakfast in the common room, a bunch of guards burst in, end of story."

"What accident put you on this world?" asked Argo.

The prisoner stared back hard. "Who said it was an accident?" He apparently liked the effect this had on his audience, so he continued. "Nodyath paid this wizard to take us to the astral plane. We wandered there- I think it was a long while, but who can say?" Elrohir, familiar with the timeless nature of the astral, nodded.

"Anyway," Mendoleer continued. "Finally, we saw it. An astralship. Made of solid metal, it was. It-"

"The _Mary Celestial?" _Cygnus asked. Mendoleer was caught back for a moment, and then nodded.

"Yeah, that's the one. We boarded her. Silent, except for those weird clicks and hums. And those metal golems. Didn't like us snooping around, I guess, but we showed 'em." He smiled at the memory. "Then, we found her-" and here a jerked a thumb towards his left, "locked up in a room. Nodyath freed her, and we left the ship in one of those steelspheres. That was quite a ride, all the way from the clouds to the sea." He shrugged again. "You know the rest, I suppose."

Argo was silent. _He doesn't like Talat. That's interesting. _He kept away from that topic, however. "Why did Nodyath take you into the astral in the first place?"

Mendoleer grinned. Somehow, it looked decidedly less appealing on him than Elrohir. "We'd been to this outpost, overlooking the Wostjorn Desert…"

"Jailor?" came Talass' voice from the right.

The old man looked sleepily over.

"Can you let me into her cell? I promise there won't be a problem."

The old man shook his head. "Can't. Magic wards. Dey'd go off."

Talass sighed and turned back to the cell, shrugging her shoulders. Her sister grimly smiled at her. "All right dear sister, you've told me of your life since I left, now I'll tell you my story. But be warned, I won't say anything to betray Nodyath." She sat down again on her bench and twisted her fingers together, uncomfortable without her unholy symbol of Hextor.

"You remember Nitch Redarm?"

"The priest of Hextor who seduced you and led you to blasphemy? Yes, that name does sound familiar."

Her sister jumped to her feet and flung her tin cup at Talass. It bounced off the iron bars back into the cell.

"You bitch!" she shrieked. "How dare you? You don't know the first thing about love! At least I lived my _own_ life, the way I wanted to!"

Talass looked down at the stone floor beneath her. She was surprised that Talat's outburst had affected her. After all these years, she honestly hadn't thought she still cared at all about her younger sister. Certainly, their own father had branded Talat a traitor.

But she'd been wrong. There was still something there, although she didn't know what it might be. After a moment, Talass looked up again.

"I'm sorry. Please continue. I promise not to interrupt again."

Talat glared at her for what seemed like a very long time, and then continued.

"We went to the Bone March. He'd led me onto the True Path. We were to marry." Her breath caught in her throat, and she took a moment to compose herself. "He was killed. I joined up with a group of- treasure hunters." She smiled grimly at the euphemism. "I just wanted to get enough money so I could have Nitch raised. We raided a small githyanki outpost in the astral plane, but- there was an argument afterward. I was- left behind when my compatriots returned to Oerth."

Her expression to Talass made it clear that she did not intend to elaborate.

"Eventually, I came across the _Mary Celestial_, and I boarded her. There was no one aboard. I got locked in one of the staterooms, and couldn't get out. Then, he found me." Talass saw her sister's expression lighten, then shift back to stone as she returned her gaze to Talass' face. "I don't expect you to understand, sister." She jerked her head over to the right. "Mendoleer is the most foolish, obnoxious, weasel of a man it's ever been my displeasure to meet. Please tell me Elrohir is nothing like him." She finished with almost a hint of pleading in her voice.

Talass silently regarded her younger sister. Their days as children, when they had shared that special bond- they were gone now, and she knew it would be a foolish waste of time to try to recapture that. Talass hadn't even known Talat was still alive and yet, it seemed to her now that they were even further away from each other than if she had died. She had known about Nitch Redarm, but had never dreamed that Talat would take up the priesthood of a god so violently opposed from the one she had been brought up to serve all of her life. The ultimate youthful rebellion, she supposed.

And now? They were separated by a gulf of gods, and she knew no mortal could bridge that gap. If Forseti demanded that justice require the death of Talat, she knew she would obey without question. Not without remorse, but still without question. There seemed to be nothing that they could give to each other at this point. And yet...

Talass slowly put her face up against the bars. Somewhat warily, Talat did the same.

"Tell me about the man that you love, sister," Talass said quietly, "And I will tell you about mine."

Standing behind them, Yanigasawa Tojo looked on impassively. He had no wish to eavesdrop. The samurai was merely here to give Talass moral support with his presence, _chi_ energy to sustain her in a difficult moment.

A loud "What?" from Elrohir drew Tojo's attention.

"Nodyath knew about the scroll underneath the outpost? How? Amanthius said that-"

Mendoleer interrupted his counterpart with a nasty laugh. "That's right, you don't know, do you?" He regarded all of them with contempt now. He tapped his temple and sneered at Aslan. "You don't have his helmet, do you? The one that allows him to see into your mind?"

The party looked shaken, which only encouraged Mendoleer more. "Oh yes, it's quite a useful item. He can watch you silently, and reach into your mind, and take what he wants, just like picking ripe apples off a tree! Oh yes, he's patient, Nodyath is. He's a brilliant leader, and… he... always... wins!" Mendoleer spaced the words for effect. "Always."

Argo turned to Aslan. "We didn't tell Amanthius we'd found the scroll, did we?"

The paladin looked concerned. "No," he replied carefully. "But if Nodyath knew we had been there before him, he-"

"What is going on here, Elrohir?"

The voice came from their left. The party turned to see LaSalle Main, the Lord Mayor of Willip, standing about ten feet away in the corridor. Standing behind him, holding a torch, was Sir Charlt.

The Lord Mayor gestured with his right hand, which held the letter he'd received. Elrohir could have sworn he almost looked angry. "What is the meaning of this?"

The quartet looked at each other, confused. Elrohir finally managed to say, "I don't understand, your Honor. We came in answer to your message."

Main looked at them somberly. "I did not send this letter, Elrohir. I wanted to keep their capture secret until their trial, which is tomorrow. In light of the fact that Nodyath has not been-"

"Wait a moment!" Elrohir exclaimed. "Your messenger said-"

"I sent you no messenger, Elrohir," said the Lord Mayor quietly.

The party looked at each other. Tojo and Talass had wandered back. Everything was quiet. Only the hissing of the torches could be heard. Aslan was the first, his voice nearly a scream.

_"NODYATH!"_

Argo thought he was fast, but he was amazed at how quickly Elrohir moved. The ranger shouted out, "The rest of you, get home as fast as you can!" He nearly leaped into the paladin's arms and shouted at him, face-to-face.

_"Aslan! The Brass Dragon! Now!"_

The two of them disappeared. The remaining four individuals ran back down the corridor, nearly bowling over the Lord Mayor and Sir Charlt in the process. As they fled, Talass could hear Mendoleer laughing hysterically behind them.

It sounded too much like her husband for her to ignore.


	9. Too Late

**5th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

They appeared back in the Tall Tales Room. Elrohir was glad Aslan had known instinctively where to go. He spun out of the paladin's grip, nearly losing his balance in the process. He recovered and then knelt down by the chest in the corner of the room.

Only then did he remember that Cygnus always kept the key with him.

He glanced up. From the wry expression on Aslan's face, it was obvious that the paladin was aware of that, too. Elrohir stood up again.

"Aslan," he asked, still breathing heavily from nerves, "Could you, in theory, _polymorph_ into a fly, _teleport_ into that chest, find the scroll, and _teleport_ away with it?"

"Assuming that his Talent is no greater than mine is a risk, Elrohir. But then again," the paladin mused, "assumptions are about all we have to go on at this point. To answer your question," Aslan's eyes snapped back to meet those of his friend, "yes."

Elrohir's gaze went back to the chest. His hand moved slowly to Gokasillion's hilt.

Aslan grabbed the ranger's arm. "Don't," warned. "I don't know exactly what warding spells Cygnus has placed on the chest, but I'm sure they're potent enough that any use of violence would be counterproductive. Besides, I'm pretty sure the scroll is still in there."

Elrohir glanced at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

The paladin shrugged. "If he knew the scroll was in the chest, why not just _teleport_ away with the entire thing and work out the details at his leisure?"

"You said it yourself Aslan," the ranger countered. "We don't know exactly what spells are on that chest. Neither does Nodyath. He may have been afraid to touch it."

"Which means he'd use his helm to try and get some answers," the paladin responded, already moving towards the door to the common room. Elrohir was on his heels.

They opened the door and strode out into the common room. The barkeep looked up with some surprise. He'd obviously assumed the room had been empty. Aslan scanned the room. It was about half full. The "messenger," of course, was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean anything.

_He could be anyone._

He said to Elrohir, "I'm going to check the upstairs. We need a headcount." The ranger nodded and started towards the front door of the inn.

"And watch out for flies!" Aslan called out after him. Elrohir turned around, looked at Aslan, then tapped the left pauldroon of his plate mail armor while looking off to the right. Then he turned back and gave a grim stare at Aslan before heading out the door. The gesture's meaning was clear.

_We'd never feel one land. You of all people should know that, Aslan._

"Flies? Just check yer soup!" a drunken patron shouted. The room exploded in raucous laughter behind Aslan as he lumbered up the stairs.

* * *

Clouds covered the night sky. Elrohir would have liked to leave the main door to the inn open so that at least a little light would spill outside, but he knew it was too cold for that. He squinted, shivered, and started to walk slowly around, peering into the darkness. He heard a dog bark, and headed in that direction.

He found Tadoa, using his cloak to play a game of tug-of-war with Grock. He might have figured. Tadoa liked to spend as much time as possible with the animals. It seemed to have a soothing effect on he elven child whenever he was worried.

Tadoa of course, had seen the ranger approach. "Elrohir?" he called out, while swinging his cloak, now filthy and covered with teeth marks, back into position. "You're back so soon?" The elf put the pieces together before Elrohir could even speak. "You must have come back with Aslan. What's wrong?"

Elrohir filled him in. "We need to find Barahir, Caroline, and Thorin." Tadoa nodded and sprinted towards Aslan's house while Elrohir lumbered towards Argo's cabin.

Having heard his clanking approach, Caroline opened the door as Elrohir reached it. Inside behind her, he could see his son on the floor, trying to pull up the floorstones with a pointed stick. Elrohir brushed past Caroline, knelt down on the floor and pulled Barahir into his arms, ignoring his son's squeals of protest about his hard, metal armor. He could dimly hear Caroline's questions as he kept his eyes closed, fighting back the tears of relief, and drinking in the scent of his son. His son. Safe, at least for now.

Caroline's inquiries were becoming more frantic. Elrohir stood up and put both of his gauntleted hands on the young woman's shoulders. "Caroline, listen to me. Argo is okay. Everyone back at Willip is okay. But Nodyath is here, or at least he was. He's after that scroll we found in the dungeons underneath Amanthius' outpost, back on Rolex. And there's more," he took a deep breath and continued. "He has a magical helm, only instead of allowing its wearer to decipher foreign script, as mine does, his allows him to read the thoughts of another."

Caroline's face indicated her understanding. "But if that's the case, then he'd-"

"Exactly," finished Elrohir, scooping up his son into his arms again. "We need to regroup, Caroline. Stay close." She nodded and the three of them went outside.

* * *

One hour later, Elrohir, Caroline and Aslan were sitting quietly in the Tall Tales Room.

No one spoke. No one drank the glasses of wine in front of them. They were all together, but they were all alone in their grief.

Outside, they could still faintly hear the voice of Tadoa. The elf had not given up.

He continued to call out Thorin's name.


	10. Cygnus and Talass

**5th Day of Fireseek  
Three Miles Northwest of Willip, Furyondy**

Cygnus again started to shiver in his robes. He was currently squatting down on his haunches, an uncomfortable position for him. The mage reached to his left and picked up a large tangle of bush branches and tossed it into the dying fire. They didn't catch very well, and a dark smoke came up from the fire. Cygnus tried to waddle forward without standing up, so he could adjust the kindling, but his foot caught on the hem of his robe and he merely wound up falling backwards on his butt, his legs bent uncomfortably beneath him.

A faint, choked-off chuckle came from his right. Talass, currently sitting on the dry grass with her legs tucked neatly underneath her, innocently looked away as Cygnus scowled at her. Feeling irritated, the wizard extended his hands out in front of him, thumbs touching, fingers aimed at the fire. He spoke a brief magical phrase, and a jet of flame shot out from his hands, igniting the bushes. They burned brightly, but Cygnus knew it wouldn't last for more than a minute or so. He slowly straightened out his legs, rubbing at the sore spots.

"Wasteful," came the voice from his right. Cygnus gave the cleric a glance that indicated he didn't care, then gazed moodily into the flickering flames for a few seconds, then pulled his waterskin out of his backpack and took a swig, more from boredom than from actual thirst.

"I wish Argo had brought Gylandir," he announced, eyeing the ranger's sleeping form, directly across the fire from him. "One of us could have gotten home sooner."

Talass shrugged. "He said flying Gylandir into the city would have attracted too much attention, and I agree. We couldn't have known things would turn out the way they did."

Cygnus grunted, took another swig of water and eyed Talass. "If I had known there was even a chance of us having to camp outside, I would have brought blankets, oil, torches, maybe even a tent. Argo said it might rain. Getting soaked to the skin is not going to help me feel better!"

Talass was starting to feel her patience slip. "If you get sick, Cygnus, I'll heal you. Okay?" She gestured towards the horses, barely visible at the edge of the firelight's radius. The four "regular" horses were tethered to Cygnus' staff stuck into the grass, no trees being available nearby. Perlial and White Lightning were sleeping, standing side-by-side as they always did, their muscular flanks moving in and out in regular contractions, their heads lowered close to the ground.

"We needed to travel light," the priestess reminded the mage. "You know Perlial and White Lightning would have worked themselves to death trying to get us home sooner. It was too much for them, and for us. We need rest to be at our peak strength. Why don't you at least try to sleep, Cygnus? It's not even your watch yet."

"I can't sleep," Cygnus said, more truthfully than spitefully. "I keep thinking about home. I'm worried." He looked over again at Talass defiantly. "Sorry, but that's the truth, and I can't pretend that it isn't."

Talass gave him a look that was not quite a smile, but it at least bespoke understanding.

"I know, Cygnus. I'm worried, too."

They were both quiet for a few minutes, staring at the fire that was again dying down. Then, Talass spoke again.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, Cygnus. I'm just thinking of if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation again. Is there some kind of arcane magic that could allow you to send a message home?"

Cygnus nodded slowly, his features thoughtful. "Yes there is, but I don't know it," he sighed. "I suppose I should take Thormord up on his offer and stop by the Willip Wizard's Guild. New spells aren't going to appear in my spellbooks on their own. And maybe I could find out something about Nodyath's _helm of telepathy._ A way to neutralize it, perhaps."

Talass looked at the mage curiously now. "Tell me Cygnus, why do you distrust the Guild so much? You've never been there, so..." she trailed off, her face reflecting the rest of her question.

Cygnus eyed her somberly. "It's not just this Guild, it's the same everywhere." He stared up at the dark sky, thick with a cover of low clouds. "They're full of manipulative people." He glanced back at Talass, arced an eyebrow and smiled. "Not manipulative in a good way, like me."

This time, Talass did smile.

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything, but..."

The wizard took another drink of water and continued. "It's probably because of my upbringing. I was born in a land on Aarde called The Divided Kingdoms. It's somewhat east of Samseed, where Elrohir was born." He grew silent. Talass said nothing.

Cygnus coughed and continued. "It was mostly villages and small towns, like mine. My mentor was a man named Part Hew. He had been expelled from the Fargate Wizard's Guild, and had very little good to say about wizards in general, despite the fact that he was one of them. I wanted to learn though, and he needed money."

"Did your parents approve?" Talass asked.

"They would have been happier if I had turned out to be a devil-worshipper, I think." Cygnus glanced back at the cleric, and answered her unspoken question. "Apparently, my maternal grandfather had been a wizard, and had done something horrible. I don't know what. They never gave me any details, not even his name. I couldn't find out anything about him on my own, but in the end, it didn't matter. The only thing I ever wanted to be was a wizard, so I ran off with Part Hew. He trained me, and I turned over anything I earned from spellcasting to him. Of course, we had to move around a lot and not hit the larger towns, to avoid the Guild's jurisdiction." He shrugged. "I guess I just liked having my freedom. I shouldn't assume the worst here, though. Furyondy is by far the best kingdom I've ever seen. Peaceful and prosperous. I'm glad we've settled down here. Even with everything that's happened, it's good to have a home."

Talass was silent for a while. It seemed like Cygnus was done speaking. In the fading firelight, his features seemed drawn and haggard, and yet still possessing an inner strength that flickered to the surface sometime, only to quickly fade below again. She had seen that in Elrohir when she had first met him. It occurred to Talass that Cygnus was about the same age as her. She hadn't really known what Hyzenthlay had seen in him. True, they were both wizards, but that was hardly a basis for love, let alone marriage. Now he didn't look much like a wizard, or at least her perception of what wizards were supposed to look like. His home world was out of reach, and his wife was gone, and it was no secret to anyone that he was finding it difficult to be a father.

"Cygnus?" she asked.

"Hmm?"

"Rhizia is a long way from here." Talass said softly, her eyes gazing over to the north. "But I feel in my heart that I will return there someday. Just knowing that helps keep the homesickness away." She looked back at Cygnus. "Don't you ever miss Aarde, your homeland, the people that you knew back there?"

"No," he answered bluntly, looking every inch the inscrutable wizard again. He took another swig of water. "No. That's all in the past." He slowly got up to his feet. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, Talass," he indicated the darkness beyond. "I'll be right back, and then maybe I'll try to get some sleep." Talass nodded and stirred up the fire as best she could with a stick.

Cygnus moved off, being very careful to tread lightly around the sleeping Tojo. Even while asleep, the samurai gave the appearance of being able, without even waking up, to slice a raccoon in half if it came too close. At least, that was the tale that someone-he thought it was Elrohir- had once told him once about Tojo. Hoping his footsteps didn't sound particularly raccoon-like, Cygnus moved past him and headed off into the night.

He was about fifty feet out, he guessed. Probably further than was logical, but this was a settled area, with no known monsters nearby. Plus, he was still rather shy about things like this. Going out in the wilderness always unsettled him. Of course, now he was both shy and freezing. The wizard undid the belt on his robe and started pulling down his trousers. He was looking around, trying to be ready for any emergency.

What he was not ready for was Aslan's voice.

_Ah, Cygnus. Every "inch" the mighty wizard?_

Cygnus spun around, frantically pulling up his trousers. He saw nothing. "Aslan, damn you! Why are..."

He trailed off. Something was very wrong, and he didn't have to be a wizard to figure it out. That was not something Aslan would have said. Ever. Argo maybe, but not Aslan. And Aslan wouldn't hide. Not from Cygnus. As he recinched his robe, Cygnus continued to look around him in a slow circle.

_Be quiet and listen to me, Cygnus. Do not attempt to signal Talass._

Cygnus was still. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Aslan's voice sounded like he was right next to Cygnus, but he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint where it was coming from. A thought was forming in his mind that he was trying very hard to push away.

_That's right, Cygnus. This is Nodyath._

Cygnus' eyes grew wide. "Are you-"

_Listen to me very carefully, Cygnus. I dislike repeating myself, so I will only say this once. Aslan and Elrohir were too late. I have your son. I have Thorin._

Cygnus' knees buckled, and he went down, landing on them in the dry grass. A lump was blocking his entire throat. It was just as well that Nodyath was communicating telepathically, because he doubted he could speak right now.

_I want the scroll, Cygnus. The day after tomorrow, I will appear in your Tall Tales Room, and you will give me the scroll. If you try to give me a fake, or put any kind of magic trap on the scroll, or if you try to ambush me, I will show your innocent young son what pain and anguish are truly all about._

The voice seemed to shift in tone just a little._ I am not a kind man, Cygnus. Kindness and mercy are fatal weaknesses in the land where I come from, and I am, above all else, a survivor. However, I am not sadistic, nor am I needlessly cruel. I have no particular desire to kill Thorin. Give me the scroll, you will have your son back, and we will all be the happier for it._

A thought came unbidden to Cygnus' mind. He tried not to speak it, and then realized the pointlessness of that, anyway.

_Yes, Cygnus. I did kill people in Wilip simply to tarnish Aslan and Elrohir's reputation and make it harder for you to move about in the open. That was for a purpose. Everything I do is for a purpose, but what my purposes may be is is not for you to question. The only thing you have to do is give me the scroll. And remember Cygnus (and you remind your friends of this), I will be watching you all. And listening._

There was nothing else. Trembling, Cygnus slowly got back to his feet, and one slow, trembling step at a time, began walking back to the campfire.


	11. Cygnus' Decision

**6th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon, Furyondy**

A low rumble of thunder rolled across the plains. It was carried on a strong southerly wind that promised rain, but as yet had not delivered. Patches of ragged, black clouds slid quickly along underneath a dull gray afternoon sky like great sailing ships, their sails being torn to tatters by a wind that never stopped blowing; never stopped raging.

Caroline Bigfellow, standing in front of the entrance to the Brass Dragon Inn, stared into that sky, as if hoping that the solution to all their troubles might emerge from the clouds, perhaps in the form of Hermes himself, a smile on his deific face as he flew down towards them, all the answers written on the scroll he held in his hand.

The scroll...

Caroline shook her head to clear out those useless hopes. Her black, shoulder-length hair, turned into a mess from the humidity, plastered itself against her cheeks, stray strands falling over her eyes. She angrily brushed them aside. Before her marriage, caroline had never worn her hair this long, but she knew Argo liked it this way so she had been glad to let it grow. Today though, everything seemed to be irritating her. She felt like a bystander at a chariot race wreck, unable to do anything to help. For some reason, in the last year, Argo was slowly growing more and more overprotective of her, and she found herself, more often than not, staying behind at the inn, watching the children while the rest of the party rushed off to deal heroically with the crises at hand. She wasn't an advocate of needless violence, but she could swing a sword with the best of them, at least in her opinion. Sometimes, she just wanted to-

_Stop it_, she told herself. She was working herself into a foul mood without reason. If she had a grievance with Argo, she could just talk to him about it. He had made her promise that before they had been joined, told her he wasn't an easy person to live with, and that her happiness would be his foremost concern, now and forever.

The anger wouldn't go away, though. They had left her home again yesterday, and look what had happened. Thorin was gone. No one blamed her of course, not even Cygnus, but she had apologized tearfully to him, twice in fact. The first time he had said nothing. The second, he had simply looked dully at her and whispered, "I know. It's not your fault". Some part of her thought that he didn't really mean that, that he was just trying to get rid of her. He did blame her. They all did, that was the real reason they kept her at home, she couldn't be trusted to-

_That's enough!_

Caroline practically had to scream it to herself, and actually looked around in case anyone had managed to hear her thoughts. She saw the last of the party disappear into the Tall Tales Room. She hurried to catch up, taking deep breaths to try and clear her head once again. _Stop pouting like a child, Caroline. You won't be of any use to anyone if you can't think clearly._

* * *

The Tall Tales Room was fairly crowded. It had not been designed with expansion in mind, and could comfortably fit only two couches and two chairs, all currently arranged so that they were facing the back wall, and the unseeing gaze of a dead dragon.

Elrohir and Talass were seated on one couch, Talass holding Barahir on her lap. Aslan and Tadoa were seated in the chairs. Tojo, who honestly seemed to dislike chairs, stood in the near right corner of the room, as still as a statue. Argo sat on the other couch. He looked over his left shoulder as Caroline came in, smiled at her and patted the couch next to him. Fighting back that tiny but insistent surge of irritation, she sat down next to her husband and stared straight ahead. She could sense Argo's puzzled look without actually seeing it, but he made no overture.

Caroline noticed that Elrohir, Talass, Aslan and Tadoa kept shooting quick glances around the room. She was puzzled for a moment, until the realization hit her.

_Almighty Zeus, they're looking for flies! Is this what we've been reduced to?_

Cygnus stood at the far wall. To his right was Sandcats' mounted head. His right hand gripped the dragon's horn tightly.

In his left hand, he held the scroll. The scroll of a single spell.

The magic-user cleared his throat and began. "Thank you all for coming. I'll make this brief." He glanced down at the rolled-up parchment in his hand. "As you know, this is an arcane spell, and since I am now this party's sole wizard," his features tightened, "the disposition of this item is my responsibility." He looked up into the eyes of his friends, seeking confirmation of what he already knew. Apparently finding it, he continued.

"I know I've been less than an ideal father. I also know that's no one's fault but my own." His grip on both the dragon's horn and the scroll tightened. Caroline caught her breath, afraid for a moment that Cygnus might accidentally destroy it. The mage must have had the same idea, because his left hand loosened his grip, and a sheepish smile appeared on his face. It was not a common expression for him.

"But I'll be damned if I'm going to stop trying. Nothing is more important than my son," he said, looking at Argo now. Caroline glanced at her husband, but his face was impassive, waiting.

"I'm going to give Nodyath the scroll. No tricks."

The words hung in the room. A faint rumble of thunder outside was felt more than heard. Caroline glanced around. Elrohir was looking like he wanted to say something, but wasn't quite able to put it into a coherent thought, so he dropped it. Talass' expression was neutral, but she hugged her son closer to her chest. Barahir, of course, was totally engrossed by one of Sequester's feathers he held in his hand. Tadoa had a faint smile on his face. Caroline didn't need to turn her head to know that Tojo would have absolutely no expression on his face at all. Next to her, Argo squeezed her hand very gently, in his gauntleted hand. He looked at her and smiled.

"Someone must have been telling him what a gift having a child truly is," he said innocently. "I wonder who it must have been."

Caroline felt her irritation pass away like a cool breeze. She put her right hand behind his helm and gently pulled him forward. Their foreheads touched, and they held the position for a moment before sitting back up.

"Ahem." Aslan stood up, crossing his arms in front of his chest, and glared at the wizard. "I'm sorry, Cygnus. I can't agree to this in good conscience."

Argo sighed and gave Aslan his trademark pained smile. "Do they actually teach you how to be a stubborn jackass in paladin school, Aslan?"

"No," he replied, looking grim. "But they did teach us that capitulating to murderers and kidnappers is _stupid!" _Aslan's voice rose, a rare occurrence for him.

"Look Cygnus," the paladin turned to the mage, "On what basis do we have to believe that Nodyath is honorable, and will keep his word? His own? For the love of Valhalla, Iuz himself would say he was honorable if it suited his purposes! That doesn't make it so!"

Cygnus seemed to waver. "That's a low blow, Aslan," he said shakily. "Besides, Mendoleer said he was honorable."

"Mendoleer? And he sounded trustworthy to you, as opposed to a lying, conniving wretch?"

_"Hey!"_ came a shout from Elrohir. He leaned forward and shot an angry look at the paladin. "And what exactly does a lying, conniving wretch sound like anyway, Aslan?" he questioned. "Me?"

"By the Eye of the All-Father, Elrohir, stop being so sensitive! Your counterpart has nothing to do with you. Nothing!"

The ranger sat back up straight, glowering. "Tell that to the Neutral Forces."

"You're missing the point," the paladin continued. "Haven't we made a point of defending the innocent? The people of this land, to whose king we have sworn fealty?" He looked around at everyone. "I don't want anything to happen to Thorin, either. You know that, Cygnus. But evil is not honorable, people. It never is! How many of our other foes would you trust if they had made a statement like Nodyath's? Atlanter? Scurvy John? Valente? Would any of them have kept their word? "

Aslan looked at everyone in turn. He knew he had the floor, so he continued, now at his normal voice level. "What about Kar-Vermin?"

The room went silent. Aslan continued, even more softly.

"Was he honorable?"

Still, no one spoke. Aslan walked slowly over to Cygnus and laid his right hand on the mage's shoulder. "Cygnus," he said. "What will you tell your son about the nature of evil, when he is grown to manhood?"

The wizard was silent, his face downcast, defeated.

"And what about Hyzenthlay?" Aslan asked.

Cygnus's glance shot up.

The paladin continued. "What would she have-"

_"Shut up!"_ Cygnus suddenly screamed and shoved Aslan back.

Caught unawares, the paladin stumbled back against his chair, but managed to keep his footing. Argo and Elrohir shot to their feet, both yelling at Aslan and Cygnus. In a second, the room was filled with angry voices.

Caroline stood up, drew her longsword and brought it down on the end table next to her couch. The crash of wood splintering brought an immediate end to the shouting. She looked around. Everyone was now staring at her.

"Well, now," she began nervously, slowly sheathing her sword. "Pardon me for interrupting," she said with a shaky smile. She looked over at the magic-user. "Cygnus, that spell on the scroll- what's it called again?"

Cygnus was breathing heavily, but seemed to have regained his composure. _"Gate,"_ he replied.

"I've known you've talked about how hard it is to travel among the Three Worlds. Is it possible that Nodyath just wants that _gate_ spell to get home?"

Cygnus looked thoughtful, if a bit doubtful. "Yes, it's possible."

Caroline turned to look at everyone else. "You said earlier that the scroll was Cygnus' responsibility. We don't know whether Nodyath is honorable or not. But this is our chance to show Cygnus whether we are. Whatever he decides, stand by him." She sat down, trembling. Argo gently put his left arm on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Caroline," said Cygnus, taking a deep breath. "I will give the scroll to Nodyath as planned. Listen to me now, people. I am going up to my room now. In a few hours, I will give the scroll to you, Aslan." He looked at the paladin, who looked puzzled, but nodded. "After that, I am going to put an _alarm_ spell in my room. It will go off if anyone or anything enters but me, be that a fly, a mouse, or any one of you."

"Why?" asked Tadoa. The question was not belligerent, the elven child truly looked confused. Cygnus smiled at him.

"Because Tad," he replied, using the elf's nickname, "Nodyath could be disguised as any one of you. If any of you want similar protection, please let me know at that time. Once I return to my room, I will not come out again until my son has been returned."

"Why not?" asked Elrohir, frowning at him.

"Because I can't bear to see the consequences if I'm wrong," replied the wizard, sweeping quickly past them all and out of the room.

The others stared after him. "That was strange," said Elrohir.

"That was the sound of a man who's not sure of himself," said Aslan.

Talass shook her head. "No. That was a bald-faced lie."

* * *

Cygnus entered his upstairs bedroom, closed the door and sat down on his bed. He sat where his wife Hyzenthlay had sat the last moments of her life, and had stared out the window that Cygnus was staring out now- and had seen the face of a god.

"Forgive me, my love," Cygnus whispered, tears starting to flow for the first time. "Forgive me, my son."


	12. Sir Dorbin

**7th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon, Furyondy**

The rain was getting heavier, Elrohir noted.

He could see it of course, in the ever-thickening sheets of water that filled his field of vision everywhere he turned. He could hear it, in the ever-increasing _pings_ reverberating off his helm. And he could feel it, as the wind sporadically whipped the heavy drops into his face. It wasn't just a rain, it was a cold, driving downpour.

The ranger grumbled and pounded the wooden sign into the grass. It was placed just off the side of the road, facing northwest, so that travelers heading southeast from Gorsend could see "CLOSED" in big, red, painted letters, and know that the celebrated Brass Dragon Inn was, at least for a while, not in service. Black and red striped strips of cloth, torn from a bed sheet and nailed to the sign to improve its visibility, flapped madly in the breeze.

They had not had the time or materials to dye the sheet, so Argo, who somehow knew that Cygnus had a cantrip that would suffice, had gone upstairs and knocked on the wizard's door. After some arguing back and forth, the door had opened a crack, and Argo had tossed the sheet in. The door had closed, and a minute later had opened fully. Cygnus had thrown the now-colored sheet back at Argo and slammed the door shut. Elrohir, downstairs at the time, had thought Cygnus was behaving rather petulantly.

Still, he considered now, glancing back towards the inn, a dim shape barely visible a hundred yards down the road, Thorin's life hung in the balance on his decision. Would he be acting any better if it were Barahir at stake?

The ranger slowly walked back towards the inn. He knew that, one hundred yards past the inn in the opposite direction, Argo was pounding in a similar sign, letting the traffic coming from Willip know to keep on moving. They wouldn't be happy seeing that sign in this particular weather, Elrohir knew, but he was in complete agreement with Aslan and Argo that, for the next few hours at the least, the Brass Dragon might be a dangerous place for the uninformed.

Squinting against the rain, Elrohir checked the sky as he walked. It was about two hours until midsun, he guessed, although he was unable to make out the point in the dark ceiling above them that might be hiding that fiery orb. They didn't know exactly when Nodyath would show up, but he was guessing it would be close to that time.

As Elrohir approached the inn, he began to pick up his pace a little, at least as much as that was possible in his plate mail. He saw Argo, only about thirty seconds ahead of him, open the door of the inn and walk in. Suddenly, Elrohir noticed a change around him. The _pings_ of raindrops off his helm became _clanks_, and the drops themselves turned a milky white, and began bouncing off the inn.

Hail. _Just great_, thought the ranger as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He took off his helm and ran his gauntlet through his hair.

There were only five patrons left in the common room. They were all seated at one table, talking amongst themselves in low voices. They were all men, young to middle-aged, and they glowered at Elrohir as he came in. They were the only patrons left that the party had not been able to persuade, bribe, or intimidate away from the inn. Either they were incredibly brave, Elrohir thought, or they just really didn't like getting wet.

He scanned the rest of the room. The staff, including their barkeeps, cooks and serving girls, along with the stable boys, were all in the basement level, where their quarters were located. All things considered, they had been rather compliant with the party's instructions, given that they were not told anything about the nature of the upcoming event. A few extra gold pieces slipped into their hands of course, had not hurt.

Tadoa was walking Dudraug around the room. On the cooshee's back sat Barahir, laughing madly and hugging the dog's thick coat fiercely. Talass and Caroline were sitting at the bar, talking quietly to one another. As Elrohir passed them on the way to the Tall Tales Room, he overheard his wife say "Talat" and he quickened his step just a bit. He was uncomfortable with the entire subject of his sister-in-law, and had not yet brought it up with Talass. He just didn't know what to make of it.

It seemed to him that Talass wasn't quite sure, either.

* * *

In the Tall Tales Room, Argo and Aslan were sitting on chairs facing each other. Beside each warrior sat their own wardog. Tojo stood nearby, facing them. Elrohir was thinking that they looked like part of a giant chess set, when Aslan looked up and saw him. In the paladin's left hand was the scroll.

"Elrohir. Hello. Thank you for putting up the sign," he said. "I was just about to tell Argo here something. Sit down," he gestured. Elrohir sat down on the other couch, and saw Argo give him a sardonic grimace, like a pupil dreading his next lesson. If the paladin saw that, he gave no sign.

"Do you people remember, when we were back on Aarde, about to explore the dungeons of Venom, when we ran into that other party doing the same?"

The topic caught both rangers off-guard for a moment. "Sure," said Elrohir, rubbing his chin. "There were eight or nine of them in all, I think, and their leader was that knight, Sir..." he looked to Argo for the name, but Bigfellow shook his head.

"I have no head for names, Elrohir. I was too worried that a fight was about to erupt. It was pretty dicey for a few minutes there, as I recall. That knight seemed a little stiff to me."

"Sir Dorbin," Aslan cut in, "was his name. I was just thinking about them. Dorbin managed to stop our mutual distrust before violence flared up, and he just seemed to have better lines of communication with his people than we do. I was thinking maybe we could take a page from-"

Argo sighed loudly. "The last thing I want is a bunch of rules and regulations, Aslan," he said. "We don't know if we were seeing them at their best or their worst. And besides, they had a great advantage over us."

Aslan frowned. "What was that?"

Argo smiled. "Their party had no paladin."

Elrohir chuckled, but Aslan merely gave Argo an icy glare. "Why I bother with these things, I don't know, Argo. You seem to have this bizarre-"

A pounding on the main door to the inn interrupted them. They all turned to look back outside at the common room, then back at each other.

The pounding continued.

Elrohir got to his feet. "I'll get it!" he said in exasperation. "I guess _someone_ has to show you people what leadership is all about! He strode angrily from the room, shutting the door behind him.

"That's not being a leader," Argo chuckled. "That's being a butler."

"Well, he knows_ I_ can't leave this room until all this is over!" Aslan stared at Argo, his brow furrowed. "Why didn't you get it?"

Argo's face took on a look of mock concern.

"I didn't want you to get lonely." Argo smiled and took a sip of apple cider while Aslan shook his head slowly. After a minute or two, the door opened slightly, and Elrohir's head peered around the frame.

"Argo, you said a while back that you don't believe in coincidences, isn't that right?"

"That's right, Elrohir," his fellow ranger answered.

"Then explain this," Elrohir said and swung the door wide open.

Behind the ranger was a crowd of people, eight in fact. Most wore hooded cloaks, but it was obvious from the assortment of armor, weapons and paraphernalia, that this was a group of the bards called for lack of a better word, "adventurers."

The figure in front stepped forward around Elrohir and removed his hood, revealing an elaborate helm with a large ruby set into the forehead. He was clad in silver plate mail, with a brilliant insignia of a fist holding a lightning bolt emblazoned upon his metal shield,. His dark blue eyes twinkled merrily as he smiled at Argo.

"Hail and well-met, friend Argo Bigfellow!" Sir Dorbin exclaimed. "Could you find room at the inn for some special friends?"


	13. The Story of The Three Worlds

**7th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

As they stood up to greet the new arrivals, Aslan whispered to Argo, "Remember, our enemy can read thoughts. Be careful what you say." The ranger gave him a sidewise glance of wounded pride, then shook Dorbin's hand with great gusto and a huge smile.

"Good to see you again, Sir Dorbin! It's been several years, has it not? Allow me to introduce, er, re-introduce our party!" Gesturing, he continued. "Our esteemed leader Elrohir I'm sure you've already caught up with. And here is the mighty Aslan, our pious paladin and steadfast companion!" Aslan rolled his eyes at this but shook Dorbin's hand firmly, ignoring the knight's curious glance at the mention of his name.

"Over there," indicated Argo, "is the honorable Tojo, of the Yanigasawa clan of Nippon." The samurai bowed silently. Argo knew Tojo well enough to know the depth of this particular bow indicated only a medium level of respect, and that was probably due only to Dorbin's knighthood. Argo then pointed over the head of Sir Dorbin's companions.

"Somewhere back there is my wife Caroline and Elrohir's wife Talass. Say hello, ladies!" A giggle and a stern "Argo!" could be heard from somewhere in the common room.

Sir Dorbin grinned, then turned around to regard the rest of his party. They were still clustered in a very tight knot, staring with curiosity, even trepidation, at everything around them, as if the walls of the inn themselves might suddenly rush forward and squash them all flat.

"Forgive my compatriots," Dorbin stated, turning back to Argo and the others. "Ever since we discovered that we were in fact no longer on Aarde, they have been- exceptionally cautious."

A balding man about ten years older than the knight, wearing chainmail armor emblazoned with the rune of pursuit, leaned in close to Sir Dorbin and said quietly "We cannot assume this world is just like ours, based on our limited experience thus far. Even a small matter may prove fatal in any one of a hundred ways. We cannot be lulled into complacency, my friend."

Dorbin turned to him with a patient expression. "Elrohir and Aslan, for starters, are also from Aarde, my good Monsrek. I'm sure they will alert us to any unforeseen differences that might imperil us. In the meantime, we must not forget common courtesy!" He pointed at his companions, one by one.

"Allow me to introduce Monsrek, Torlina, Aiclesis, Fee Hal, Sitdale, Unru, Flond and Wescene." Elrohir and Aslan blinked and tried to connect the faces with the names. Argo smiled broadly.

"Forgive me, good sir knight," the ranger said. "I am thick of head, and have already forgotten every name you have just mentioned. In fact, I've even forgotten the names of my own party!" He turned to Aslan. "Who are you, good sir? Should I know you?" Aslan scowled and banged his gauntleted hand on Argo's helm.

Dorbin smiled broadly. "Come, now!", he said to Elrohir. "Let us retire back to the main room, where we can all spread out and get comfortable!" Elrohir and Argo turned to look at Aslan, who had a grim, somewhat embarrassed look on his face.

"I am sorry, good Sir Dorbin" the paladin said. "I cannot leave this room."

Nine pairs of eyebrows went up.

From somewhere within the knot of Dorbin's companions, a smooth, masculine voice came out. "Dorbin, please find out if there's something about this inn that we should know. I don't have enough gold for a lifetime stay."

"Unru!" Monsrek scolded. "Cease your yapping!"

Argo turned to eye Aslan. "And what were we going to learn about again today, master? Something about togetherness and teamwork?"

Aslan merely sat down again in his chair, cradling his face in his hands, while Elrohir stepped forward, taking Argo by the elbow and motioned the others back into the common room. "I will explain as best I can, good people. Let us get comfortable, as you said!"

Awkwardly, the mass of people (including Tojo, herding the dogs along with him) squeezed back through the door into the common room, leaving Aslan alone in the room to close the door behind them. Elrohir said, "Not to be disrespectful, Sir Dorbin, but did you not see the sign outside? We are in a very grave situation at the present time, and cannot be responsible for the safety of innocent patrons."

Sir Dorbin turned to him, his face now serious.

"Indeed we did see the sign, Elrohir. And I apologize deeply. It was not the weather that drove us to disregard it, but the plain fact that you are the only people we know in this entire world. If you cannot point us towards aid, it will be very difficult for us, I fear. If you do not wish us to stay, merely allow us to dry off, a drink if you have it, and we shall be on our way. And yet," and here his face darkened and he leaned in closely to Elrohir, "if there is danger you expect, we will stand by you, at your slightest request. Surely your foes would not expect to face an additional nine able combatants?"

Elrohir nodded soberly.

"I will tell you what I can, Sir Dorbin, but there is a limit to what I can share."

As they slowly shuffled towards a table, a woman at the edge of the group, perhaps thirty years of age, turned to Elrohir. She had long, very curly brown hair and green eyes. She wore a heavy brown woolen skirt and blouse under her traveling cloak.

"Elrohir?", she asked. "When last we met, you had a mage with you. I think his name was- Cygnus? Is he still around? Do you know where I might find him? I'd like to talk shop with him," she smiled, indicating the spell component bag hanging from her belt. "I am curious to find out what new things he may have learned from living here."

The ranger shifted uncomfortably. "Well, er- Torlina, is that right?" She nodded. "Well, Cygnus is still with us, but he's upstairs. He can't- that is to say, um..." he floundered.

Argo cut in. "He won't come out of his room, either."

There was a dead silence. From within the group, Unru's voice piped up again.

"I don't think I like this world anymore, Sir Dorbin. Can we go home now?"

"Be silent, Unru", Dorbin said seriously, and then addressed his entire group. "I shall speak with Elrohir privately. The rest of you, dry off as best you can, but be warned. We may not be here for long." As Caroline, who was used to replacing any of the staff, took their drink orders, Argo and Talass moved two tables together and sat down with the party. Sir Dorbin and Elrohir moved to the far side of the common room and sat down at a small table.

"I do not know how much time I have to talk, Sir Dorbin" said Elrohir. He wrung his hands together, looking at them, and then glanced up sharply at Sir Dorbin. "In order for you to be of any help to us, I would have to tell you- well, I'd probably have to go back to the very beginning, and I'm sure that's more than Aslan, Argo or even Cygnus would want me to say. However," and here he straightened up in his chair, "I am the leader here, and I will make that judgment." He ran his hand through his hair again. "So much history. Where to start?"

Dorbin shrugged and smiled. "Why not begin at the beginning, as you mentioned?"

Elrohir smiled wanly. "All right then. The beginning." Now that he had made his decision, the ranger's nervousness seemed to subside. He stared at Dorbin for a moment, took a deep breath, and then began.

"You are and I are from Aarde, Sir Dorbin. This world is Oerth," Elrohir looked up at the ceiling of the Brass Dragon, then back again at the knight. "But there is another world. A world called Rolex, and it is on Rolex that this tale truly begins." He gestured as best he could with his hands for emphasis as he spoke.

"Now, Rolex and Aarde are different worlds, and yet the people on them are like... mirror images of each other. I am Elrohir of Aarde, and yet there is a man, Mendoleer of Rolex, who is my exact doppelganger in every way. We call them _counterparts."_ He saw that he had Dorbin's complete attention, and continued. "You are Sir Dorbin of Aarde, and yet somewhere on Rolex is a man your complete twin, your counterpart. Whoever he is, his name is similar to yours, and he-"

Dorbin cut in. "Would this counterpart share all of my skills, my- abilities?"

Elrohir was mildly surprised at the intensity of Dorbin's question. This news seemed to be more disturbing to him than he would have supposed. He nodded slowly. "Skills may be the same, although not always. Certainly, the paths we choose in life are dictated, at least in part, by what bounty the gods have gifted us each with. The skills may be similar, or perhaps not, but what we are; our strength, our appearance, our wisdom; these are always copied in- disturbing detail."

Sir Dorbin sat back in his chair, lost in thought. Elrohir's questioning look was cut short by the slamming down of two mugs of ale on their table. Elrohir looked up to see his wife already moving back towards Barahir and Dudraug. The look in her eyes indicated clearly that she had heard enough, and was not in full agreement with Elrohir's decision to be totally honest with his guest. Elrohir glanced at his son, recognizing the reason for Talass' reticence, swallowed hard, and then turned back to Dorbin, who was again gazing expectantly at the ranger, his question, if any, temporarily suspended. Elrohir continued.

"About thirty or so years ago, a great catastrophe engulfed Rolex, the greatest calamity in the history of that world, a Devastation. From what I have heard, it was caused by an unknown race from the stars, called the Invaders From Beyond. More than that, I cannot say truthfully. Even those living there now are not in agreement about the details. But much of the world was laid waste. A great forest in a land called Eschtren held over 900 elves, as well as about a hundred humans. Woodsmen, hunters and so forth. They lived in harmony with their elven brethren." Elrohir eyed Sir Dorbin. "My father was one of those humans."

Dorbin's eyebrow raised, but he said nothing.

"The greatest magic-user of the age, an elven sorcerer named Lemontharz, had advance warning of this catastrophe. He had created a magical portal that would enable those of the forest, both men and elves, to flee to another world. When the Invaders From Beyond attacked the forest, they did so. The world to which they fled- was Aarde." Elrohir picked up his mug of ale, looked at it, and put it back down again. "Lemontharz had gone through the portal earlier, to scout out this strange new world. He never returned. The denizens of the forest could wait no longer. They were under siege by the Invaders. They went through the portal, and eventually found the Wildwood, some distance northwest of Samseed. There they settled. They hoped that perhaps they would be able to start over again."

"They were wrong" Elrohir said grimly, staring at Dorbin now. "Lemontharz either did not know, or hadn't told them about- the Neutral Forces."

He saw in Dorbin's eyes the question he expected to find. The ranger tried to find the right words. "There is- a balance to the universe. I've mentioned the counterparts. Apparently, Lemontharz's portal breached barriers that had been erected long ago. For good cause, mortals were not meant to move from one world to the other." Elrohir's eyes grew misty, as if he were seeing something that someone else, long ago, had seen. "When both counterparts are alive and together on the same world, the fabric- of what should be- begins to unravel. The universe- tries to correct that imbalance." He now looked again across the table at the knight.

"It starts with storms, that slowly grow in frequency and intensity. Then, unnatural phenomena begin to appear. They swing back and forth, first trying to slay the interloper, then the original. If both counterparts last long enough- _It _appears." Now Elrohir's eyes were recalling something he himself had seen. "A great- _rip_ in the universe. A black circle, darker than the darkest night, a great howl of air rushing into it that never stops moving towards you. No force can stop it; no magic can affect it. All you can do is flee. Flee, and hope that it goes away- before you do." His face, frozen in a terrible expression of sorrow, turned to look at a wall. He whispered, "The counterparts of the Rolex elves lived in Samseed. The Neutral Forces...came quickly. Eventually, they were all destroyed." His eyes indicated Tadoa, sitting at the table with the others. Dorbin's eyes followed his.

"That elven child- Tadoa. He is the sole survivor of the Rolex elves."

Sir Dorbin gazed thoughtfully at Tadoa. "An incredible tale thus far, Elrohir." His eyes shifted back to meet the ranger's gaze. "But if that elf is the sole survivor, what of your father? Were you born before-"

Elrohir shook his head. "No. Tad is the sole elven survivor. There were others, at least at first. Even that part of the tale though, has an unhappy ending." The ranger took a swig of ale, as did Sir Dorbin. They both stared at their mugs for a while, and then Elrohir continued, still looking down.

"Back on Rolex, shortly before the Devastation, my father and his companions had run afoul of a most wicked mage. His power was reputed to rival that of Lemontharz. His powers were fearsome enough, but what my father and his friends did not know at the time was that he had already become a horror, an undead monstrosity. A- lich."

Dorbin leaned forward. "This wizard, this lich. What was his name?"

Elrohir locked his gaze with the knight.

"Kar-Vermin."

Sir Dorbin nodded slowly. "I have heard that name before."

Elrohir kept his face neutral. He had a feeling where Dorbin might be heading with this, but he let the knight speak.

"There had been an evil mage of surpassing power who dwelt within the Realm of Fargate. He was known only as _Venom_. He and his ally, another wizard named Hoos, had long terrorized the surrounding lands from their dungeon lair. That, of course, was where you first encountered us." Elrohir nodded. "On our second visit to that lair, which unfortunately led to us being stranded here, we had heard from the local folk that, years prior, Venom had turned himself into a lich and was now calling himself _Kar-Vermin._ I see now that this was not the case."

Elrohir nodded again. "Yes. We knew of Venom as well. Our stories come together now. Unfortunately, Kar-Vermin, disguised as one of the elves, had slipped through the portal with the rest of them. Later, he killed Venom-"

"Who was his counterpart?" Dorbin asked, starting to put the pieces together himself.

"Exactly," Elrohir confirmed. "He then took over Venom's lair, with the nearby populace none the wiser. Hoos, I believe, had dissolved his partnership with Venom and left the lair some weeks prior to this. In any case, my father and his allies, aware that Kar-Vermin was now at large on this new world, made up their minds to destroy him, once and for all." He sighed. "What I have told you thus far comes mostly from the stories my mother told me when I was very young. For the rest of my tale, I must rely heavily on the memory of our horses."

Sir Dorbin shook his head, as if he had not heard quite right. "Pardon, friend Elrohir. Did you just say, _the memory of your horses"?_

Elrohir permitted himself a smile at his guest's confusion. "Yes, indeed. My father's party stopped at a village to purchase some horses. Unknown to them, Kar-Vermin had placed a unique enchantment upon three of the horses for sale in the stables. This magic gave them human sentience and the ability to speak the common tongue, as well as allowing their master to see through their eyes. And lastly, the spell gave them a malicious nature, which they kept hidden. They were his perfect spies, subtly leading their riders into danger while the lich kept tabs on his opponents."

"What happened?" asked Dorbin.

Elrohir slowly took another drink, then continued. "My father eventually discovered the horses' true nature. Their party mage was unable to dispel the enchantment upon the horses, but instead of killing the horses, they," he paused. "They showed them kindness. They treated them as equals, and swore they would find some way to relieve them from the yoke of servitude to such a monster as Kar-Vermin. It was a long, slow process, but the horses saw how my father and his friends kept themselves in danger by staying with them (since the lich could still see through their eyes). Eventually, as Perlial tells it, it was a victory for _the power of love."_ The ranger smiled to himself, then looked back at Sir Dorbin. "One of the three steeds was later killed, but Perlial and White Lightning are with us to this day." His expression turned grim. "But I digress. There's a lot more to tell, and time grows short." His glance took in the other tables, then the closed door of the Tall Tales Room.

"In brief," the ranger went on, a bit more hurriedly now. "My father and his companions were unable to slay Kar-Vermin, but they did manage to drive him out of his lair. They followed, taking with them for reasons I am not entirely certain of, a magical item from the dungeons called a 'Hoos Cube'. My friend Cygnus could undoubtedly explain this better, but the cube seemed to be some kind of source of magical power source for part of the lair-"

"Ah!" Dorbin exclaimed. He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled smugly at Elrohir. "I see my friends and I owe your father a debt, Our, er, _trap-expert,_ Aiclesis," and here the knight indicated an elf at the other end of the room, currently talking to Tadoa, "indicated to us that certain of the magical traps and wards in the dungeons had been deactivated somehow. No doubt due to this missing cube."

"No doubt," agreed Elrohir. "The party then stopped for a while at Samseed Wood, where they stayed with the elves for a short time. During this time, my father became quite taken with a young elven maiden named Serena, and- well," the ranger smiled self-consciously at Sir Dorbin. The knight's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Your mother?" he asked. "You are half-elven, then? You do not show it, and yet-" Dorbin grew introspective, thinking. "Aiclesis and Wescene have told me that sometimes those born of mixed parentage appear fully human or elven. I believe the elvish word for it translates as _The Hidden."_ He glanced over again at Tadoa. "That might explain the child, as well."

The ranger nodded. "Possibly. Tad himself has no idea who his father was. In any case, my father and his companions moved on. Eventually, they attracted the attention of Hoos himself, apparently seeking to reclaim his cube. Although he transported them to his new lair in the Highstone Mountains, he was apparently slain or at least distracted before he could accomplish whatever purpose he had in mind for them." He shrugged. "The horses are unsure at this point, but apparently, the party, while examining the lair, triggered some kind of deadly trap. The horses fled with Tadoa, but the others..." the ranger shook his head, then went silent.

Sir Dorbin spoke quietly. "A difficult legacy to live up to, Elrohir." The ranger nodded.

"I am leader of my party only because I have been told that since my father led his party, it is my 'destiny' to do the same" the ranger grimaced. "I know that Aslan has more moral resolve, that Argo is more diplomatic and sharper of wit, that Tojo is more honorable-" He shook his head. "I have no time for this. I must skip ahead and end this tale quickly." Elrohir eyed Sir Dorbin somberly while slowly rising to his feet.

"It has been many years, good sir knight. I have traveled among the Three Worlds, and survived the Neutral Forces. I have met my dearest friends, some that you see here, and others that have fallen. I have married, and born a son. I have seen great evil fall, even Kar-Vermin himself, slain by our own hands. We have opened this inn, and hoped to find some rest in our lives. But there is no rest. Nodyath is here. He is Aslan's counterpart from Rolex, and he has kidnapped Cygnus' son Thorin. He will arrive here shortly, to exchange the boy for a magical scroll we found back on Rolex. He will be here any minute, and Cygnus wishes to give him the scroll. This is our problem, Sir Dorbin of Aarde."

Now it was Dorbin's turn to rise to his feet. "But if Nodyath and Aslan are both here, would not-"

Elrohir cut him off. "No. This world is not linked to ours as Rolex is. Both counterparts may exist here without worry. The Neutral Forces do not appear upon Oerth."

Dorbin sighed heavily. "That at least, is good news." He then eyed Elrohir warily. "But then, I do not understand your great concern. Surely all of you are more than a match for this Nodyath?"

Elrohir very slowly took one more drink from his mug. "Nodyath, like Aslan, has the Talent."

Dorbin's dark blue eyes took on the burning intensity Elrohir had seen earlier.

"You mean," he asked softly, "like this?"

And he disappeared.

Which was just as well, since Elrohir's spittake of ale passed right through the spot where he had been standing.

"Forgive me, Elrohir." Dorbin's voice came behind the ranger, who, coughing and spluttering, spun around to see the knight standing directly behind him. "I am sorry, friend. That was unduly frivolous of me. Perhaps Unru has been rubbing off on me more than I would admit." A guilty smile crossed the knight's lips, then vanished as he leaned in close to Elrohir. He spoke quickly, his voice hard.

"Know this, Elrohir. Back in my homeland of Seltia, when I was young, a great wizard spoke to me of my Talent, and that of others. He told me what a terrible burden they are, and that they can never be used for other than a just cause. He also told me that the Talent is rare, but that it can pass from parent to child. Without the proper supervision, this _must not happen!"_ Dorbin looked positively angry now. "Deal with Nodyath as you wish today. If you wish us to fight with you, we will fight. If you wish us to stand down, we will do so- today. But if this Nodyath is truly wicked, as you say, then he must die. There can be no exceptions."

Elrohir stared at Sir Dorbin. This rather genial knight had just revealed a darker side he would just as soon not have to deal with at the moment. Suddenly, Aslan's voice came through loudly from the Tall Tales Room.

_"Where's Cygnus?"_

Dorbin looked puzzled. "Doesn't he know where your wiz-"

But Elrohir, Argo and the others were already running towards the closed door. Tojo shot a glance back towards the knight.

"That not Asran," he said.


	14. Nodyath

**7th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Aslan stared in shock at himself.

He had gone from vigilant to distracted to bored while waiting for his counterpart to appear. When Nodyath had actually arrived, Aslan, who had been standing in the middle of the room, had been facing towards the door. He had literally jumped in surprise when he heard his own voice booming at him from behind.

Nodyath and Thorin were standing in the far right corner of the room. Nodyath wore plate mail armor not too dissimilar from Aslan's- except for his helm.

The infamous _helm of telepathy_ was a great helm, the paladin noted. It was a bright gray, covered with an intricate silver overlay. Like many other helms Aslan had seen, it was horned, although these particular horns, which both twisted to stretch out directly in front of the helm's wearer, seemed almost insectile. The helm covered most of Nodyath's face, leaving only a thin, T-shaped section visible. Aslan could see Nodyath's light blue eyes staring at him with a mixture of fear and suspicion that he couldn't imagine existing within himself. In fact, Nodyath's whole being seemed to radiate an attitude that was almost feral in nature. From Cygnus' description of his conversation with Nodyath, as well as their own experience with how easily he had fooled them all before, Aslan had expected a cold, cruel, criminal mastermind. Nodyath seemed much more nervous than Aslan had been expecting. He knew that wasn't a good sign.

Nodyath was standing somewhat hunched over, all the easier to maintain the dagger he held at Thorin's throat.

The boy seemed dirty and disheveled, but other than a small bruise on his right cheek, appeared to be unharmed. His eyes, wild with fear, locked on Aslan.

Although he registered that Thorin was all right for the moment, Aslan found himself paralyzed, gazing into his counterpart's eyes. Dimly, a small voice in his head was trying to slap him into action, telling him that Nodyath had gotten his shock out of the way two days ago, and that delay at this point could prove fatal. He still couldn't believe the intensity of Nodyath's stare- until the reason for it hit him.

_By the High One, he's looking into my mind!_

As if in confirmation, Nodyath snarled. "What's Cygnus up to?"

The door burst open. The sound snapped Aslan back into action. He whirled, yelling to Argo, the figure standing furthest inside the doorway, "Stop where you are! Take no action! Say nothing!"

Somewhat uncharacteristically, Argo obeyed, although almost imperceptibly, he continued to inch forward into the room, to allow the others in behind him.

Aslan turned back to his counterpart. "All right Nodyath," he said, holding out his left hand, which held the scroll. "You know we can't hide anything from you. Cygnus is afraid that you won't keep your word, but if there's the tiniest shred of myself in you, I know you will. Here is the scroll. Let Thorin go, take it, and leave."

Nodyath extended his left hand. "Spare me your false morality, paladin. Just give me the scroll."

Aslan moved forward a few inches, shaking his head slowly. "You know you can trust us, Nodyath. We don't know that about you. We don't have your helm." He gently laid the scroll down on the room's remaining end table, about five feet from where Nodyath stood. "Let Thorin go. You know I won't make any attempt to stop you."

No one spoke. Nodyath's eyes darted from Aslan to Argo, to the others behind them. Aslan guessed he was reading their minds, as well. Nodyath then turned his attention back to Aslan, and seemed to relax by an infinitesmal amount. His eyes kept darting towards the scroll. Thorin spoke in a kind of strangled gasp, his eyes struggling to hold back tears.

"Uncle Aslan... please... don't let him hurt me... where's Father?"

"Your father's a coward, Thorin," Nodyath stated, looking down on his hostage. "That's too bad for you." He paused, then peered at Aslan again. "Children deserve better from their parents. Don't you think?"

_What the-?_ Aslan was thrown off balance by that remark. He nodded slowly, unsure of what this might be leading to.

He wasn't to find out. Nodyath shoved Thorin towards the paladin, lunged at the table, grabbed the scroll and disappeared.

Aslan caught Thorin, who wrapped his arms around the paladin as far as he could and burst into tears, crying "I'm sorry, Uncle Aslan, I'm sorry! I thought he was you! I thought he was you!"

"It's okay, Thorin," Aslan said, enfolding the child in his armored embrace. "It's okay. There was no way you could have known." He exhaled a long, deep breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and was only partially aware of the Tall Tales Room filling with a swirling mass of people. Someone, Caroline maybe, pulled Thorin from Aslan and hugged him, then began to check him for injuries.

An anger was starting to build within Aslan, and it wasn't directed solely at Nodyath.

_He's right. A child does deserve better._

He turned to Argo and Elrohir. "Get Cygnus down here, _now!"_

Everyone moved back into the common room. Cygnus came running down the stairs. He knelt down as his son rushed into his arms. Everyone watched with a smile as they embraced. Thorin, still choking occasionally from sobs, pulled his face away from his father's shoulder and looked at him.

"Father... Nodyath... he... he said... he said you were... a coward."

The wizard smiled at that, the tears still wet on his own face.

"You're not, are you?" Thorin managed to get out, with an almost afraid cast to his voice. "You're not a coward, right?"

"Thorin." Cygnus gazed fondly at his son and tried to smooth his hair with his hand."Of course not. Remember when you first began your wizard training. What was the first thing I told you when you asked what spells you would learn?"

The boy stared at his father, then gave a start when he realized it was an actual question. He tried to concentrate. "Um... er... it was... not what spells I would learn, but how well would I use the ones I did learn." His father smiled again.

"Exactly, Thorin. Exactly." Cygnus stood up and only then seemed to notice Sir Dorbin and his party. Looking intently at the knight, he asked "Are you.-"

Dorbin nodded. "Indeed I am, Cygnus. Sir Dorbin of Seltia. Your friends have explained the situation to us. We are here to help."

"Excellent! Excellent!" The mage laid a hand on Sir Dorbin's shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. We may well need it."

"What do you mean?" asked Aslan, who was standing with his arms crossed, his voice cold. "Was not capitulation your plan, Cygnus? We have Thorin back, and Nodyath has the scroll. What else have we to expect?"

"Hopefully nothing," Cygnus said, a glint in his eye now. "Hopefully nothing. But if something does happen, it's going to happen within the next twenty-four hours. We have to plan for the worst, people!"

"Why?" asked Elrohir.

Cygnus slowly surveyed everyone around him, and a grim smile took root on his face.

"Because I put _explosive runes_ on that scroll."


	15. Cygnus and Aslan

**7th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Everyone gaped at the wizard.

"What?" said Aslan softly.

_"What?"_ he repeated, actually yelling in anger and taking a step towards Cygnus before checking himself. "You lied?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice down. "You lied to us all?"

Cygnus looked bemusedly at the paladin.

"Telepathic enemy, Aslan. Think about it. You know there was no other option. And besides," Cygnus continued, eyeing Aslan critically now, "why are you sore? You're the only one here who _didn't_ want me to give him the scroll!"

"Did you think I would approve of deceit, Cygnus? Did you?" Aslan jabbed his finger into the wizard's chest. The wizard stepped back a foot, glaring at the paladin now. Thorin clung to his father's robes in fear.

"You acted unilaterally, Cygnus!" Aslan went on. "All of us combined are stronger than any one of us alone. Don't you trust us, dammit?" Not knowing what else to do, the paladin actually stamped his foot in frustration. "Why did you do it?"

Cygnus' face went cold. "I'm sorry you don't approve of my actions, Aslan. But after all," and here he turned to Talass with a wry grin, "we wizards are a manipulative lot, aren't we?"

If the mage was hoping for support from the cleric, he didn't get it. Talass looked hurt. She felt hurt. She had thought that she and Cygnus had shared something that night out on the plains, and that maybe she understood him just a little better now. Obviously she didn't. She fixed him with her worst glare, and had the small satisfaction of seeing him frown and look down to the floor. "And just when did you decide on this course of action, Cygnus?" asked Talass quietly.

His gaze came back up to meet hers. It was cold again. "Sometime on the ride back to the Brass Dragon. I knew if I just gave Nodyath the scroll, he'd come back later, kidnap someone else, and demand something else from the chest. Again, I'm sorry, but I saw no other option, and if I had explained my plan, and you hadn't been able to come up with a better one, we'd have been dead in the water. And you," and here he turned back to the paladin, "if it makes you feel any better Aslan, you almost had me convinced during my speech yesterday. But then you had to go bringing up Hyzenthlay, didn't you?"

The magic-user's face began to redden with anger as he looked from Aslan to Argo. "Let's all get Cygnus here to do what we want by bringing up his wife! She's not here to defend him! She's..."

He choked up, unable to continue. Thorin was hugging his father around his waist now, crying softly.

Aslan seemed to deflate inside his plate mail. He looked at the wizard sadly, shaking his head.

"I don't know, Cygnus. I thought we were a team, a family, and all the better for being one." He looked lost. "I never thought you would manipulate us like that."

He turned and walked out of the inn. Mirage followed at his heels.

Everyone watched him go in silence. The Sir Dorbin party exchanged embarrassed glances and awkward silences. Elrohir, unable to think of the right thing to say, concerned himself with his son Barahir, who appeared about ready to start crying himself. Caroline held her husband's hand in hers. Argo looked solemnly from the door to his wife, but said nothing. Tojo stood apart some distance. His stance was as impassive as always, but his eyes betrayed emotion within that he would not reveal. Tadoa busied himself with cleaning up mugs and flagons from the tables. Talass waited a little bit, then slowly walked right up to Cygnus.

"Listen to me, Cygnus. You have to go after him."

The wizard turned to her. "Look, Talass, Aslan's not going to-"

The cleric cut him off. "No, you're right. Aslan's not going to turn away from us. He's a paladin, and he's our friend. He'd sooner die than leave us to our fate. But that's not the point. If we're all going to plan for the worst, as you yourself suggested, we can't have any unfinished business between us beforehand. _Especially_ not from Aslan, because without him functioning at one hundred percent, we have no chance at all against Nodyath. Zero. None. So it doesn't really matter who's at fault here. Go and get him back- _now!_"

Cygnus and Talass glared at each other for a few seconds, then the mage looked down at his son, who had just stopped crying again. "Listen to me, Thorin," Cygnus said softly. "I want you to stay here with the others. I want you to tell them everything that you remember from the first time you saw Nodyath. Where he kept you, anything he said. Any of that could be a vital clue. Do you understand?"

Thorin, his face streaked with tear tracks, nodded soberly. Cygnus gave him a small smile. "Good boy."

He walked slowly towards the inn door, pulled it open, and walked out into the hailstorm.

* * *

For just once, Cygnus wished that he could wear armor. Those hailstones hurt! He tucked his head low and ran for Aslan's house. He sincerely hoped that the paladin had not locked his door. Using a _knock_ spell to gain admittance would probably not be the best way to start things off, he thought ruefully.

The door was unlocked, thankfully. Cygnus slowly pushed it open and walked in, closing it behind him. Aslan's cabin had a much lower roof than the inn, and a flat one at that. The mage was surprised at how loud (and unsettling) the hailstorm sounded in here.

Aslan was in the bedroom of his spartan, two room cabin. He was sitting hunched over on the edge of his bed, playing with Mirage, who kept licking his master's face. The paladin had removed his helm and gauntlets and put them beside him on the mattress. He glanced up at Cygnus as he came in, then returned his attention to his wardog. Cygnus slowly sat down on the bed, a few feet from Aslan.

They both studied Mirage for a while.

Aslan sighed and spoke first. "I don't know who shocked me more today, Cygnus. You, or my counterpart."

Cygnus had to speak a little louder than he wanted to, due to the noise of the hail bouncing off the roof. "How did he shock you?"

The paladin seemed to grope for the words. "He was just so- unlike me- and yet- something about him seemed familiar- or could have been familiar, or- I don't know." He glanced over to the wizard. "I know what Nodyath is capable of, and that scares me. I'm the way I am today because of three influences in my early life; my mother, my calling, and my Talent. Something tells me Nodyath only has had one of those." His expression was grim. "Be thankful you've never had to meet your counterpart, Cygnus."

The magic-user nodded. "I am. He's probably some power-crazed, manipulative bastard. Not at all the lovable wizard that I am." Cygnus raised an eyebrow at Aslan, but didn't get the smile he had hoped for. He fell silent again.

"Nodyath said that you were a coward, and that children deserve better than that," Aslan mused. "I wonder what he meant by that?"

Cygnus shrugged. "Maybe his parents were cowards. I don't know. _Tell it to a bard and put it to music,_ as my father would say. Life is tough." He gazed at the silver holy symbol, dyed blue, of an eye that hung from a peg on the cabin wall. "Which do you think is worse, Aslan; to be a coward, or to be an individualist?" He looked back at the paladin, who eyed him critically.

Aslan didn't hesitate. "To be cowardly is a flaw, Cygnus, but no one chooses _that_ path deliberately."

The paladin returned his attention to scratching Mirage's ears. Cygnus studied the floorstones intently. After a silence that swiftly grew from uncomfortable to painful, Aslan spoke up again, with a question.

"Tell me, Cygnus, are you glad that we've retired?" The wizard didn't hesitate on that one.

"Yes. Absolutely. I admit, I didn't expect enemies, both old and new, to come out of the woodwork like they have, but if we can get through this, I'll be very happy indeed."

"We have a chance to do so, Cygnus, but let's do it together from now on, okay?" Aslan looked at his friend intently.

The mage sighed. "All right, Aslan. That sounds fair. I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would upset you this much. You know, Argo is much worse about going off on his own than I am. Why don't you get on his case more about that?"

"I'm working on him," the paladin replied. But it will help my cause if I have you as a convert first."

Cygnus grimaced and fingered one of Aslan's gauntlets.

"Tell me the truth, Cygnus," said Aslan. "Do you think your _exploding runes_ will kill Nodyath?"

"I don't know. They might, but I fear that may be wishful thinking," the wizard replied.

"He has friends, you know," said the paladin grimly.

"Who?"

"Nodyath. That's what he's been doing this past week. Gathering contacts, making allies and deals..."

Cygnus peered over at Aslan. "How do you know?"

Aslan shrugged. "It's what I would do. Besides," he said, "Remember that summons he fooled us all with? In the Lord Mayor's own handwriting, sealed with his own personal seal? Nodyath just doesn't strike me as the master forger type."

Cygnus said nothing, but nodded his agreement. Aslan continued.

"If he takes that scroll to some wizard-"

The mage interrupted. "I put a spell on it to remove any sign of the runes. That should be good for at least a week. And unless he knows a lot more about arcane magic than he's let on, I'll bet he can't resist sneaking a peek at it first. At least, I hope so."

Aslan eyed him soberly. "And if he does? A miss is as good as a mile with my- I mean _his_ healing powers. I wish I could be be sure about whether or not your spell will do the trick."

Cygnus smiled. "Well, you are his counterpart, Aslan. I could always set the spell off on you. That'd tell us. If it kills you, we're in good shape."

The paladin gazed at the wizard, and slowly a rather weak smile appeared on his face.

"Don't make me _detect evil_ on you, Cygnus."

The magic-user picked up Aslan's gauntlet and pantomimed slapping him with it, then put it down and stood up. "Come on, my friend. We have to find yet another miracle that we need to pull out of our asses, in order to save our squabbling family."

Aslan stood up and began to put on his gauntlets and helm again, grumbling. "No wonder it hurts so much if I sit down for too long."


	16. A Piece of The Rock

**7th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

In spite of everything, Elrohir permitted himself a small smile.  
_  
This is looking much better,_ thought the ranger.

Along with everyone else, he had breathed a sigh of relief when Cygnus and Aslan had returned, together and smiling. Now, with the sun having set several hours ago and taking the rain and hail with it, both parties were again clustered around tables, eating and drinking. At Argo's insistence, this was all on the house. Cygnus had gone pale at the announcement, but Elrohir had successfully explained that a sudden infusion of otherworldly currency in the local economy might eventually attract unwarrented attention, if it were traced back to them.

Although the inn remained closed, the staff had been released from their quarters below, and were once again in full swing, taking orders and serving guests. The five remaining commoners had left, so the main room now resembled what Elrohir thought an Adventurer's Guild might look like, full of fighters, mages, priests and who-knew-what-else. He had never seen an actual Adventurer's Guild, although he had been told the great metropolis of Greyhawk to the south sported one.

The children, Thorin and Barahir, were gone. Aslan had teleported them to the sanctuary of the Castle Calastar in the Shield Lands, which all of his friends constantly (and irritatingly) could remember only as the "Square Castle." The party had done the local lord there a great favor some time ago, and now the party was calling in its marker. The castle contained a huge, lead-lined room, where the children would stay for the time being. The lord had pointed out that this room was in fact a treasure room, and not designed to hold people for an extended period of time, but had stated that, upon his honor, the children would be fed and cared for as well as was possible. This was acceptable to all involved, except of course for the children themselves. Barahir had wailed non-stop at being taken away from his parents, and Thorin had begged his father for the chance to stay, but the wizard was firm, and his son had eventually given in, since he knew he had no allies in this matter among the party.

Thorin's experiences while a hostage had revealed no breakthrough information. The room where he had spent his time sounded like any flea-ridden inn room anywhere. What was interesting, although not totally unexpected, was that Nodyath had an ally (or minion). Thorin described him as a "dirty-looking" human male, about forty years old, with graying, curly hair and a mutton-chop beard. Although the man spent almost all of his time in the room with Thorin, he never spoke to him except to hurl curses at the child. He carried a blackjack (the cause of the boy's cheek bruise) and a dagger. Curiously, Thorin thought that he had glimpsed a spell component pouch once on the man's belt, but had not been sure.

Although technically a child himself, Tadoa had remained behind. The party had long become accustomed to treating the elf as an adult, and he seemed to wish it so in this matter, although he had been morose at losing his best friend Thorin's company, even if only for a short while. Now, he was sitting to the right of Wescene, gazing at the young elf with ill-disguised puppy love eyes.

_Young_ was, of course, a relative term. Elrohir pegged Wescene at close to two hundred years of age.

For her part, Wescene seemed only interested in the half-elven Sitdale who sat on her left side. It was obvious to anyone except Tadoa that the two were a couple. Or perhaps Tad did realize it, but with the determination that only an adolescent can muster, thought he could sever that bond with verbose- and very frequent- interruptions in their conversation.

Cygnus and Torlina were chatting amiably. Elrohir couldn't make out their conversation from the general din of the common room, but he assumed it was about matters arcane. He had been worried that Torlina might have been interested in Cygnus in a romantic fashion, but that seemed not to be the case. In fact, it was very clear that Torlina and Sir Dorbin, who was sitting on her other side, were personally involved as well. _Argo was right,_ Elrohir thought. _They're probably as crazed as we are. Crazier, in fact. We've retired, and they're still adventuring.  
_  
At the moment, Sir Dorbin was speaking quietly to Aslan, who sat on his other side. The paladin had been very surprised when the knight had revealed his Talent to him, but had quickly recovered, and it looked like the two might be well on the way to becoming friends. Elrohir's eyes narrowed, recalling Dorbin's insistence that neither he nor his party would leave until Nodyath had been slain. While the ranger was in fact looking forward to that outcome, he didn't want anyone else's life endangered needlessly due to Dorbin's selective fanaticism.

Argo and Caroline seemed to be hitting it off very well with Monsrek and Unru. The priest of Trithereon, Monsrek, was an enigma, Elrohir thought. His manner seemed as judgmental and calculated as Aslan's, yet it seemed to hide a free spirit much like Argo's. In Elrohir's experience, priests scowled at dirty jokes- they didn't tell them. Monsrek, once he relaxed, was turning out to be quite the party animal (Talass had said she caught him leering at her).

Unru was even odder. Elrohir had no idea what the man's profession was, nor would any of his party reveal it. He seemed like an ordinary looking-man of possible Yatian descent- on Oerth, he might be thought Baklunish- with thinning brown hair, brown eyes and a somewhat gaunt frame. He wore rather simple clothes of dark color, except for a loose yellow shirt, on which was sewn a half-dozen pockets. His only weapon seemed to be a round piece of wood about a foot long with a knobby handle near one end. Dorbin had told Elrohir that this was not Unru's true appearance- although he said it was close to it- and that Unru, via a magic item, was forever altering his image. _Great,_ thought Elrohir, rubbing his eyes. _Another shapeshifter..._

With the possible exception of Sir Dorbin, Talass had not really warmed up to any of their guests, but she was unfailingly polite and gracious, and was eager to exchange information with them. Just a little off to the side, Tojo and the Dorbin party's other wizard, Flond, sat together at a small table. Elrohir would have sworn that neither of them had said a single word to each other all night, yet still they sat, each nursing their single drink. Elrohir could only assume they were having a good time, although it looked to him that both of them were getting ready for a funeral, for all the fun they might be having.

Grock, Mirage and Dudraug were circling the tables like vultures, occasionally snapping up a stray morsel that was either offered or dropped.

_Well,_ Elrohir thought. _Time to act the leader._

He rose and clinked his knife on his wineglass. After several repetitions, he finally had everyone's attention. He cleared his throat and began.

"Thank you. I'm glad to see that we're all still capable of smiling. At least most of us," he added with a look towards Tojo and Flond. There was some mild laughter, while Flond's perpetual scowl only deepened. Tojo raised an eyebrow at his party leader, but said nothing.

It suddenly hit Elrohir that he was sounding like a bad court jester. This was not that type of occasion.He chewed his lip and began again, getting right to the point this time.

"From what I understand of the Talent from Aslan and Sir Dorbin, Nodyath is currently low in the amount of Talent he has available to him. Ideally, if we can find him within the next eight hours or so, before he can mindrest any further, we might be able to destroy him before he can escape. This assumes, of course, that he is still alive. Our sole scroll of _divination_ we used a week or so ago, and I understand no one here can cast such a spell on their own." Heads nodded in confirmation

"So," Elrohir put the question to his audience,"if we go on the assumption that Nodyath still lives, does anyone have any ideas on how to find our foe?"

Argo Bigfellow Jr. stood up, a little unsteadily. For a moment, Elrohir was concerned that his friend might have had a little too much to drink, but Argo's manner seemed serious enough.

"I have an idea, Elrohir. Since Nodyath seems all fired up about the goodies we have stashed in our little treasure chest, I say let's show him something else from it." He turned to the mage sitting nearby. "Cygnus- get the Rock."

There were murmurs from Sir Dorbin's party. "So, you keep rocks stashed in your treasure horde, do you?" asked Unru.

"Hey!" shouted Fee Hal, standing up and with no doubt that he had indeed imbibed a few drinks, clumsily pulled off his right boot and dumped its contents on the table. "I've got some pebbles right here. Barkeep, free drinks for everybody!" he laughed loudly. There were a few chuckles, but Sir Dorbin looked grim. From what Elrohir could remember, Fee Hal was Dorbin's squire. At seventeen, he still sometimes acted the teenager he was.

"Coming right up!" To Elrohir's surprise and consternation, Argo swiped up the pebbles and quickly strode over to the bar, planting them in the hand of the barkeep, who could only gawk. Argo leaned over the bar, grabbed something from underneath it and then straightened up and came back to Fee Hall. He plunked a large glass vial, a little smaller than a mug, in front of the youth. "Drink up!" the ranger smiled, thumping Fee Hal on the back.

The squire picked up the vial and eyed it. It contained a deep green, translucent liquid. Elrohir noted that Cygnus, who had gotten up and was heading towards the Tall Tales Room, had stopped and was looking at Fee Hal with a smile as big as Argo's.

Fee Hal's suspicion and inebriation were battling it out with each other. He blinked and looked at Argo again.

"What's this again?"

The ranger's smile didn't waver. "Our house specialty."

Fee Hal was slowly lifting the vial to his lips when Aslan rose and said loudly, _"stop!"_

Argo and Cygnus groaned, the latter resuming his trip to the Tall Tales Room. The paladin walked over to Fee Hal, took the vial from his hand, and set it back down on the table. "This is green goop," he announced to the Dorbin party at large, "a disgusting concoction dreamed up by Argo and Cygnus. Unless you enjoy projectile vomiting for the next several minutes or so, I'd advise against imbibing."

"You always do," grumbled Argo, sitting back down. "Spoilsport."

Aslan ignored this and returned to his seat. Soon, Cygnus returned to the common room.

In his hands, he held an odd-looking object. It only superficially resembled a rock. Its shape was that of an oval, cleaved in half lengthwise. It was just under a foot in length, and resembled a smooth, brownish piece of quartz more than anything. Lighter-colored streaks seem to run through the interior.

"Whatever that is, it's radiating a very strong magic," Torlina informed her companions.

"It should," said Cygnus. "It can grant you a _wish._"

The entire Dorbin party leaned forward. More than one mouth fell open soundlessly. "A _wish?"_ whispered Torlina.

"Well," said Cygnus, a little sheepishly, "perhaps I overstated that. It's power is limited, yet quite varied. We have used it to great effect ourselves."

"I'm certain that a properly phrased request will enable all of us to be transported to Nodyath's location," put in Argo.

"The problem Argo," said Elrohir, "is that each person only gets one "wish", and we've all used ours."

Smiling, Argo turned to his fellow ranger.

"We have indeed," he replied, then turned to regard Sir Dorbin. "But they haven't."

* * *

Ten minutes later, everyone was standing outside of the inn. The night air was crisp and cold, now coming from the west. No one really complained, though. In fact, some- such as Fee Hal- were quite grateful for its invigorating effect. Sir Dorbin and Cygnus stood apart from the others, the knight eyeing the Rock.

"How do I activate it, Cygnus? Do I place my hands on it?"

The mage shook his head and rubbed his finger over the Rock's surface, hard. A small piece broke off. Cygnus handed it to Sir Dorbin.

"No, my good sir. You eat it."

Dorbin eyed the chip he held. It looked somewhat like a fried potato skin. He eyed the wizard critically. "If I start throwing up, Cygnus, I will be very, very disappointed in you." Cygnus just smiled. Dorbin turned around to the rest of his party behind them, then abruptly shouted out.

"Unknown enemy! Battle positions!"

Instantly, they formed a circle behind the duo, with Monsrek, Fee Hal, Sitdale, Aiclesis and Wescene forming the perimeter, and the others inside. All drew weapons.

Aslan turned to Argo. "_That_ is something we could learn from them, Argo." The ranger snorted in reply.

Sir Dorbin took a deep breath and crunched down on the chip. It was brittle, but had no flavor. After choking it down, he spoke out loudly, "I wish that all of us present here were immediately transported to the presence of Nodyath!"

Nothing happened. Seconds dragged by, then a minute. Cygnus broke off another piece, and handed it to Dorbin. "Wish for something else," he said. "Something simple."

Dorbin shrugged, bit the chip, swallowed, and then announced. "I wish for a glass of water."

Nothing.

Cygnus said quietly to Dorbin, "Have your party stand down." Dorbin did so, while the Elrohir party huddled.

"What went wrong?" asked Elrohir.

Cygnus shook his head. "His _wish_ was used, if not enacted. I don't know why, but I'm guessing one of two possibilities. Either Nodyath is dead, or the Rock doesn't have the power to fufill the request."

Argo frowned. "It should."

"How do you know?" replied Cygnus, a little annoyed. "We know next to nothing about this Rock, other than the fact that we can't use it anymore. I don't want to waste any more pieces of it experimenting. We go to plan B."

Aslan raised an eyebrow. "Plan B? And what is that, Cygnus?" he asked, his voice darkening. "Another plan of your own devising?"

"Not at all," said the wizard, heading back into the inn. "Plan B means we throw every protective spell we can think of on ourselves, go to sleep, and if Nodyath appears tomorrow to kill us, we wing it from there. For details, see Argo."

Aslan stared as Cygnus vanished back into the Brass Dragon, and then turned his gaze to the ranger. "Well?" Argo put his hand on Aslan's shoulder and leaned in.

"Plan B. Things turning out all right without any kind of elaborate battle plan that never works anyway," Argo said. "And _that_ is something that Sir Dorbin can learn from _us_. Good night, my friend."

Argo turned and headed in for the night. Slowly, everyone followed.


	17. The Enemies List

**8th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

"I see everyone's still alive." Aslan stood in the main door of the inn, addressing the fifteen or so people within.

Argo raised a mug of mulled apple cider in a toast.

"And good morning to you too, Aslan. We were wondering when you'd be joining us. Caroline was worried that something might have happened to you, but I heard your snoring as we passed by your house this morning, so I knew everything was okay," the ranger grinned.

Aslan didn't take the bait, but merely walked over to a table and sat down heavily. "I'm sorry, I don't usually sleep this late. I must have been absolutely exhausted last night. If it weren't for Mirage jumping on top of me, I might still be asleep." A serving girl set down a mug of tea in front of the paladin, and he smiled his thanks, then stretched his limbs. "It's been a while since I've had to wear my armor from morning to night. I can't say that I like it."

Argo placed down a plate with a piece of steak in front of the paladin. "Here. For either you or Mirage, who ever has the toughest palate."

Aslan frowned as he examined the teeth marks on the piece of meat. "What's this?"

"Well, until I chipped a tooth on it, I thought it was going to be my breakfast," Bigfellow replied. He turned to Cygnus. "I usually have biscuits or salt pork, but I thought I'd try something else today, you know, in celebration of not waking up dead." He gestured towards the kitchen door behind the bar. "Is our beef usually this bad?"

Cygnus sipped his tea as he eyed the ranger. "We used to get our meat and produce from the most upscale distributor in Willip. They used magic to preserve the quality of the food, at least for a few extra days. It gave us more options in terms of what we could stock on hand here, but the cost was considerably more. We haven't used them since the start of the new year."

"Why not?" Elrohir asked, taking a chair next to the wizard. Cygnus shrugged.

"Cost. I've been telling you people for some time now; we're running out of money."

Talass shook her head. "I'm sorry Cygnus, I don't understand. Aside from the past few days, business has been pretty good- for the winter season anyway. Why aren't we making a profit from the Brass Dragon?"

The mage gave her a slightly patronizing smile, causing the corners of Talass' mouth to tighten. "We've never made a profit on this place, Talass. Your husband and Estel insisted when we opened this inn that we would serve only the highest possible quality food and drink, and that our rooms would be safe and comfortable, and our stable care exemplary. And that's exactly what we have done, yet we charge no more than most other inns, so we can _appeal to the common man,_ as Elrohir puts it. It's simple mathematics. We spend more than we make, and we no longer have an alternate stream of revenue coming in to supplement it."

Caroline smirked into her wineglass. "Running an inn- it's not just a job, it's an adventure!"

Several eyebrows went up at this, including her husband's. "Love," he asked gently but still getting straight to the point. "What's wrong?"

Caroline sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude, it's just that-" she looked down, unable to meet Argo's eyes. "You all retired shortly after we married. You all had something to retire _from_. I didn't, and I'm still here more than any of you. I'm always filling in for the staff, or taking care of odd jobs, or doing anything other than what I've trained for since I was a girl- to be a warrior. I've always been proud that I was able to achieve that- most of my family weren't all that keen on my choice of vocation- or husband," she added, glancing slyly at Argo, who smiled back and held her hand in his. She glanced over at Sir Dorbin and his party. _"They're_ still adventuring, and they seem to be pretty happy about it."

"Ask them if any of them have children," said Argo quietly. His wife looked at him. He continued. "I doubt very much if they do. I know _I _want them. Don't you?"

Caroline's conflicting emotions showed on her face. "Yes, Argo, more than anything. I just don't want to turn my back on who I was." She grimaced. "I guess I just want it all."

"Spoken like a true adventurer," Aslan put in.

Argo gave the paladin his famous pained smile. "You're not making this any easier, Aslan."

Aslan put on a mock innocent face. "Was I supposed to? Dearest me."

"In any case," cut in Elrohir, determined to get the conversation back on track, "what do we do, Cygnus. Unretire?"

Cygnus glared at his party leader. "Not even in jest, Elrohir. However," he added, his face softening, "as usual, I have a plan that may save us."

Elrohir couldn't help but notice that Argo and Aslan were sporting the same identical look of skepticism on their faces. He had to admit he shared that sentiment, but kept it off his own face. He took a swallow of coffee and said "Let's have it."

Cygnus picked up a small chalk slate from his lap and laid it on the table in front of him. Among several unfamiliar symbols were written several names that they all recognized. Iuz. Bellicose. Scurvy John. Chic.

"Your Enemies List?" asked Argo dryly.

"That's right, Argo," replied the wizard. "If you'll recall, I was talking about this when all this- unpleasantness- started. However, what I said then still stands." He tapped the slate. "Take Bellicose here, for instance. I never met the dragon that didn't have a horde. We can remove one of our enemies off this list, and make a tidy profit at the same time."

"Excuse me," interrupted Talass, looking from one party member to another with an incredulous look on her face. "Am I the only here who hasn't forgotten the fact that we're all in mortal danger as we speak? What about Nodyath? Is he no longer a threat to us just because we can't make money off of him?"

Aslan crossed his hands in front of him and spoke as evenly as he could. "I'm not an optimist by nature Talass, but I'd have to say there's a fair possibility that Nodyath is dead. I've been trying to get a handle on how he thinks. Now, I don't know of course whether I've succeeded, but I just can't imagine him waiting for his revenge. By now, he'd be healed- if he set off the scroll in the first place- and he'd be able to utilize his full Talent. There'd be no point in waiting to attack. Now, if we can get our hands on some coin," he nodded at Cygnus, "we can afford to have a _divination_ cast for us to determine the truth. In the meantime, I suggest we resume our lives as much as possible. Leave the children where they are for the moment, but let's move on. If Nodyath is still alive, he'll make his move sooner or later. When he does, he just may make a mistake that we can capitalize on."

Cygnus nodded. "It's even possible that Nodyath gave the scroll to a wizard to examine, and it blew up in the wizard's face. He may have killed Nodyath in a rage right then and there. Of course, I'm just speculating. Like Aslan says, once we can afford to have the right spell cast for us, we'll know more." The magic-user looked up as he finished speaking.

Sir Dorbin was standing by them.

"Forgive my intrusion, good people. I could not help but overhear." He addressed himself to Elrohir. "If you wish to turn your attention elsewhere, by all means do so."

"Thanks for the permission," Argo mumbled under his breath, so softly that only Caroline caught it.

"However," the knight continued, "we will not seek to leave this world until we have confirmed that Nodyath is dead. Again, we stand at your service in all matters." He bowed to the party, then returned to his companions. Argo and Elrohir looked at each other, but Aslan caught it.

"Don't discount them so quickly," the paladin warned them. "Dorbin's Talent may prove immeasurably useful, and I for one am grateful to have such willing allies. Now then," and here he gazed at Elrohir. "What do you say, leader? Shall we give Bellicose the reunion with her father that she so desperately needs?"

Slowly, the ranger's face broke out into a big smile. "Let's go hunting."


	18. Two Swords

**

* * *

**

8th Day of Fireseek  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy

"This looks an awful lot like _unretirement_ to me." Talass spoke as she turned to eye her husband.

Elrohir, as was so often the case, couldn't quite make out the underlying emotion behind his wife's statement, so he smiled weakly at her and then turned his attention back to White Lightning.

She was a beautiful animal, without a doubt. A deep brown except for her white forelegs and the lightning-bolt shaped mark on her face, she waited patiently while Elrohir finished attaching the saddlebags to her. While White Lightning technically was not capable of showing human expression, the ranger would have sworn she was smiling at him.

Neither White Lightning nor Perlial spoke as much as they used to. The stable boy reported that the horses almost never spoke to him, except to answer a direct question (of course, he had been strictly admonished against badgering the steeds). At one time, Elrohir had been afraid that Kar-Vermin's transformation might at last be wearing off, but he now believed it was simply because he did not see the horses as often as he used to. They no longer had constant need of the horses for regular travel, and in an emergency, Aslan provided transport. Elrohir felt a pang of guilt. Even now, he did not know what to say to his steed, so he settled for gently stroking her sides as he checked the bags one more time for provisions.

Nearby, Aslan was making his final checks on Perlial. The paladin's warhorse was a uniform light gray, the color broken only by the diamond-studded collar around her neck. Although not feeling guilty, Aslan was nonetheless thoughtful as he checked all of the equipment they were bringing along. It had been decided that the lair of Bellicose's father Sandcats would be the best place to start looking for the dragon. Although it was at least a two-day ride, and probably longer, they had been there before, and anticipated no problems en route. The warhorse turned to regard Aslan, her eyes radiating intelligence and it seemed, humor. The paladin put his hand on Perlial's neck.

"It's been a while, my old friend," he said softly. "Are you frightened? It is no shame, you know."

The horse spoke in her almost musical voice. It had a distinctive accent that no human could reproduce, so Elrohir and Aslan had settled for simply calling it a "horse accent." For some reason, both horses seemed to find this amusing. Aslan had a suspicion that they thought all humans talked with a "people accent."

"The day you destroyed Kar-Vermin was the last day I knew fear, Aslan."

The paladin smiled, and made one more check to be sure the saddle was adjusted comfortably, although he knew this was redundant. Perlial would let him know if he had forgotten anything.

Not far away, Argo and Caroline were leading Gylandir and Sequester out of the stables. The gleaming white coats of the pegasi shone in the early afternoon sunlight. Occasionally, one of them would flap his or her wings, getting ready for flight, although it had been decided that they would be riding on the ground along with the others, taking wing only when needed.

The ranger and his wife loved to pamper their winged steeds, and the pegasi enjoyed being the attention. Although they couldn't speak, they had long ago learned how to nod "yes" or "no." They even had special nods for "Give me a karafruit," or "Don't be an idiot."

Cygnus and Tojo were tacking up their horses. Talass had volunteered to stay behind. Tadoa, somewhat surprisingly, had chosen to remain home as well. Elrohir wondered if it had anything to do with the Sir Dorbin party- and Wescene in particular- remaining behind as official guests- and unofficial custodians- of the inn. Cygnus had whispered earlier to Elrohir "I really hope we find some treasure. At this rate, having to feed Dorbin's crew as well as ourselves, we'll be broke at the end of Fireseek."

Sir Dorbin and most of his compatriots were standing outside as well, ready to see the Elrohir party off.

Monsrek wandered over to Cygnus. "Pardon, friend Cygnus, but there is one thing I do not understand. The dragon Sandcats, whose head adorns the wall of your inn, is the sire of the one you now seek?"

The mage nodded, a slight smile on his face. He knew where this was leading.

"I would estimate that Sandcats' length to be, at most, that of a giant and quite possibly less," Monsrek continued. "Surely his progeny would be little more than a hatchling!"

"Sandcats was sent against us by Iuz, an evil demigod whose influence thankfully, does not extend to our homeworld." Cygnus' face lost its smile. "Bellicose has been magically aged by the Old One to a level roughly equivalent to her father."

Monsrek seemed thoughtful, then gave his own slight smile to Cygnus. "Well, that at least is good news."

Cygnus was puzzled. "How so, Monsrek?"

The cleric's smile widened into a sly grin. "Come now, Cygnus. You and I are both the oldest members of our respective parties. Raw power is one thing, but there's just no substitute for experience." Monsrek winked and walked away.

The wizard turned to eye Tojo, who said nothing, but by his expression made it clear that he agreed with that sentiment.

* * *

Elrohir looked around him one more time. Per his instructions, the _CLOSED_ signs had been taken down. The Brass Dragon was once again open for business, although no travelers had yet come by. The ranger hoped (for the tenth time today) that nothing bad would happen in their absence.

_Well_, he thought. _Here we go again._

"Are we ready, my friends?" he shouted at his companions. Everyone smiled, nodded, or pumped their fist in the air.

"Let's mount up, then!"

Cygnus, about to accept the stable boy's help in mounting his horse, instead turned and abruptly walked about twenty yards down the road southeast, towards Willip. He held a hand above his eyes against the sun's glare, then turned back to the others and smiled. "A good omen! A customer already! Charge him double, Talass- we need the money!"

Most of those present laughed, but Argo left the pegasi with Caroline and walked swiftly past Cygnus, stopping about ten yards past the mage. He too peered down the road, then turned around with a frown on his face. "Unless he's really, really thirsty, I don't think that's a customer."

Slowly, a small cloud of mud and dust could be perceived, growing larger as it approached. Its source was a horse galloping at full speed down the road. As everyone waited where they stood, the cloaked rider reined in his horse about ten yards in front of Argo. The rider dismounted.

Argo was immediately wary. To begin with, the froth coating the horse's muzzle and its labored breathing indicated the man had been pushing his animal at a brutal pace, and he did not have the bearing of a herald or messenger. Under his mud-splattered cloak, he wore plate mail, and carried a small metal shield in his left hand. A sheathed sword hung at his hip. The man turned back to his horse. A strap around the animal held a compartment with three spears. The man, breathing heavily, grabbed one of the spears in his right hand, and then whirled around to face the others, his hood falling down from around his helm.

"Stop right there!" Argo yelled, then stopped. The man looked familiar. Argo turned back to Cygnus, and received the same look of recognition.

The traveler was a man probably in his late forties. He was average in build, perhaps a bit on the portly side. He sported a small mustache, and his gray eyes peered with anger under a heavy brow full of wrinkles. Argo spoke first, rare venom in his voice.

"Dak."

Still catching his breath, the man roared out _"Lord Dak!"_

Argo crossed his arms across his chest and scowled. "Being a noble of the Wild Coast is like being a prince among skunks, Dak. Tell us, if we pay whoever sold you that title double, will he take it away from you?"

Dak did not reply, but concentrated on regaining his wind.

Back in the crowd, Sir Dorbin leaned in close to Elrohir. "Who is that?"

Elrohir's voice was grim. "A man from down south, from a land where noble titles may be bought. We ran afoul of him down there a number of years before. Argo defeated him in single combat and took his sword, which he wields to this day." He clenched his fist. "Dak also fancied himself a suitor of Hyzenthlay, Cygnus' late wife. She despised him of course, but he was slow to take the hint."

"What do you want, Dak?" asked Argo.

"First of all, Bigfellow," spat out Dak, "I want my sword back. Harve belongs to me!"

The ranger glanced down at the sword resting in its scabbard on his belt, then looked back up at the faux nobleman and gave him his best pained smile. "Well, I'd love to Dak, but you see Elrohir already has a talking sword, and I've just _got_ to keep up with him!" He raised his arms in mock submission. "What can I do?"

Lord Dak did not seem amused. "I'll show you shortly, Bigfellow." He then shifted his gaze to Cygnus. "My second goal is to avenge the needless death of the woman I loved. The rumors I heard were true, apparently. You selfish bastard," he seethed. "You knew I could have given Hyzenthlay a life far beyond anything you could have provided her with, but you chose instead to trick her into rejecting me. How did you do it, Cygnus?" his voice rose again. _"Sorcery_?"

Now it was Cygnus' turn to get mad. "Hyzenthlay rejected you because she had eyes, ears and a brain!" The wizard's face flushed red, and he raised his eyes to the sky above. "And I'm getting sick and tired of people insinuating that we shouldn't have gotten together! The next person who says that is going to get a _lightning bolt_ right down his throat! _Now get off our land, Dak!"_

"Such devotion, wizard! Tell me, did her murderer receive this treatment?" He looked around. "Where is _his_ body?" The fighter again locked his eyes, now filled with anguish, upon Cygnus. "She was so beautiful..."

Cygnus said nothing.

"She should have lived in a castle," Dak continued. _"My_ castle, with servants to attend to her every whim! Instead, you made her live in a," and here he looked contemptuously at the Brass Dragon, " _a converted farmhouse!_ There she lived, and there she died! Was _that_ what she was worth to you, wizard?"

Cygnus narrowed his eyes. "Hyzenthlay loved this place, Dak," he said, his voice struggling for control. "When you insult it, you insult her."

Lord Dak's voice was harsh. "_I_ have made no enemy of evil demigods, Cygnus! _I_ would not have attracted the attention of those whom I could not have protected her from!"

Cygnus closed his eyes in anguish as he absorbed those words. He knew that at least on this one point, Lord Dak spoke the truth.

Dak regarded everyone present with a look of disgust. "My brother Alabin spoke true when he told me about-"

Cygnus' eyes snapped open. "Alabin?"

Dak turned back to the mage. "What?"

The mage seemed to be refocusing his energy. "Alabin? Your brother is Alabin? The pirate wizard? _Scurvy John's Alabin?"_

"Of course, you dolt!" Dak sneered. "How else would I have known how to find this hovel?"

And Cygnus threw his temper completely away.

* * *

_"Right! That's it! You're on the list, too!"_

The fighter looked at the magic-user as if he were deranged. "What list? What are you babbling-"

He stopped. Cygnus was gesturing and speaking words he couldn't understand, clearly casting a spell. With one smooth movement, Dak uprooted his spear and sent it sailing towards the mage. Argo, caught by surprise, flinched as the weapon went sailing over his head. He turned behind him just in time to see the weapon bury itself in Cygnus' right shoulder. The wizard screamed in pain and dropped down to one knee, his spell lost.

Now it was Argo Bigfellow's turn to lose control.

He charged Dak while drawing his sword and yelling out _"Stay back He's mine!"_

Lord Dak drew his own sword, parried Argo's initial swing, and the battle was on.

Aslan and Talass rushed towards Cygnus. The paladin reached him first and laid his hands upon the mage, curing the wound. The others advanced slowly towards the battling duo, but held back, Sir Dorbin following Elrohir's lead. The ranger looked on anxiously. Argo disdained fighting with a shield. His fighting style was eclectic, switching between one and two-handed bladework.

As Argo and Lord Dak dueled, a rather oily voice spoke, coming from the crimson light surrounding Argo's longsword. It was somewhat distorted from it's wild motion, like the voice of a child who is dancing and talking at the same time.

"Ahh, fresh air! About time, too!"

Argo swung high, then abruptly dipped low underneath Dak's shield and stabbed him between his left legpiece and the pelvic covering. His opponent cried out in agony, but he continued to fight, even as blood began to seep out of the wound. Argo stepped back, switching to a defensive mode while he waited for his next opportunity.

"Well, Harve?" he asked his sword. "Whom would you rather be with- myself or Dak?"

The sword's reply carried a gentle hint of disdain for the question.

"Why, the winner of course! Of what use is a corpse?"

_Can't argue with that_, thought Argo. He launched a series of attacks again, which Dak parried. Using both hands, Argo slashed from right to left across Dak's chestplate, gouging the metal but not reaching the flesh underneath. As he completed the movement, Argo turned his hands around, and the sword came back, completing a U-shaped arc across Dak's groin, but the fighter twisted to avoid the blade, and slashed quickly with his own. His sword's arc cut into Argo's right side. Pieces of metal, stained with blood, went flying. Argo stifled a scream, but stayed up.

Caroline cried out and ran forward, but Aslan stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry," he said to her. "I won't let him lose. It's not as bad as it looks."

The battle continued. Most of Argo's foes dropped in less than a minute, but two minutes later both combatants were still going at it. _This shouldn't be taking this long, _thought the ranger. _This guy's twenty years older and six inches shorter than me!_ Both launched into an attack simultaneously, their swords scraping, bringing both wielders up face-to-face with each other.

"Tougher than you expected, eh?" Dak spoke through gritted teeth.

"So was my breakfast," snarled Argo back. "You're dead, old man!" The ranger pushed back, giving himself some breathing room, but at the cost of a grazing wound across the side of his head. Argo feinted, and managed to chop down heavily through Dak's right shoulderplate.

The others continued to watch. Elrohir noticed Tojo walking towards him. The samurai held his bow in his left hand, an arrow in his right.

"Hold off Tojo," Elrohir told him. "You know, sometimes Argo's just like you. He has to fight his own battles." He turned back to watch the fight. "This is probably going to cause a major delay in our dragon hunting though, don't you think?" the party leader mused as he turned slightly to catch Tojo's response.

The samurai was not looking at Elrohir. Nor was he looking at Argo. He was staring up at the sky, and placing his arrow on the bowstring.

"No need to hunt dragon, Errohir-san. Dragon has found us."

Elrohir whirled and followed Tojo's gaze. He saw only bright blue sky, and wondered if the samurai was mistaken.

Then he saw a piece of the sky move underneath a puffy white cloud. The outline of the blue beast became faintly visible, then more so as it turned in a wide bank to face them head-on. It began a long, slow dive directly towards them.

"Monsrek was right," came a voice from over Elrohir's shoulder.

He turned to see Cygnus standing behind him, one hand still rubbing his shoulder. The mage smiled at his friend and spoke one word.

"Inexperienced."

The wizard turned to address the others. "Hold to a hundred yards or until you see her throat, then let her have your best!"

* * *

Slowly flapping her leathery wings, Bellicose made a beeline for the group of adventurers below. She picked up speed and stretched her wings out wide for stability. At just over one hundred yards, she opened her mouth-

* * *

Instantly, there was the roar of two _fireballs_ detonating against the dragon's azure skin. Simultaneously, _magic missiles_ fired by several arcanists struck the beast, their arcane energies tearing into her leathery hide.

Pinwheeling backwards now, Bellcose was struck by at least three arrows, two of which penetrated her belly. Her wings now too tattered to fly, the dragon plummeted towards the ground.

The Elrohir party all looked at their leader. They knew what was coming.

* * *

Aslan turned to Sir Dorbin and said "Stand down! Let Elrohir handle it."

The knight looked puzzled, but nodded his compliance.

Elrohir slowly began to walk towards the spot where he estimated Bellicose would hit. His hand slowly drew his sword, glowing white, out of its scabbard.

Gokasillion could speak aloud, but rarely chose to do so. The voice, not as smooth as Harve's but infinitely more powerful, coursed not only through Elrohir's mind, but his muscles and sinews, as well.

_Kill the wyrm. Glory awaits!_

Elrohir picked up his pace. He chose not to think whether this was voluntary on his part or not.

Bellicose slammed into the ground about fifty yards from him. Mud, grass and dust rose up in a miniature explosion. As the debris settled, Elrohir reached his quarry.

The ranger noted that, even considering her injuries, the dragon was moving very slowly. _From one of our spells, no doubt,_ he thought. He saw the spot where he would strike and moved into position.

Bellicose twisted her head around to eye Elrohir. He stopped dead for a moment. He had never seen such an- _anguished_ look on a dragon's face, ever. It just didn't seem to match. Sandcats had fought to the bitter end, raging and shouting out his defiance. Bellicose opened her mouth- and an odd mewing noise came out. For a second, it almost sounded like a baby-

Elrohir went rigid. _By the gods, she can't speak! Iuz aged her from a hatchling, but he didn't bother to give her any skills not related to combat!_

The awful irony of the situation came crashing down upon the ranger.

"Thorin," he whispered.

_Victory is not for the hesitant!_

A swell of rage came upon Elrohir, and before he knew it, he had buried Gokasillion in Bellicose's chest, up to the hilt. A massive jolt of electricity surged through the sword into Elrohir. His hands locked on the sword's hilt. All he could do was cry in silent agony for several seconds.

The charge dissipated. The dragon's eyes grew dull, and it stopped twitching, It was over.

_Glorious!_

Elrohir felt anything but that. This whole thing had felt terribly- _wrong_. Sheathing Gokasillion, he slowly began to trudge back towards the others

* * *

Argo was fighting with his back to that scene, but Dak's eyes followed the dragon's fall and impact, just long enough for Harve to bury itself in the fighter's left arm. He screamed and dropped his shield.

"You want Harve?" Argo bellowed. _"HERE!"_

The big ranger rammed the longsword through Lord Dak's chest up to the hilt.

The noble collapsed without a sound and lay still, blood pouring out of his chest.

* * *

The others swirled around him. Aslan tried to heal him, but Argo brushed him aside, jerked Harve out of Dak's body and turned to Cygnus.

"Cygnus," he said harshly, indicating the fallen man behind him. "Check him out for magic. Now!"

The wizard did so, then looked at Argo and shrugged. "Nothing."

Argo's face twisted in anger and swearing up a storm, began to kick Dak's dead body over and over.

Caroline came up to him and put her arm on his shoulder. "That's not a big deal, Argo. We'll find-"

Argo caught her arm and held it so tight, his wife winced.

"You don't understand, Caroline." he seethed. "It shouldn't have taken that long! He had no magic, and I didn't think he was half the fighter I was! I can't afford to be that weak."

He turned around and stormed back to his house, slaming the door shut behing him.

Caroline and Aslan looked at each other, then slowly followed.

* * *

Elrohir was suddenly bone-tired. "Sir Dorbin," he asked of the knight. "If you have the knowledge, skin the dragon. Strip Dak of anything useful, and make sure his horse is stabled. We need all the money we can get out of this." He began to trudge back towards the inn.

The knight's eyes narrowed, but he kept his voice neutral. "What of Lord Dak's body?"

The ranger stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Burn it. I'm going back to bed."


	19. A Night At Grandien's

**8th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Grandien's Gaming House, Willip, Furyondy**

The ivory dice felt warm and sweaty in Argo's hand. The crowd's combined body heat had pushed the temperature far past the comfortable range for the ranger, especially considering he was still wearing most of his ragged, damaged plate mail. The odors of sweat, tobacco, and things best left unthought of permeated the air. He tried to clear his head again, and concentrate on what he was doing. The fact that his right arm was in agony all the way from his shoulder to his wrist was not helping at all. Nor was sitting on the hard wooden floor, facing the large wooden box with the low sides that was used for this game. More than anything else, he wanted to be at home, in his comfortable bed, with his wife nestled in his arms.

"Dey ain't getting any luckier, swamp-boy! Trow dem bones!" yelled a burly sailor, whose name Argo had forgotten but simply referred to as Annoyance #1. The man's forearms were almost grotesquely swollen, and festooned with livid tattoos. He was about four inches shorter than Argo, but about the same weight. His clothing was dripping wet from sweat. His chin was one of those that always held several days of stubble, yet could never grow a beard. A pipe stuck out from his nearly toothless mouth. Argo could see in his squinty eyes that this man probably had very few areas of interest in his life. Sailing, boozing, bedding, smoking, eating and gambling was probably a pretty complete list.

However, the ranger had to admit, the man sure could arm-wrestle.

"Aye, come on, swamp-boy! We're not gittin' any younger!" This came from the other sailor, whom Argo had designated Annoyance #2. A little smaller than his companion, but otherwise a pretty close match, this man seemed to be a toady of sorts for #1, fetching pipeweed or anything else his larger companion desired. Argo had to wonder how miserable your life had to be to look up to Annoyance #1 as someone to emulate.

Argo rolled the dice. One die came to rest with two pips facing up, the other with six.

_Almighty Zeus, this day started with a lousy breakfast, a fight that almost killed me, my armor mangled and a dragon attack. _As Argo moved one of the dice aside and picked up the other one again, he couldn't help but think.

_How did it manage to go downhill from THAT?_

* * *

He knew, of course. It was his own doing. He had been sitting on his bed in his house with Caroline beside him. After grudgingly allowing Aslan to heal him, he had practically barked at the paladin to leave. Aslan looked affronted as only he could, but had left without a word. Now Argo sullenly looked around him, then turned to eye his wife, who was dejectedly removing her leather armor and tossing it aside. Ignored, Grock kept trying to stick his face in his master's lap for some attention.

"I'm rusty, Caroline. It's been too long," he sighed. "I need to train again. However, that's a moot point, since I don't have the money." He waved an arm towards the door. "And whatever we can scrape off of Dak or even Bellicose won't be enough, not after we've divvied it up with Sir Stuck-Up and his merry band." Caroline actually laughed out loud at that. Argo himself didn't think it was all that funny. Nervous energy, he supposed.

After composing herself, Caroline went over to the chest of drawers by their bed. She rooted around in one of them for a while, then came up with two jeweled necklaces and a small leather pouch that the ranger knew contained fifty platinum paladins. Argo shook his head and held up his hand to refuse them, but she pushed his arm down with one hand while pressing the jewelry and pouch into his other hand. He looked seriously at her.

"You know these are for you, Caroline. In case something ever happens to me."

She sat down again next to Argo and smiled at him. By the gods, how he loved that smile.

"Something has happened to you, Argo Bigfellow Junior. You're despondent, and that just won't do. Not as far as I'm concerned. Trust me, you're miserable company when you're upset."

Argo raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

"If you're really all that obsessed with it, you can replace them once we find Bellicose's hoard. I don't care. For now, take it. Besides, if you're training up, you'll hardly be able to refuse me when I need it," she said, a hint of mischief in her smile. Argo took Caroline's arm, and kissed it where he had earlier grabbed it roughly. He then again regarded the items she had given him. He looked up again at his wife, with a sad expression on his face.

"I know your intentions are good Caroline, but this isn't enough. I doubt it's even half of what the training would cost."

Caroline looked thoughtful for a moment, then opened up the pouch and took two platinum pieces out of it. She rubbed them together between her thumb and forefinger and leaned in close to her husband's face. Her smile grew from mischievous to flat-out naughty.

"Practice being a father, Argo. Make them multiply. Make them- grow."

It took the ranger a moment to process the twin lines of communication his wife was giving him. When he did, he returned Caroline's smile and took her in his arms as gently as he could, considering his plate mail. They kissed, and then, between bouts of giggling, kissed again as they tried to maneuver into a better position while simultaneously removing his armor...

* * *

Outside, Tadoa was approaching the Bigfellow house. Everyone else was too busy to pay much attention to the child, so he thought he would go see if Grock would play with him. Just outside the door, he heard a dog bark, and then a thud, as if two people had fallen out of bed. There was silence, and then the elf could make out two voices.

"How's that for luck? I got my armor off just in time, _and_ I fell on something soft!"

"GET... OFF!"

There followed laughter and- other noises. Tadoa sighed and turned around, heading back towards the Brass Dragon. Maybe he could try to talk to Wescene again...

* * *

Argo again looked at the playing box. On three of the four sides, there were two compartments. One was marked _Hit_ and the other _Miss._ On the thrower's side (Argo's), there was only a _Hit _box. Currently, this held five gold wheatshaffs that Argo had just put down, plus his silver sheridan ante. Annoyances #1 and #2, required to at least match, had each put down at least twice that in their _Hit_ boxes. The third player, a skinny young man with dull blond, greasy hair and oily skin, gazed at the ranger under half-closed eyelids. He was wearing the clothes of a nobleman, but they had seen better days. Better years, actually. He was also bereft of the jewelry that the upper classes always carried, wearing only a talisman of three bones hanging around his neck. He said nothing, but slowly counted out five wheatshaffs and placed them in his _Miss_ box.

The game was run by possibly the most sinister looking halfling Argo had seen in his entire life. The hobbit's skin was ghostly pale, and pockmarked with many scars. The yellow in his eyes matched his teeth, and he twirled his rather long and thin mustache as he watched the dice roll. He was dressed all in black-shirt, trousers and boots. A dagger hung at his belt, and the ranger was sure other weapons were hidden on him. Carrying a sack in one hand, he marched continuously around the table, counting bets and announcing odds.

"Two to six! Mark is three wide! Even money, hit or miss! Bet one, win two! Bowman raises five gold, five gold to match!" He peered into all the compartments, making sure all bets were big enough, the turned and grinned mirthlessly at Argo, as he had done during the ranger's entire losing streak.

"Shoot, Bowman!"

_If I had a crossbow and a Bless spell, I would, you midget vampire._ Argo cleared the thought from his head and, once again praying to Tyche, rolled the one die he held in his hand.

Six.

"Six! A miss! Bowman misses, we have one winner here!" The halfling scooped up Bigfellow's wheatshaffs and sheridan and gave them to the youth. The sailors' coins wound up in his sack, which was fairly bulging by now. Annoyance #1 slammed one meaty fist into another, causing an audible shockwave. He glared at Argo.

"Damn you, swamp-boy! Whas de matter wit you? You losin' me all my 'ard won money!"

Argo eyeballed him. "What are you complaining about? It was all mine an hour ago! You don't like my luck, do me and my nose a favor and sit out!"

The sailor and his companion, apparently unable to devise any kind of a response, settled for both making rumbling noises in their throats and clenching their fists at the ranger.

Argo really loathed those two, but he couldn't waste time on them now. The rules of the game demanded that the Bowman shoot ten consecutive throws, or else forfeit his ante of one sheridan per throw to the House. He had shot eight times so far, and lost seven. The last throw was actually the least he had bet yet, in some vain hope that a cautious wager might reverse his unlucky fortunes, but that obviously hadn't happened. He was down to a total of about two hundred gold, and he knew it was going to take some incredible luck to make up what he had lost, let alone win him enough for his training.

He took a deep breath, and put down his next ante...

* * *

"Aslan! May I have a word with you?"

The paladin had just left his house after changing from his plate mail into a regular change of clothing. He was going to assist the Sir Dorbin party in their clean up efforts when Argo's voice made him turn. The ranger was approaching him from his house. Oddly, he was still dressed in his damaged plate mail. Aslan couldn't imagine why Argo would still be wearing it. In addition, Bigfellow was still fully armed. This just didn't seem right to the paladin. He knew Argo too well not to know something was up. He folded his arms and waited for the ranger to reach him.

"Hello, Argo," Aslan said as his friend approached. "Did I miss a spot?"

Argo made the motion of waving a flag in the air. "Truce, my friend." A remorseful look settled on the ranger's face. "Several things. First and foremost, I've come to apologize for my behavior earlier. I know I get on your back every so often, but you deserved better than that, especially when all you were trying to do was help."

_Very true Argo, but that's neither first nor foremost why you're here._ Aslan put on a neutral expression that he hoped would make Argo show his hand. "Apology accepted. Now, is there anything else? I was about to-" and he gestured towards Sir Dorbin and the others.

Argo looked Aslan dead in the eye. "I won't lie to you, Aslan. I do need a favor. I would have asked for it anyway, but now, considering my inexcusable behavior earlier, I have to beg for it." He took a deep breath. "I'm rusty, Aslan. I've been out of practice since we've retired. I just didn't realize how much until now." He looked at the paladin with what he hoped was a defenses-down look. "I need to train up, Aslan. Like you've always said, we're a team. Well, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and I'm not going to be that link if I can help it. That wouldn't be fair to you, to the others- and to Caroline." he finished, looking back towards his house.

_Bringing your wife into it to tug on my heartstrings? This must be a giant of a favor, Argo_ Aslan thought. He continued to eye the ranger without expression. "Do you have the money that would require?" Argo nodded slowly, taking out two jeweled necklaces from a large belt pouch and showing them to Aslan.

"A while back, when we had more money," the ranger grimaced, "I gave Caroline an emergency stash for her in case something ever happened to the rest of us. This is just some of it," he said, indicating his belt pouch as he returned the necklaces to it. It should be just about enough." He looked up at the paladin again. "She insisted I take it."

_Hmm. Knowing Caroline, that's probably true._ Aslan continued to scan Argo's face for clues. "And how do I come in?"

Bigfellow shrugged. "Very simply, my friend. I just need you to transport me to Willip, where I can get this training."

Despite himself, Aslan's eyebrows shot up. _That's it? There has to be more. But what? _Trying to keep both suspicion and curiosity out of his voice, he asked, "Why do you need me? Would taking Gylandir be that much slower?

"Not much slower, but far more conspicuous. I'd like to set this up today, if possible. Training will take about a week, but I don't know when I'll be able to start. I'll let you know how long I plan on being gone, and you can return here tonight. I still want to keep this as low profile as possible. We still don't know if Dak and Bellicose were working together or not, and Nodyath's status is still a question mark."

Aslan was silent for a long time, considering. Then he spoke.

"Can you wait two hours, while I mindrest? I don't want to return home depleted in Talent."

Argo smiled. "Of course, my friend. And again, thank you."

Aslan returned the smile. "Not at all, my friend. As long as you're completely honest with me, I'm glad to help you out in any small way that I can." He turned and resumed walking towards the others.

_Let that gnaw at him for a while..._

* * *

_Bastard. He knew that would gnaw at me._ Trying to keep his mind off Aslan, off everything else but the game, Argo threw the dice again. Two pips and four pips.

"Two to four! Mark is one wide! One wins six on a hit, five wins six on a miss! The creepy halfling leaned in close to Argo, looking to see what he would bet. "Your wager, Bowman?"

_I'd wager you haven't had a date in a century, you freak._ Argo knew he was starting to get seriously distracted, and that would not help him at all. He thought for a moment, and then poured half of his remaining money into his _Hit_ box. It barely fit. There was an audible gasp from the crowd around the box. Arrow was not a dice game that usually generated such large wagers. It was originally for that purpose that Argo had chosen it. He had hoped to slowly but quietly win what he needed. Oh, well. Another plan shot to hell in spectacular Bigfellow fashion.

The halfling actually licked his lips. "One hundred! One hundred gold to match!" He looked at the three players. Annoyances #1 and #2 slowly put their wagers in their _Hit_ boxes, as well.

Argo couldn't believe it. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted at them over the din of the club. "Do you honestly think I'm going to roll a three? I've got no choice! I'm desperate! You can make an easy twenty gold on this roll just by betting on a Miss!"

The bigger Annoyance blew on his pipe, then took it out to regard the ranger.

"I need a big win fast too, swamp-boy. The way I figger it, you're due to git real lucky soon. I sug-jest you do."

"Aye," piped in the smaller Annoyance. "Real lucky-like."

The blond youth considered, stood up, gave what might have passed for a smile, and walked away, mumbling softly to himself.

The halfling twirled his mustache and leered at Argo. "Shoot, Bowman!"

Argo gave him his famous pained smile, although for once, he actually felt as pitiful as it made him look. He picked up one die, and tossed it...

* * *

Aslan and Argo appeared in the Gardens district of Willip, as per the ranger's request. Not that anyone would have recognized Aslan. On his own initiative, he had utilized his Talent to appear as an elderly man of about seventy or so, more or less aging his own features to do so. Argo was relieved. He really did wish to be recognized by as few people as possible, and this would help. He turned to the paladin.

"All right, my friend. I have a few stops to make, and then I'm going to the church of Zeus. With luck, Melinjaro can arrange my training without delay, if he has someone available. I should be back in an hour or two, three at the most. I'll let you know then how long I'll be gone."

The elderly Aslan nodded, and shuffled over to a wooden bench and sat down. A young priestess of Ehlonna was spreading mulch over a garden plot. She smiled at him, and then continued her work. Aslan smiled back.

Argo watched this. _Poor Aslan. He needed a woman all his life, and now he's too old to enjoy one! _Chuckling to himself, he set off towards the church of Zeus.

* * *

He was not chuckling forty minutes later. He had gone to the moneychangers first, and now had over two thousand gold worth of coins in his backpack and belt pouch. That alone made him uncomfortable. Then, he had waited over twenty minutes at the temple of Zeus only to find out that the High Priest Melinjaro was not there and would not be back until tomorrow. Ukansis, the assistant to the High Priest, had apologized to Argo, but they were very busy right now. Grumbling, he was now heading towards the Dockyards neighborhood. Twilight was fading into night, and the ranger wasn't exactly sure which establishment he wanted. It took him over an hour to find it.

Grandien's Gaming House. Not too high-class, not too much of a dive (well, that was pushing it). They did not sell drinks, concentrating on keeping their customers sober. Besides, gambling drained funds a lot faster than drinking did. Argo took a deep breath and opened the door. A wave of warm, smoky air washed over him.

The place was packed. A small bar in the far left corner was not selling drinks, but other miscellaneous items such as pipeweed, pouches and gaming supplies. A sign across the wall proclaimed "NO SPELLCASTING." Most of the floor was taken up with various dice games, some of which Argo recognized, but most of which he did not. Each of three large circular tables was crowded with patrons involved with card games. A row of smaller square tables was set up along the right side of the door from which the ranger had entered. They seemed to be used mostly for ad-hoc games of chance run by customers, rather than the House.

On one of those small tables, two people were arm-wrestling. One was a stocky sailor- salt air, among other scents, always seemed to diffuse from their pores- with enormous forearms who seemed to be enjoying grinding the knuckles of his opponent, an olive-skinned gentleman with short brown hair who wore crystal goggles over his eyes, into the nearly worn-out piece of fur glued to the table for a pathetic attempt at comfort.

Someone tapped Argo on the left shoulder from behind. He turned and had to look up to a giant of a Suel man. A barbarian from Rhizia, he guessed. "Weapons," the man grunted. "Check 'em. One wheatshaff each." He moved behind a small bar set up to the left of the door. A box behind it was filled with an assortment of weapons.

The ranger was a bit unsettled. This man had to have some ogre in him. He was easily pushing seven feet tall._ Now I know what Aslan feels like when he talks to me, _he thought. _As usual, I'm already in over my head. May as well be unarmed while I'm at it._ Sourly, he handed over his sword, dagger, bow and sling, along with their ammunition, to the man, along with four gold pieces. Argo then returned his attention to the arm-wrestling that was going on. That appealed to him. He had no idea if the House games of chance were rigged (if they checked weapons at the door, it was a safe bet to assume at least some of the patrons thought so). Argo knew he was stronger than most, and had arm-wrestled quite a bit back at the Lone Heath. He headed towards that table.

The goggled man was rubbing his right arm. "I want a rematch," he said to the sailor in a gravelly voice. "Just give me a minute to heal what you've done to my arm." He took a small vial of black liquid from his belt pouch, uncorked it and swallowed the contents. Argo saw this, but concentrated his attention on the winner, who was lighting up a corncob pipe with pipeweed he was taking from another sailor he was obviously pals with. "Good evening, my friend. Are you up to facing a real opponent?"

The sailor, whose face seemed to be frozen into a perpetual squint, eyed Argo through the puffs of smoke he was generating. "You from Aerdy, boy?"

_What, is this guy racist?_ Argo crossed his arms and asked, "Why do you ask?"

The sailor slowly took the pipe from his mouth. "I doan like dat damn Overking, nor anybuddy what says udderwise. You got a problem wid dat?" he glared at the ranger.

Argo smiled with relief. "I assure you, my good man, that I detest the House of Naelax as much as you do, if not more. I am from the Lone Heath, where those who are in rebellion against Ivid's reign dwell."

The sailor almost smiled. "Da Lone Heath, huh? Okay swamp-boy, you wanna wrestle? Fine by me, long as you lose dat," he said, indicating Argo's gauntleted right hand.

Argo nodded and slowly removed his gauntlet. "For how much? Say- fifty gold?" He knew that was a high wager, but he wanted to gauge this man's reaction. The sailor paused to consider this, his eyes drifting.

"Excuse me, sir." The rough voice of the goggled man drew Argo's attention. "I may not have the strength of our maritime friend here, but if I may be so bold, I doubt you do, either. I'll take you on gladly for fifty gold."

Argo eyed him. An easy fifty gold seemed like a good place to start. His eyes, wandering over the man, came to rest on his belt pouch.

_Wait a minute! That flask- that was no healing potion he drank! Some kind of strength potion, no doubt. This guy's a shill! _Argo smiled smugly to himself. _Nice try gentlemen, but I'm no babe in the swamp, myself._ "No offense my good man," he said heartily, "but I think I'll go right to the top here." He turned to the sailor. "Ready?"

Argo won. It wasn't easy. The sailor had started to push Argo's arm down, but then the ranger had slowly swung him the other way. It had taken about a minute, but he had made his first profit. He rubbed his arm. I don't think I'm going to make all of the five thousand I need arm-wrestling, but it's a good start. The sailor, not surprisingly, seemed in an ill humor. "Dubble or nuttin, swamp-boy!" he had growled.

Bigfellow smiled. "But of course."

He won again, although the sailor did drip tobacco-stained drool on his arm at one point. _This guy is really annoying,_ Argo thought. Still, he'd ride this wagon as far as he could.

Argo won his next four matches with the sailor. He was on a roll, although his arm was starting to burn. His opponent was now shooting daggers from his eyes, but Argo was more concerned about his funds. He was now 1600 gold up from when he started. He figured his arm was up to one more match. May as well make it even bigger, though. "One more? Say, for five thousand?" he asked the sailor, who scowled at him. By now, a good portion of the game room crowd was pressed around the two of them.

"Ain't got it to bet, swamp-boy. You'd better-"

"Excuse me" cut in the goggled man, placing five rubies on the table. "Your determination has impressed me, my seagoing friend" he stated with just a hint of a smile. "I am willing to cover your bet, with say, twenty-five percent to you upon your win?"

The sailor eyed the man, and then shrugged. "It's yer money."

Argo put his money on the table as well, keeping an eye on the goggled man to make sure that he didn't try to cast a spell or anything else suspicious. He did nothing though, simply standing there quietly. The ranger locked hands with the sailor one more time.

The instant the match began, Argo knew he was in trouble. Big trouble. The sailor, grunting and groaning far more than he had in any of their previous matches, immediately began to push Argo's arm down, slowly but surely. In disbelief, Argo spared a glance at the goggled man, who now wore a very self-satisfied smile, indeed.

_By Hermes, I've been set up! This was the way they wanted it all along! _Argo mentally slammed himself as his arm continued its slow motion topple. _Very clever Argo, 'noticing' that vial like that. Just like they knew you would!_ He wanted to cry as he saw his hand heading for the table.

_Just call me "Babe"..._

* * *

Five pips showed on the die.

"Five!" the halfling crowed. "Bowman misses! The House wins!" He quickly scooped everyone's winnings into his sack, and then, grunting and groaning, lifted it over to the Suel barbarian, who silently took it and handed the hobbit another empty sack. Annoyances #1 and #2 both looked like they were ready to leap over the box at Argo.

The ranger really didn't care. He was very, very angry now. This had all gone hideously wrong. Some small voice in the back of his head was telling him to get up and leave now with the one hundred gold he still had left, but the ranger pushed it aside. _All right, then. When the going gets tough, a Bigfellow gets tougher!_

He turned to the pallid halfling and announced "Blind Shot!"

The crowd murmured amongst themselves. The Bowman was allowed to call Blind Shot on only one of his ten throws, and since this was going to be Argo's tenth and last throw, he was going to make it one to remember. On a Blind Shot, three dice were tossed simultaneously, the arrow and the two markers. All bets were placed prior to the throw, and the players could only wager on a _Hit_. However, a hit paid off at ten to one. Argo put all of his remaining funds into his _Hit_ box. He barely noticed as both sailors did the same. He had the faint sense that they were muttering threats at him now, but he didn't care. They were idiots. They had been up five thousand gold earlier. If #1 had been so far in debt that five thousand gold wasn't enough to save him, that was his damn fault. He also ignored the halfling announcing the bets, settling instead on a pleasing image of a wriggling sack being tossed into the Nyr Dyv. The room seemed to be swirling faster and faster around Argo now. The ranger's blood was pumping as the halfling added another die to the two in his trembling hand. Argo looked at the new die. He could have sworn the pips on it were dried blood, but that didn't matter either. The only thing that mattered was winning this throw. _Just one_, he whispered. _Just one win. Please, almighty Zeus, Tyche, and whatever other gods might be listening, just let me win this once._

The dice rattled around the box, bouncing off themselves and the walls, then came to rest.

Argo never even saw the arrow die. The two markers both seemed to grow until they filled his entire field of vision.

Each one had three pips. There was no target for the arrow to hit.

"No mark! No mark!" the halfling almost screeched. "House wins!" He practically leaped for the ranger's wager.

Argo almost exploded onto his feet, then staggered over to the barbarian. _"My weapons!"_ he shouted, but they were already stacked on the bar, waiting for him. The ranger clumsily grabbed them all, then burst away from the yelling and the cursing and the laughter, away from it all, out the door into the cool night air...

* * *

Cursing aloud like a drunkard, Argo had gone several blocks before realizing he had no idea where he was going. He thought for a moment, then began stomping his way back towards the Gardens, to meet up with Aslan. His white-hot rage cooled down somewhat, but he was still in a foul mood, mostly at himself. He had been a fool. He had thought himself clever and sensible enough to handle himself in a place like Grandien's, and clearly, that wasn't the case.

_Well, what now?_ he wondered. He knew the answer to that question, though. He would come back to Melinjaro tomorrow, and ask to be trained in exchange for a religious quest. Argo really, really didn't like the idea, because he would have absolutely no say in the matter as to what they would ask of him. However, he could see no other options. The ranger concentrated on slowing his pace, his heartbeat, his breathing. He didn't want to come home to his wife in this mood. It was ironic, he mused, that Caroline would probably completely forgive him for losing her money. She always forgave him in the end. She was better than he deserved, but he had no intention of telling her that. He was glad that Caroline had not seen him tonight. _Soon_, he thought. _Soon, I'll be home again._

* * *

Aslan was still where Argo had left him. He had no idea if the paladin had gone anywhere in the last two hours or so, and no interest at all in asking him. Trying to reign in his still simmering anger, he simply said, "Let's go home Aslan."

The paladin eyed him curiously. "Argo? Are you all right? What happened? Did you set it up yet?"

Aslan's voice was grating on Argo's nerves. In this old form, it was more high-pitched, almost like that accursed halfling. Argo was trembling now with the effort to remain calm. He had absolutely nothing left for subterfuge, or playing games. He eyed Aslan directly.

"I didn't have enough, Aslan. Okay? I didn't have enough money for the training, so I went to a gambling house, and I lost it all! Are you happy? Does that make you feel better? I'll come back tomorrow, and ask Melinjaro for a religious quest. Can we just go home now?" he finished with a glare at the paladin.

Aslan stared at Argo for a moment, then slowly walked right over to the ranger, and then suddenly he was his normal self again. Argo barely noticed, he was too busy meeting Aslan's harsh glare.

"You were gambling, Argo?" Aslan asked, his voice a mix of anger and sadness. "You lied to me about having enough money, then had me bring you here to Willip so you could gamble?" His voice was stern, the lecturing paladin now. "You _know_ how I feel about gambling, Argo. About why I won't allow it at the Brass Dragon."

Argo could feel, ever so minutely, his hand creeping towards Harve's hilt. With his last vestiges of self-control, he spoke through gritted teeth in a patronizing tone. "Well, we're not at the Brass Dragon now, are we Aslan?"

Aslan crossed his arms. Despite being much shorter than the ranger, he seemed to glower down upon him. "Correction, Argo. _You're_ not at the Brass Dragon!"

"Err- what?" Argo couldn't quite follow that.

Aslan sadly shook his head. "You made this bed, Argo Bigfellow Junior. Tonight, you sleep in it."

And he disappeared.

Argo could swear he could hear the _thud _of his jaw hitting the ground below him. _He left me. By Zeus, he actually left me!_ Shock had replaced most of his anger now. _No, he really wouldn't leave me here. Would he?_ He began to turn around, calling out. "Aslan? Aslan? Come on, my friend, I know you're just trying to teach me a lesson! All right, you win! Whatever you want! Lecture me all night long if you want, let's just get out of here!" He listened intently. "Aslan?"

Behind him, he heard bushes rustle.

_About time_, he thought and turned around.

Annoyances #1 and #2 came creeping out of the bushes. Each now held a large, spiked club in each hand. #1 leered at Argo.

"I'm bettin' yure in trubble now, swamp-boy."

"Aye," added his companion.

They both raised their clubs and charged.


	20. Argo Alone

**8th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Gardens, Willip, Furyondy**

They came at him together, one swinging high and the other low; attacking with more coordination than Argo would have given them credit for. He backpedaled while drawing Harve from its scabbard. The sword's crimson glow washed over the combatants as Argo let his frustrations go. The sword cut right through Annoyance #2's club, leaving him looking stupidly at the stub left in his hand. #1's club slammed into the ranger's breastplate. There was some pain, but Argo knew his armor had taken the worst of it. He grinned wickedly and swung at the burly sailor, turning the blade at the last moment so that the flat end slammed into his nose. He moaned and backed off, holding his left hand over his face.

"Err, Argo? I do believe you're supposed to be using the _sharp_ edge there." The sword's smooth voice carried easily.

"Sorry, Harve," the ranger said. "Much as these two deserve it, and as much as I'd like it, the city guard here frowns on killing in the streets."

"But- we're in a park!"

"Shut up and parry," Argo replied as he brought Harve up to do just that, knocking aside #1's next swing with his club. He noted that #2 was trying to circle around behind him.

Annoyance #1 was gaping in astonishment, even as he kept trying to find an opening. "I doan beelive it. It talks!"

"Hmm," Harve mused. "I was just going to say the same thing about you."

The bigger sailor, blood still trickling from his nose, started slowly closing in again, while making little feints with his club. Argo kept his eyes locked on his opponent, until he judged the time was right. Then, he spun around and smashed his mail-clad left fist into the nose of Annoyance #2, who had been about to jump on the ranger from behind. The smaller sailor rocked back on his heels, giving Argo just enough time to bring the hilt of his sword down upon the man's head. He collapsed, not unconscious, but at least out of the fight temporarily. As he turned back, Argo felt the swish of #1's club as the weapon's arc swept within a few inches of his face. He realigned himself to face his remaining Annoyance.

"Wonderful," Harve griped. "Instead of blood on my blade, I'll have head lice on my hilt." The sword's voice clearly indicated its displeasure. "This'll be a stirring battle saga for the bards to tell."

Argo grinned and shrugged. "Hey, people need to laugh, too." He took a deep breath and charged his opponent, taking the club swing on his left arm. It hurt, but Argo honestly didn't care. After tonight, he _needed_ this battle. He ran right up to the sailor, making sure that he stomped on at least one of the man's leather shoe-clad feet with his mailed boots. The sailor howled and tried to back off, but he couldn't.

Argo gave him his best smile. "Thank you, but _Make A Fool Out Of Argo Night_ is over. Thank you for coming, and please accept this parting gift." With that, he grabbed the man's curly hair with his left hand and jumped up, only a few inches, but enough to quickly tuck his legs underneath him. As Argo fell down towards the ground, his hand pulled the sailor's head down with him. Argo's armored knee coverings took his impact. #1's forehead took his. Another hilt-butt from Harve put the man's lights out.

The sound of snapping wood got Argo's attention as he rose, somewhat painfully, to his feet again. Annoyance #2 had broken off a staff-sized branch of a nearby small tree, and was advancing towards the ranger again, fury etched into his face.

Argo eyed the man, then shook his head at him. "Some people never learn."

"I think he means you," the sword added as its arc intersected that of the branch, cutting the piece of wood cleanly in two, then continued on, turning only at the last moment to ram the flat of the blade into #2's stomach. He doubled over, and was thus ripe for both the gauntlet smash that took him down to the ground, and the following boot to the face that ended the fight.

"You know, Gokasillion will never let me live this down." Harve was still pouting.

Breathing heavily, Argo looked at the sword he held in his hand. "Tell him they were both dragons in human form" he said. "That'll make him jealous."

"You're a laugh riot, Bigfel-" The sword's voice was cut off as Argo slipped it back into its sheath and looked around. There was no sight or sound of anyone approaching. That wasn't too surprising. The whole point of the Gardens was that they were somewhat secluded, giving a sense of serenity in such a large city. Being sure to trod over both his unconscious foes' forms, he headed back towards Temple Way.

* * *

At the foot of the steps leading up to the temple of Zeus, Argo tilted his head back and eyed the structure. Its magnificent columns shone a pale white in the moonlight. Two marble statues of giant eagles stood watch at the entranceway. This place never failed to move Argo. He and Caroline had been married here.

The ranger slowly sat down on the steps and drew his knees up to his chest, ready to wait here until morning. Inwardly at least, he couldn't help but smile.

_Accept your lot, my children, for such is the will of Almighty Zeus, King of the Gods, Hurler of Thunderbolts_. Argo knew the doctrine by heart. An hour ago, he'd have cut down a priest of Zeus who'd have tried to remind him of that. Now, in the cold air of a city night, it didn't seem to matter much. Tomorrow was another day. His loving wife would still be waiting for him when he returned home, whenever that might be. And his friends. Good, loyal people all, even Aslan.

"Forgive him his sins, Mighty Zeus," Argo whispered as he laid his head down on his knees. "He can't help it. After all, he's only a paladin."

He could have sworn he heard laughter, faintly, off in the distance somewhere, before nodding off.


	21. Aslan and Caroline

**8th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Caroline Bigfellow tossed and turned under the woolen sheet. She was restless. She knew it was due to her husband not being here, but that knowledge didn't make it any easier to endure. The bed she was in was of very high quality, but not having Argo next to her felt so unnatural, she might as well have been trying to sleep outside on the cold earth in a blizzard.

She sat up in bed, frowning. Argo was in all likelihood going to be gone at least a week, if not more. It was going to be a very long week indeed if she couldn't quiet the thoughts running through her head. Caroline glanced over to Grock, who was curled up at the foot of her bed, looking at her.

"Keeping you up?" she asked, with a grim smile on her face.

The wardog yawned at her, then laid his head down again.

Caroline rested her head on her knees. "We need to find you a mate, Grock. Just make sure that neither of you ever has to train up." She looked towards the door, debating about whether anyone might still be awake at the inn that she could talk to.

As odd as it seemed, she really didn't have a deep enough friendship with any of the other people she lived with. It was strange, Caroline thought. She'd probably die in combat for any one of them without a second thought, yet she couldn't see herself baring her soul to any one of them, even Talass the priestess.

_Especially_ Talass the priestess. Despite their common gender, Talass was second only to Aslan in being the individual most likely to get Caroline's dander up. Although Talass would on occasion speak informally to Caroline about her problems, the younger woman had never felt like could reciprocate in kind. Still, she had on occasion seen behind their masks and knew the good, kind hearts that lay behind them. Caroline just wasn't used to talking out her problems. Of course, she still wasn't exactly sure what her problems were.

Was it her frustration at still not being able to conceive a child after years of trying?

Was it her resentment at being forced to "retire" from a career that she had never had?

Or was it something else?

There had been certain nights. Not many, but a few, starting several weeks ago. She would be lying in bed with Argo, her head resting on her sleeping husband's chest, listening and feeling the deep, regular pattern of his breathing. Usually, if she couldn't sleep, this would help her drift quickly off, but on these nights, nameless images and thoughts which had no words would collide in her mind, clamoring for her attention. She would try to concentrate on them, try to sort them out into something understandable, but they remained elusive.

It wouldn't last long of course, and eventually she would be fast asleep, molding into her husband's form as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Still, it bothered her when this would happen. The only thing she would ever take away from those nights was a sense of- incompleteness.

A crucial task- left unfinished.

Something absolutely vital- left undone.

_Maybe Monsrek would know,_ she thought. He may not have been a priest of Zeus, but he seemed to be a warm, understanding man, with a twinkle in his eye and an easy laugh. She imagined Argo being much like him in about twenty years or so. She was uncertain whether he would still be up at this late hour, and debated whether it would be worth the effort of getting dressed and going out into the cold to find out.

Grock suddenly picked up his head and looked towards the door. Soon, Caroline could hear the sound of someone approaching the door. It was one person, but that was about all she could determine. The wardog didn't bark, so it was someone he knew.

There came the expected knocking, and then Aslan's voice. "Caroline? Are you awake? I'm sorry to disturb you, but may I speak with you?"

Caroline was mildly surprised. She had certainly been expecting Aslan to update her on Argo's status, but not until tomorrow. One of the paladin's better features was that he was loath to disturb other members of the party. In general, Aslan went to bed earlier and woke up later than any of the others. Caroline knew it had something to do with him "mindresting" and his Talent, although she didn't know exactly how that worked.

"A moment please, Aslan. I'll be right there." She started scrambling to get dressed. Caroline did not own a nightrobe, and had no intention of appearing before Aslan wrapped in a sheet. As she was giving herself a quick once-over, she suddenly stopped cold.

What if it was Nodyath? She glanced over at Grock. Could he smell the difference between them, or not? Her heart started to pound, but then she realized she was being foolish. Nodyath would simply teleport in. Stone walls couldn't stop his Talent, any more than they could stop Aslan's. _Sometimes, Mrs. Bigfellow, you can be a real idiot,_ she thought ruefully to herself. _Nodyath is dead. We've got enough problems as it is._ She took a deep breath, unlocked the door (those locks had cost a pretty copper, but she was very glad for them) and opened the door, Grock now at her heels.

The paladin was standing there, his hands clasped in front of him, a carefully neutral expression on his face. Caroline knew she was at a disadvantage here. As her husband had often told her, she had no "bluffing face." Caroline always wore her emotions on her sleeve. Argo did too, but he could conceal them when he had to. That was why he was a much better diplomat and gambler than she was.

She smiled as best she could at him and asked, "Yes, Aslan?"

He cleared his throat. "Again, my apologies for disturbing you, Caroline. I thought it was best if I told you tonight what was going on with your husband."

_Uh-oh,_ Caroline thought. _When he says 'your husband' instead of 'Argo', he's miffed. Argo must have really needled him or something. That wasn't too smart of him, considering he wanted Aslan to take him to Willip in the first place. Well, maybe it won't be that bad._ She continued to smile at the paladin, thinking she was probably looking like the proverbial village idiot.

Aslan continued. "Argo is going to the church of Zeus tomorrow to request a religious quest from the High Priest. Of course, he has no way of knowing yet how long this will take, so at this point there is no way of knowing when Argo will be back."

Caroline frowned at him in puzzlement. _A religious quest?_

"Apparently, the money he had with which he was going to pay for his training, wasn't enough" the paladin continued, now looking hard into Caroline's eyes.

Despite herself, the young woman's eyes flickered down. Aslan saw it, and she knew that he had seen it.

Aslan sighed. _You too, Caroline? I had hoped that Argo had deceived you as he did me, but... ah, well._

Caroline stared at the floor as she listened to the paladin's voice. "Argo attempted to make up the shortfall by gambling. He lost it all."

There was a long silence.

_Well, what in Hades is he waiting for?_ thought Caroline as she studied the top of Grock's head. _We all know what the story is now. Why is he rubbing it in like this? Dammit, Argo was doing this for all of our sakes! Can't you see that, you son of a-_

She looked back up at Aslan and put on what was probably the weakest attempt at a smile she had ever done, even for her.

"Well- thank you very much, Aslan, for letting me know."

He gave a curt nod with his eyes. "You're quite welcome." The paladin hesitated. "There is more."

_I can't wait to hear it._ Trembling just slightly now, Caroline asked, "Yes?"

Aslan nodded briefly in the direction of the inn. "I've just spoken to Elrohir. Since Bellicose is now dead, he's decided that it would be more efficient for a small group to simply _teleport_ to Sandcats' old lair and search it, since we now need not be worrying about encountering her there. Therefore, tomorrow I will be taking Elrohir and Tojo to the lair."

Caroline shrugged. "Okay."

"In addition, Sir Dorbin and his party will be leaving tomorrow for Willip. Sir Dorbin wishes to speak with Lancoastes, the High Priest of Heironeous there, about finding a possible way back home to Aarde for them."

Caroline really didn't give a fig about Sir Dorbin, but it did give her an opportunity to keep the conversation on safer subjects. "I thought they were going to skin the dragon first. Wasn't that going to take weeks?"

Now it was Aslan's turn to shrug. "Apparently, Sir Dorbin has neither the skills nor the equipment for that task. He is taking several sections of hide to sell in Willip, and his wizards, along with Cygnus, have been taking blood samples and- other things, which they claim to be able to either use themselves or sell there." His tone made it clear that he considered the whole thing slightly distasteful. "Cygnus will be escorting them there, so we will be without his services for a few days, as well."

"All right" Caroline said. Now she really did feel like going back to bed.

Aslan gave a tight smile. "Just keeping the lines of communication open." He turned to leave. "Good night."

A sudden upwelling of anger surged all through Caroline's body._ Does he even care about Argo, or does he just see our supposed 'weaknesses'? _she wondered. "You know," she said loudly.

Aslan turned back to look at her.

Caroline cleared her throat. "Those religious quests can be very dangerous. I hope that Argo will be all right."

Aslan's face lost its smile. He didn't like being baited.

"I'm sure your husband will be fine, Caroline," he said tersely. "He is a big boy, you know." He paused. "Physically, anyway."

Caroline stared at Aslan, open-mouthed. Her face flushed red, and then she slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Aslan chewed his lip, considering. _That was stupid. It was way over the line. I just get so frustrated sometimes with these people! Why do they insist on hiding everything? Does that help any one of us? I wish they'd stop thinking of me as the enemy- I'm not! I'd give my life for any one of them! Can't they see that?_

_Caroline is right though_, he considered._ I know what those quests can be like. Maybe I should... _

The paladin shook his head and headed towards his house.

"Mirage!" he called out. His faithful wardog came running to his side. As Aslan was unlocking the door to his house, he saw Cygnus, Torlina and Flond heading towards the Brass Dragon. "Cygnus!" he yelled.

The mage turned to look at him. "Yes?" he shouted.

"Is everything all set for tomorrow?"

The wizard nodded. "Yes." Something about the tone of Aslan's voice unsettled him. "Is everything all right, Aslan?" he called out. "Is there anything I can do?"

The paladin regarded him grimly. "Yes, Cygnus, there is something you can do. You can add all of our names to that Enemies List of yours. It'll be a blessed miracle if we all don't wind up killing each other before they do."

He went into his house, Mirage slipping in with him. The door closed behind him.

* * *

Well, if she couldn't sleep before, she sure as hell wasn't going to get any sleep _now!_ Caroline alternated between pounding her pillow with her fists and stalking about the cabin. Grock whimpered and retreated to a far corner. His mistress was in a full-blown rage. Caroline kept picturing Aslan with Sir Dorbin at the inn, laughing and mocking Argo and her. Calling them selfish, chaotic, unpredictable, foolish. She swore at the four walls, telling them what a fool she'd been to think that Aslan was a kindly person underneath his mask.

"That's all he is!" she shouted at Grock. "A mask! A pompous, hypocritical blowhard of a..." she uttered an inarticulate sound of strangled fury and sat back down heavily on her bed, sweating and breathing hard. Slowly, she lowered her face into her hands. She _really_ wished Argo were here now.

There was another knock at the door. Caroline picked her face up. She wasn't sure, but she thought only about five or ten minutes had elapsed. She glanced over at Grock, who was again looking at the door without barking.

_Maybe it's Aslan come to apologize_, she thought. She composed herself as best she could and slowly walked over to the door. _Well, maybe I'll accept it, and maybe I'll just run him through with my sword. What else can you expect from us 'impulsive' people?_ With her very best self-control, she asked, "Who is it?"

"It's Talass, Caroline. May I come in?"

Caroline rolled her eyes. _Almighty Zeus, what did I do to deserve this?_ Scowling, she unlocked the door again and went back to her bed and sat down upon it.

The cleric slowly entered and stood in the entranceway to the bedroom area. "Good evening, Caroline."

Caroline made no attempt to hide her feelings. "Upon all that's holy Talass, if you've come here to lecture-"

Talass held up her hand. "Wait a minute. Stop. What are you talking about?"

The young woman eyed the priestess suspiciously.

"Didn't Aslan tell you? Didn't he tell everyone about Argo? And me?"

Talass seemed genuinely puzzled. "No. What about Argo and you?'

Caroline let out a deep breath. She hadn't expected Aslan not to spill the beans about this, and now she'd put herself into a tight spot. "Nothing, actually. Well, er, Argo went to Willip to train up, and he's going to ask for a religious quest tomorrow in exchange for it."

Talass nodded slowly. It was painfully obvious that Caroline was holding something back, but she felt this was certainly the wrong time to probe. "I see," she said carefully. "Well, I hope he comes back to us safe and sound, and as soon as possible."

Argo's wife nodded slowly. She could feel the beginnings of tears in her eyes. "So do I," she whispered. She blinked them clear, and then looked up at the cleric. "I'm sorry, Talass, what is it you wanted again?"

Talass' expression was grim, even for her. "As you may know, Cygnus will be leaving with the Sir Dorbin party for Willip tomorrow."

Caroline nodded slowly.

"And as you also know, my sister Talat was put on trial two days ago." Talass' voice sounded unsteady to Caroline's ears. "She has probably been executed by now."

Caroline stood up. "But she didn't participate in Nodyath and Mendoleer's crimes. She may not even have known about them! Would the laws of this kingdom allow-"

Talass cut her off. "She is a priestess of Hextor in the greatest kingdom of Heironeous in the Flanaess. Unless she had a dramatic conversion right there in front of Baron Chartrain himself, she would have no chance. What I would like, if it is at all possible- is for you to accompany Cygnus and the others to Willip."

She received a questioning look. "To ascertain whether or not Talat has indeed been executed" Talass continued, with a deep breath. "And, if so, to see if it would be possible for us to obtain her body. I would like to return it home- to the Fruztii." She swallowed hard. "I know it would be more forthright to go myself, but her- blasphemy could taint us all if our relationship became widely known, and we cannot afford ill rumors circulating about us. Not at this time."

Caroline slowly walked over to Talass. Now, it seemed to her as if it was the priestess who was trying to hold back tears. Caroline awkwardly gave Talass' shoulder a quick squeeze. "Of course, Talass," she replied. "I'd be happy to go to Willip for you."

"Thank you Caroline," she said softly. For the first time that Caroline could remember, Talass seemed to be at a loss for words. The cleric smiled weakly at her while gesturing helplessly with her hands. "She- she was my little sister."

She quickly turned around and left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Very slowly, Caroline Bigfellow sat back down on her bed, and rested her chin in her palm. She took a deep breath and let it out, and then glanced over at Grock, who was once again curled up at the foot of the bed.

"So," she smiled grimly at him. "Keeping you up?"

The wardog yawned at her.


	22. Zantac

**9th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Wizard's Guild, Willip, Furyondy**

Zantac glanced around at as he entered the Meeting Room. It was empty; he had been the first to arrive. Four chairs were arranged around the round end of the hemisphere-shaped, dark wooden table. Two larger chairs were set along the flat end. Zantac grimaced and sat down on the rightmost of the four. He rubbed his chest and winced at the dull ache there. The wizard had eaten lunch less than an hour ago at the Willow Tree in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but now he just felt nervous.

_One of these days_, he thought, _I've really got to look into creating an affordable elixir to cure a heartburn._

Zantac had no idea why Guildmaster Zelhile had called this meeting. He wondered who the other three attendees would be. Had they all done something wrong? The mage wracked his brain, trying to think of what it might be. The Guildmaster was very good at finding faults in the people under him, but he didn't usually call them out on the carpet like this, unless it was something serious.

_The carpet._ Zantac glanced down at the thick, bright red carpet. It covered the entire circular room, making it at least thirty feet in diameter. The joke of course, was that it was actually a _carpet of smothering_, used for taking care of the worst failures, as defined by Zelhile, of course. Martan swore it was true, but Zantac doubted it. It didn't radiate magic for one, and more importantly Zelhile, for all his stern demeanor, just didn't strike Zantac as the murderous type.

Then again, who knew? Once the damn thing engulfed you, it would be a little too late to tell other people you had been wrong about the man.

The door opened again, and Martan came in. He spotted Zantac instantly, smiled and came over to the chair next to him.

Zantac gave him a half-fake smile. He wasn't sure when or where it had started, but there was no doubt his best friend Martan had slowly but surely getting on Zantac's nerves, and he wanted less and less to be around him.

It had been fine in the beginning. They seemed like two peas in a pod that disliked both of them. Zantac and Martan were the two renegades in the small but fairly strict Guild. But somewhere along the line, it seemed to Zantac that Martan had been latching onto him more and more. Zantac may not have been popular inside the Guild, but he led a very active social life outside of it. Martan didn't. He had even started dressing like Zantac, trading in his brown robes for a brick red set, closer to Zantac's fire-red robes. They were colorful and drew attention to him, but that's how Zantac liked it. He hated people who slunk around in the shadows, watching him. He preferred things straightforward, out in the open.

There were other things. Zantac had a bit of a belly, but Martan had, in the past two years, swelled by at least sixty pounds, and was now well over two hundred fifty. He constantly had crumbs from his last meal on his face and clothes.

As he did now. Zantac had in fact seen Martan enter the Willow Tree as he was getting ready to leave today, and had actually hidden until he could slip out unobserved by his fellow wizard. This was not typical behavior for Zantac, and it irritated him that Martan was driving him to this kind of thing.

Martan, for his part, seemed oblivious to his friend's discomfiture, or if he was aware of it, attributed it to nerves over the upcoming meeting. As he sat down next to Zantac, he brushed the crumbs off his robe onto the carpet. "Feeding the beast," he said to him with a smile, "just in case."

Zantac nodded and fixed his gaze on the two chairs opposite them. "Any idea why we're here?" he asked Martan out of the side of his mouth, just to make conversation.

His fellow wizard shrugged. "Me, any one of a hundred reasons. You, haven't a clue. It's been a while since you've gotten on 'ol Zel's bad side. You're not going all _establishment_ on me, are you, old friend?"

That thought made Zantac smile again, for real this time. "Not to worry, Martan," he replied. "It'll never happen." His friend, having gotten the response he'd hoped for, smiled back and was silent for a bit.

The door opened again, and Aimee sidled in.

Aimee always sidled, or sashayed, or glided or even (on occasion) flew. She never just walked. The Succubus, as almost everyone called her, quickly fixed her large, dark brown eyes upon her two fellow wizards. Martan registered a quick repulsion, as he always did, and Zantac a calculated appraisal. She had an astonishingly large wardrobe, and had picked for this meeting a black short-sleeved dress with a deep but narrow V-neck hemline, and slits up both legs right to the hip. The Guild's dress code had formerly prohibited that kind of thing, but Aimee had, as usual, gotten her way.

Aimee puzzled Zantac. The research and hard work, the long hours of studying needed to become a wizard made it, in his view, one of the hardest professions one could ever hope to aspire to. Yet Aimee was, as she herself was free to admit, as lazy as a sloth. She looked for every possible shortcut, every angle, every cheat, to get a leg up (as it were) on her companion magic-users. And with the exception of Martan and maybe one or two others, every male wizard in the Guild, including the Guildmaster, had been subjected to her "persuasion".

Even Zantac. It had been about two years ago, shortly after he had joined the Guild. Aimee, who had joined up only a few weeks earlier, came to see him about a spell she was having difficulty transcribing into her spellbook. He still wasn't sure how it had happened. One moment, they had been talking and joking around, and then suddenly Zantac had been very- _aware_ of her. The next minute, they were rolling around on the floor, knocking over chairs and frightening the cat. Twenty minutes later, the Succubus had left the room with his entire portfolio of notes under her arm, and Zantac with a slightly stupid smile on his face, sitting on the floor.

Even if he had wanted to, he couldn't have gotten up and walked fast enough to catch her.

She returned his materials later of course, although he knew that she had copied everything. About three weeks later, she had come to him again. A bit more direct this time, Aimee had suggested that they steal the formula of an alchemical project that another Guild mage was working on. Even before her tongue found his mouth, he had already been thinking of ways to bypass the lab's magic wards.

Something had happened, though. Even years later, he still wasn't sure what, but _something_ had made him stop, peel Aimee off of him like a grape, and refuse her. He apologized the whole time of course, but she had left with a scowl on her face, and several rather explicit comments hanging in the air. For weeks afterwards, Zantac felt just like the bat dung that he cultivated for his _fireball_ spells. He made it a point not to grovel before Aimee when he saw her again, but still to act in a friendly manner, as if the last incident had not happened at all. It wasn't easy, but he persevered. At first Aimee refused to acknowledge his existence, but as the weeks went by, she gradually began to resume her former demeanor around him, even if she never came to him again. In all probability, he had nothing left to offer her that she could not find elsewhere.

The funny (or tragic, depending on how you looked at it) thing, from Zantac's point of view, was that for all her machinations, Aimee was no more powerful a wizard than he was. The gain from her seductions was always balanced out by the loss of study time, most of which could not be avoided. In a way, Zantac almost felt sorry for the Succubus.

Almost.

Now, as Aimee approached the pair, Martan turned to Zantac and smirked. Shortly after Zantac had confided to his friend about his last incident with the Succubus, Martan had told Zantac a similar story of how he had been forced to reject Aimee as well. Zantac didn't believe it for a moment, but he smiled and went along with it. Martan he _did_ feel sorry for. He was almost as good a wizard as Zantac, yet his main contribution to the Guild consisted of laboratory explosions. Martan had nothing at all to offer Aimee on any level, and they both knew it.

Despite himself, Zantac couldn't keep his eyes off her. He was now sorry he had taken the end chair. Aimee solved that problem for him however, by simply picking up the chair next to Martan- without so much as a glance in his direction- and walking over to Zantac's right, where she put it down and then languidly sat down upon it. A hint of something very alluring wafted over to Zantac. Aimee's brown hair swiftly turned to auburn, and then bright red as she smiled at him. "Hello, Zantac."

"Hello, Aimee," replied Zantac, trying and completely failing to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "Do you have any idea what this is all about?"

The Succubus shrugged, white streaks now shooting in a spiderweb fashion through her red hair. "Haven't a clue. Zel is playing his cards close to his chest. I'm guessing it's an assignment."

Zantac frowned. "You don't think we're being dressed down for something?"

Aimee cocked an eyebrow at him, her hair turning a pure white. "For what? I'm as innocent as the new fallen snow," she purred, running a hand through her now-ivory hair. Her grin turned just a touch malicious. "You been getting into trouble again, Zantac? Afraid of being called out- on the carpet?" she added, her eyes flickering playfully downwards.

"No, not really. I just..." Zantac was seriously beginning to doubt he was going to get through this meeting without having to cross his legs, but at that point the door opened and saved him. The Guildmaster Zelhile and the Scribe Thormord walked in and swiftly went to the two chairs facing the others. Thormord (Martan called him "Egghead," but only behind his back) opened up his logbook on the table, took a quill from his reddish-brown robes and placed it upright upon the book, where it stayed.

The Guildmaster wore glossy, deep blue robes, with small white star-like patterns upon them. He was probably in his late forties, relatively young for such a position. He had closely-cropped long black hair, except where it extended in bangs over his forehead. He was very lithe in build, and his features looked very sharp, almost chiseled. He might have been considered more handsome if not for an ever-present scowl on his face (Zantac had seen that wizards seemed to be more depressed than the population in general. He honestly couldn't figure out why this might be so. It certainly didn't affect him). Zelhile took in the three of them with a glance, then frowned at the fourth empty chair. He placed what looked like a spellbook on the table and then leaned in close to Thormord, and the two of them whispered for a few seconds.

The door opened up again, and Naury came in.

Whereas Aimee sidled, Naury slunk. He always gave the impression of being ready to bolt at a moment's notice. He was wearing his usual dirty blue robes, which showed off well the dandruff falling from his curly gray hair. Hygiene was not Naury's strong point. Martan could be the same way sometimes, but at least he would cover that up with a cantrip. Naury never did. He gave everyone his usual expression- a mild sneer- before taking the last chair. He didn't push it closer to Martan.

Something clicked inside of Zantac. _Second tier. We're all second tier wizards! Aimee is right, this must be an assignment._ Of course, considering what the assignment might be, it might turn out to be worse than the carpet after all.

The Guildmaster eyed the newest arrival dryly. "So glad you decided to join us, Naury." As he spoke, Thormord's quill began writing.

Naury crossed his arms and didn't flinch. "I had business to attend to. This _was_ my day off, you know."

"Making lots of money?" the Guildmaster queried, a hard smile crossing his lips.

Naury gave an indifferent shrug. "As long as I'm not breaking any Guild laws- and I'm not- what's it anyone's concern?"

Zelhile stared at him for a moment. "Let's hope that's the case, Naury." He then turned his attention upon everyone, crossing his hands in front of him on the table. Zantac knew Martan's face mirrored his own nervousness. Aimee's hair had turned to match Zelhile's black, but a flicker from the Guildmaster's eyes and it turned back to it's regular brown. She was clearly uncomfortable at not knowing what was going on, but still managed to hold her poise.

The Guildmaster waited a few moments, then spoke conversationally.

"What can any of you tell me about the Brass Dragon Inn?"

Martan raised his hand. "I hear they have the best roast goose around," he said with a smile.

Zantac winced, while Naury and the Succubus smirked. Martan had meant it as a joke, but he had a total inability to tell when humor was called for, and when it wasn't.

Zelhile shook his head in wonder. "You'd think that somewhere in that enormous body there would be room for a brain, however small." Martan flinched, and looked almost ready to cry. Zantac thought the Guildmaster was being needlessly cruel himself, but he wasn't about to say so. He himself knew where the inn was, but had never been there himself. He had heard rumors about the owners, but didn't want to risk himself in front of the Guildmaster right now with a wrong answer, so he kept silent. Naury did likewise, although he looked unusually thoughtful, stroking his mutton-chop beard.

Aimee coyly raised her hand.

"The Brass Dragon is the first inn on the main road leading out of Willip, located about 10 leagues from the city. It's fairly small, with only three private rooms for rent. The food and the service are far above average, rivaling many of the best establishments here, yet their prices are competitive. The owners are retired adventurers, so it's assumed that they're loaded." She recited this with a small, self-satisfied smile on her face.

Zelhile grunted. "Correct, so far as it goes. One of the owners is a wizard. Know anything about him?"

Aimee had to shrug. "Only that he's not a member."

The Guildmaster nodded slowly and pointed at Aimee, and then his hand to encompass all four mages. "That's right. He's not." Zelhile spoke several arcane phrases while motioning with his hands, and an image appeared above the table. Constantly moving, it seemed to show an aerial view of the road leading to Willip. On the road was a group of people walking. They numbered ten, along with four horses, heavily laden. At least three of the ten were clearly wizards. The image swooped closer and then further away. A flash of white wingtip could be seen. Zantac nodded to himself. This was being seen by Zelhile's familiar, so this group must be en route to the city now.

Aimee leaned forward. Her ends turned blonde, in spite of herself. "Which one is him?" she inquired eagerly.

Zelhile gestured, and the gull drew lower in a lazy circle. A rather handsome man of about thirty, quite tall, was the target. He wore brown robes in the older style (cinched in front, with trousers underneath) and carried the ubiquitous quarterstaff.

Zelhile eyed his underlings. "His name is Cygnus." He paused, and then added, "Did you know he's from another world?"

Eight eyes turned away from the image to meet his face. A bitter smile appeared on that rock-hard face. "As are several of his companions." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. "Think of it, people. A wizard from another world. What spells he must know. Spells completely unknown to us." Zelhile waved his hand, and the image disappeared. He opened the spellbook he had carried in out on the table. Its pages were blank. "Do you see any of these unique incantations in this book, people?" he asked quietly.

Zantac, Naury and Aimee were quiet. Poor Martan took the bait.

"No" he said.

_"Why not?"_ the Guildmaster roared. Even expecting this outburst, the other three wizards flinched in their chairs, Aimee's hair flashing a platinum blonde. Poor Martan toppled backwards in his chair, hitting the floor with a _thud_ and a crunch of splintering wood.

"He's been here for at least _four years_, people!" Zelhile continued, ignoring Martan's attempts to get up and fix his chair. "Are you all that seriously dense?" He stood up now, too agitated to remain seated. "Since none of you have showed any initiative in this matter, I thought my Scribe would handle this," the chief magic-user spat out. "But apparently, something has gone wrong there, as well!"

Now it was Thormord's turn to look disquieted. "Cygnus is acquainted with my son Thorimund," he began. "Knowing that his friend's father is in the Guild, I had assumed he would seek us out earlier. I ran into him four days ago in the Prison and suggested he stop by. I was sure that would jog his memory."

Naury frowned. "How does your son know them?"

"They've allied themselves in the past with the druid Wainold. My son is one of his followers," replied Thormord.

"So what went wrong?" The Guildmaster glared at his Scribe.

Thormord shrugged. "It now occurs to me that my son might not have mentioned me to Cygnus. He may have no idea who I am."

"Or he does, and he's just not as chummy with your son as you think he is," smirked Naury. The Scribe glared at him with cold green eyes under bushy eyebrows, but said nothing.

"So, then," the Guildmaster continued, sitting down again. "What do we do now?" The four underlings (Martan having cast a _mending_ spell on his chair and rejoined them) looked at each other, and then back at the Guildmaster. Zelhile again pointed at each of them.

"By my estimate, Cygnus is a second-tier wizard, so someone of his approximate abilities would make the best recruiter. But who? Do I send a disreputable criminal, a bloated, incompetent oaf, a rebel who thinks oh-so-highly of himself, or a brazen seductress? What options I have!" he finished snidely.

Looking to his left and right, Zantac saw that Naury looked less insulted than he would have supposed, Martan was busy studying his stomach, and Aimee was allowing herself a look of wounded pride. "I don't have to be brazen, you know," she said softly with a slight smile to Zelhile. To Zantac's surprise, the Guildmaster returned the smile, somewhat.

"Cygnus is a widower, Aimee. About two years ago, his wife, who was also a wizard, was murdered. Your approach- might backfire." Zelhile stated thoughtfully, and then turned to stare directly at Zantac.

"Congratulations, Zantac. You're the winner by default." The Guildmaster stood up, closing his book. The meeting was clearly over. "Do whatever you have to, Zantac. Give him some free trinkets if you have to, but I want Cygnus as a member."

"What if he says no?" Zantac asked nervously.

The Guildmaster leaned in close. "Well then, we'll just have to roll out the red carpet for him, won't we?"


	23. Authorization Needed

**9th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Earldom of Farlyow, Furyondy  
(About 60 miles SSW of the Brass Dragon Inn)**

Waiting for Aslan...

It seemed like some kind of existential waiting game for Elrohir. He tapped his foot, looking around him at the gently rolling plains all around him. Most of the grass was dead of course, but a few hardy winter shrubs, coated with a light frost, could be seen persevering in the winter chill. It was cold enough for his breath to come out in little puffs of steam. Elrohir had traveled long enough and far enough not to be bothered by the cold, but he still was not overly fond of it. At least there was no wind to make things worse. He eyed the tall ridge about a hundred yards away to the north. Beyond it was the cave that had been the lair of the blue dragon Sandcats, and hopefully of his offspring Bellicose as well.

_What in the name of Bifrost is taking them so long?_ The ranger couldn't get it. He, Aslan and Tojo had assembled outside the Brass Dragon Inn, all equipped and ready to go. Aslan had teleported here with Elrohir, said, "I'll be right back" and vanished. He should have returned with Tojo within a few seconds, but it was now well over two minutes. Various scenarios ran through Elrohir's mind, none of them pleasant, and most of them involving some kind of ambush at the inn.

Nodyath? _No, he has to be dead._

Well, what then? Elrohir was starting to consider what his options were when Aslan suddenly reappeared before him, with Tojo.

And Tadoa.

The ranger blinked at the elf. _What the-?_ He glanced back up at Aslan and Tojo. Both the paladin and the samurai were staring at him with a knowing look.

Elrohir sighed inwardly. Everyone apparently knew what was going on but him. Story of my life, he thought sourly. He eyed the child again, noting that he was fully suited up for battle or exploration, as needed. Then he saw the dried tear-tracks on the elf's face. Tad had been crying recently.

_Ahhh. Wescene._ Elrohir's face softened. _Now I understand._ He looked the child in the eye and gave him a slight nod. _No one can break your heart with such exquisite skill like an elf, young man. Believe me, I know._ The ranger shook his head before memories could claim him, and pointed towards the ridge. "Let's get going, people. We've got work to do."

He strode off, the others silently following behind him.

* * *

The ridge was somewhat taller than it looked, as well as more rugged. Elrohir grunted as he almost twisted an ankle on a small outcropping of rock. "We're not that far from the Brass Dragon, but you'd never know it from this," he gestured around him.

"Earthquake," came the voice of Tojo behind him.

Elrohir turned to look at him.

The samurai also indicated the surrounding terrain. "Negacha Province, in Nippon. Powerfur earthquake, many years ago. Rand rook much rike this," he indicated, then eyed his party leader with even more seriousness than he usually displayed. "Dao Rung. Evir spirit." He then continued his ascent without further comment.

Elrohir and Aslan looked at each other, shrugged and continued on as well.

* * *

Just before Elrohir reached the crest of the ridge, he stopped. His eyes picked up a very faint stream of rising smoke ahead. From his estimate, there was probably a fire going at the mouth of the cave entrance. The ranger held up his hand to stop the others, and informed them.

"Aslan," he asked the paladin. "Can you scout out ahead in fly-form?"

His friend shook his head and with a sad smile, tapped his helm. "Sorry, Elrohir. I've got nothing left."

Elrohir nodded acknowledgement and considered. "All right. Let me go first." He slowly walked up to the top of the ridge and looked.

There were six armored men at the mouth of the cave. Mercenaries most likely, if Elrohir's experience with them were any indication. Two crossbowman, clad in leather armor, were hunched over a campfire upon which small some animal was roasting on a spit. A man in scale mail and carrying a sword was sitting up against the rock face, apparently asleep. A spear and a small metal shield lay beside him. Of three other men similarly equipped, two were sharpening their swords.

The sixth man was looking directly at Elrohir. A few brief words and gestures from him notified his fellow warriors, although he needed a spear poke to awaken his slumbering companion.

Elrohir raised his right hand in a gesture on friendship, or at least non-violence. "Sellswords, I think," he told the others. "Come on, let's go. Cool heads, people."

They moved slowly down the ridge and crossed the thirty yards or so to the cave mouth. By then all six men were waiting for them, their weapons in hand but not raised. The one who had spotted Elrohir seemed to be the leader. He held his spear upright, awaiting them. As the ranger and his companions came within ten feet or so, he inclined his spear forward and said "Stop where you are. State your business."

"We seek no argument with you or your men." Elrohir indicated the cave mouth. "We seek to enter this place."

The man shook his head. "Without authorization, none may pass."

Elrohir frowned. "Authorization? From whom, and on what grounds?"

The mercenary tightened his grip on his spear. "From the Earl of Farlyow, ruler of this land," he stated officiously. With a nod of his head, he indicated to his right. A flagpole was jammed into a cleft in the rock. A banner hung limply from the pole, but in the breezeless air, its display could not be made out. With an expression of disgust, one of the sellswords went over to the flag and held it open. It displayed a gray field with a white stripe running from upper left to lower right.

Elrohir looked back at Aslan, who nodded to him. "That is the Earl's standard, Elrohir."

The ranger was'nt convinced yet. He turned back to the mercenary leader. "Why does the Earl restrict passage, and not use his own men to do so?"

"That is his concern, not yours," he replied. The sellsword's expression was starting to show signs of irritation. "Since you obviously have no permission from him, you must leave this area. Now."

The ranger took a deep breath, then decided to try another track. Pointing again at the cave, he asked "Do you know this was once the lair of the dragon Sandcats?"

The warrior nodded. "This I know."

Elrohir allowed himself to puff up a little. "We are the slayers of Sandcats! His head adorns the wall in our inn, the Brass Dragon, twenty leagues to the north!"

A smirk appeared on the mercenary's face. "You own that inn?"

"We do."

"I have been to the Brass Dragon since the death of the dragon. Several times." The voice of the sellsword was icy. "There is no dragon head there."

Elrohir bit his lip, immediately realizing his mistake. The general public was not allowed inside the Tall Tales Room. He glanced over at Aslan, who gave him a wry look of reproach, then stepped forward himself. "Greetings, good sir. I am Aslan, paladin of Odin. To whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

The warrior looked wary, but answered. "Beckett. Lieutenant Beckett."

"Lieutenant Beckett, upon my honor I tell you that we do speak the truth. We are indeed the slayers of Sandcats, but his head resides in a private room, away from the prying eyes of those who would pilfer it. However, this is not relevant. We shall obtain authorization from the Earl, and then return. Where may we find his residence?"

The lieutenant looked skeptical, but answered, pointing with his spear in the direction they had come from. "The Earl holds court in his castle. Ten leagues or so, that way."

"Thank you," Elrohir ground out. He spun around and headed off, the others following.

Aslan was the last to leave, nodding and smiling. As he turned away, Beckett said, "You keep strange company, paladin of Odin."

The other three stopped.

More precisely, Tojo stopped, and Elrohir and Tadoa stopped because of this.

_Oh no_, the ranger thought. He knew that the samurai, while generally the most placid person he had ever known, brooked no insults to his honor. Tojo slowly turned around to face the mercenaries again. Elrohir quickly tried to think of something to diffuse the situation, but couldn't. The jibe had not been pointed enough for Tojo to take immediate action, but he was peering intently at the sellsword leader now, waiting. All it would take would be one more remark from Beckett, and there was going to be a bloodbath.

There was an eerie silence. Suddenly, Tadoa put his hands on his hips and jeered at the men. "So, you think an elf warrior is strange, do you?"

The mercenaries stared at the child for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

Tadoa gave them a wave of angry dismissal, and then purposefully began to stomp away from them, saying in his most childlike voice "Let's go! These humans wouldn't know a true fighter if he handed all their heads back to them in a basket!"

The others followed, ignoring the continuing laughter behind them. One of the sellswords was imitating Tadoa now, drawing fresh gales of merriment. The sound grew dim and faded as they crested the ridge again, now heading south.

Aslan and Elrohir exchanged smiles. Aslan made sure Tojo was in the rear and couldn't hear, then casually caught up to the elf, placed his hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Smart thinking, Tad."

The child's face flushed with pride, but he tried to act nonchalant. "I have my moments," he said with a grin.

* * *

That night, the four of them sat around their campfire. Tojo sat serenely as always, but Tadoa's eyes glazed over as he tried to follow the political discourse between Elrohir and Aslan.

The ranger shook his head. "I'm sorry, Aslan, but I still don't get it. Baron Chartrain I know. Who is this Earl of Farlyow, and how can this be his land? I thought all the lands of Furyondy near the Nyr Dyv belonged to the Baron!"

The paladin sighed. "The nobility of Furyondy are not as we knew them back home, Elrohir," he explained patiently. "Here, a title means little while status and position mean all. This kingdom is divided into several domains, each ruled by one of the seven nobles that comprise the Noble Council. Baron Chartrain, the man who gave us the title to our land, is one of those nobles, yet he is no lesser a ruler than the Counts and Dukes that also serve on the Council."

Elrohir shook his head. "Then what's the point of having a title in the first place?"

"I don't know, Elrohir," Aslan said, a little irritated. "I'm sure there's some reason to it, but I don't know it. In any case," he continued, "there are many lesser nobles throughout the kingdom, each serving the Noble Councilman of where they dwell, regardless of their title. These lesser nobles belong to the Knightly Conclave, a body that advises the Council. This Earl of Farlyow is a member of the Conclave."

The ranger still looked as if he were trying to get a handle on the whole thing. "So, where are we now? The Earldom of Farlyow, or the Barony of Willip?"

"Both," was the response. "The former resides within the latter. As far as we're concerned, it's the Earl we have to deal with."

Elrohir looked thoughtful. "I wonder why he's doing this?"

Aslan shrugged. "I don't know, but we should by tomorrow night. Any other questions?" he asked his companion with a tired grin.

Elrohir returned the grin. "One. Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Argo in Willip?"

The paladin shook his head. "I'm sorry, Elrohir. If he wants to tell you when he gets back, that's up to him. All I'll say is that it was just Argo being Argo."

Elrohir's chuckle was interrupted by Tadoa's voice. "There are people out there."

* * *

The three adults slowly rose to their feet. They followed the elf's outstretched arm, but could see no one in the darkness beyond the reach of their fire's light.

"There are three of them," the child said, somewhat proud of being the party's sole source of information at the moment. "They're all in armor-chainmail I think- and carrying weapons. They're skirting us."

"Do you think they're trying to set up an ambush?" asked Elrohir.

Tadoa continued to stare out into the darkness. "No, I don't think so. They're moving on. They're headed north, towards the cave." He glanced back at the ranger. "I wonder if they have _authorization?"_

"Not our concern," responded Aslan, sitting down again. "Come on people, let's set some watches and get some sleep. We need to make some good time tomorrow."

It was decided that Tojo would take the first watch. While Elrohir and Aslan began to remove their armor, Tadoa laid down. Although he did not sleep as much as a human did, from long association with them he had assumed their habits. Behind closed eyelids, he continually replayed the events of the day. His actions with the mercenaries brought a smile to his lips, while the face of Wescene, gently but sadly telling him that there was already someone special in her life, elicited only grief.

Yet it was still her face that he chose to keep in mind.


	24. The Earl of Farlyow

**10th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY****  
The Castle Farlyow, Furyondy**

"It's getting late."

Aslan glanced over at Elrohir, sitting over to his right. "We have no option but to wait, Elrohir. We are seeking his aid, not the other way around."

The ranger grimaced, but made no reply. He knew he didn't have the paladin's patience, but he couldn't help it. It simply wasn't part of his makeup. He looked over again at Tojo and Tadoa, sitting fifteen feet away on chairs across the hall. Tojo was sitting with his eyes closed, as usual. He may as well have been a statue there. Tadoa, bored even more than Elrohir was, was gazing at the large standards of Farlyow that were hanging on both sides of the hall. Elrohir thought he was probably wishing that the Earl had put some kind of a lion or dragon or _something_ on it, just to liven it up. Occasionally, someone would pass through the small receiving hall they were sitting in, but no one gave the quartet more than an idle glance as they went by. Everybody seemed very busy.

The castle itself, and the small village surrounding it were rather modest and nondescript as well, Elrohir thought. He was still trying to adapt to the idea of an Earl being beneath a Baron, but the relative spartan quality of the environs here went a long way towards convincing him.

The ranger sighed and tried to put his best face forward. "At least it's warm here," he smiled over at Aslan, who nodded.

"No torches or fireplaces, either. I'm sure that magic is used to keep this area comfortable. That's an encouraging sign," the paladin noted.

Elrohir frowned. "Why?"

Aslan shrugged. "According to Cygnus, it's quite expensive to use magic in this way," he replied, gesturing around at the walls. "Permanent spells. We've seen no obvious evidence of magic elsewhere. If the Earl chose to spend his coin on making his supplicants more comfortable, that says to me that he's a man who listens to the opinions of others."

A slight smirk crossed Elrohir's features. "Or he likes to deceive them into thinking that's the case."

Aslan made a sour face. "I suppose that could be true, as well." The silence resumed. Elrohir was again trying to think of something to say when the door at the far end of the hall opened and three men entered.

The Earl of Farlyow was much younger than Elrohir and his companions would have guessed. He appeared to be barely into his twenties, with a healthy shock of dark blonde hair and expressive hazel eyes. He had the weathered features of those, like Elrohir, who had spent much of their life outdoors. For a noble, he was dressed rather plainly in a dark blue shirt and breeches. A billowing dark blue, velvet cape and a silver circlet upon his head were the only ostentatious features visible at a quick glance. A swordsman in plate mail- a knight most likely- and a young servant accompanied him.

The Earl moved crisply over to the quartet, who stood as one to greet him by bowing. Elrohir was ready to cede the diplomatic initiative to Aslan, but the look in the paladin's eyes told the ranger that he should do the talking. He sighed inwardly and put on his most officious smile.

"My Lord Farlyow. We come to you as your humble servants."

A small smile graced the young man's features. "Humility hardly becomes those of your stature. You are Elrohir, freeman of Willip?" he inquired.

The ranger wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but decided that he probably was. "Yes, my Lord." He would have introduced the rest of the party, but the Earl had already turned to them.

"And you must be Aslan, and Tojo!" he stated. "The deeds of you three, and of your companions are known to me, if only through gossip and rumors. If only half of them are to believed, you have served your liege well. Furyondy needs more men such as you." He now looked down at Tadoa, and then turned to Elrohir with a quizzical expression. "And who is the elven child?"

Even keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Lord Farlyow's face, Elrohir could feel Tadoa bristling. _Please Tad, don't say anything._ The ranger smiled at the noble and said, "This is Tadoa, a fighter of no mean skill and a valued _companion,"_ he said, stressing the last word.

With some surprise, the Earl scrutinized the child. Then his slight grin returned. "Welcome to Farlyow, young Tadoa!"

The child's face relaxed, and he bowed again. "At your service, my Lord."

The noble turned back to Elrohir. "I must apologize for keeping you waiting. I have had many pressing matters to attend to, and have but a few minutes to spare. My duties take me to Keristen, and I must be there ere nightfall. What service may I do for you?"

"My Lord," Elrohir began, "If this has not been told to you before, we are the slayers of the dragon Sandcats."

The noble nodded. "I had heard such. I am indebted to you for that." His thin smile turned to a grim expression. "Would that you could rid me of his replacement, as well."

"We have done so," said Elrohir quietly.

Startled, the Earl looked from one party member to another. His gaze, slightly suspicious, returned to meet Elrohir's. "When?'

"Two days ago. The corpse of Sandcat's daughter Bellicose rots outside our inn walls as we speak."

Lord Farlyow was silent for several seconds as he digested this. "It would seem then that I am indebted to you twice." His expression clearly indicated that he knew a request was forthcoming. "Speak then. If what you wish can be granted, it shall be."

Elrohir made a self-effacing gesture. "My Lord, we merely wish authorization from you to enter the dragon's lair, to see what we may find there. In addition, if the mercenaries we encountered there are to deter against the dragon, you may wish to relieve-"

The Earl cut him off. "They are there only in part because of this new dragon," he said. "When this Bellicose first appeared, there were those foolhardy souls who took it upon themselves to enter the lair when they thought the dragon was not present." His face was grim. "They did not expect to encounter- the centaur."

Elrohir and Tadoa's faces registered complete puzzlement at this statement. Aslan's showed a mild curiosity, while Tojo had no reaction at all.

"My Lord," Elrohir said, not entirely certain he had heard right, "a centaur?"

The noble shrugged. "Half-man, half-horse? That is how it was described to me. Of course, this was also told to me second-hand. My own forces are- elsewhere occupied, so I had to use sellswords to guard the entrance. I will of course, grant you complete freedom to enter the lair and rights to whatever you find therein. If you were to encounter this centaur and put an end to it, I would be even more in your debt- and the Farlyow memory stretches long, good Elrohir." He then whispered something to his youthful servant, who left the hall. He then gestured for the quartet to follow him.

* * *

Outside the castle, the earl's horse was being brought out for him. A retinue of guards and servants, already mounted, awaited their liege.

"Allow me, my Lord." Elrohir cupped his hands for the Earl to step up upon, and he did so, mounting his steed with accomplished ease. His servant came back holding something, which he gave to Elrohir.

The ranger examined it. It was a beaten sheet of what looked like bronze, possibly mixed with tin. It was about six inches wide and twice that long. On one side the standard of Farlyow was stamped into the metal. On the other, the number "2" was likewise engraved. Elrohir glanced up at Lord Farlyow, who nodded at him.

"Present that to the mercenary leader outside the cave. He will grant you passage. You may wish to make haste though," he added. "Others have gone before you." With that he goaded his horse into action. "Ride!" he called out, and his entourage followed him off in a cloud of dust down a trail to the east.

Elrohir and his friends huddled, the ranger fingering the number "2" on the plate. "Others, indeed. I wonder who number "1" is?" he asked of his companions.

Tojo raised an eyebrow. "Three armored men, perhaps?"

Aslan glanced sharply at the team leader. "If that was them, they might already be inside by now. Or at least close."

Elrohir eyed his companion and smiled. "Are you ready to go, Aslan?"

The paladin smiled back, but it had little mirth to it. "I am Elrohir, but remember, I'll have nothing left if we have to take on this centaur."

Elrohir put his hand on Aslan's shoulder, even as the paladin put his on Tad and Tojo's. "I think we can handle a centaur, my friend."

"So do I," piped up Tadoa, "except that centaurs don't live in caves. They don't even _like_ them."

The others looked at the young elf. He returned their gazes solemnly.

"Can we handle whatever it _really_ is?"

"We'll find out," said Elrohir grimly. He looked at the paladin. "Aslan, _go!"_


	25. Journey to Willip

**10th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Willip, Furyondy**

Sir Dorbin whistled. "Quite a sight."

"Largest city in the kingdom, they say," Caroline said.

"It's not walled," Fee Hal noted.

Cygnus shrugged. "They've never needed them, or so I've been told."

A grim expression took root on the knight's face. "I'm envious. We need more of such peacefulness back home."

The party, now less than a half-mile from Willip, continued their trek. Although the packed dirt road now boasted reasonably smooth cobblestones, the sheer volume of traffic had negated any speed gain from the road. Most were farmers or merchants heading into the city, although they had already passed one caravan heading in the opposite direction. The smell of fish soaking in brine had been quite strong as it passed by.

The rising sun was directly behind the Baronial Residence, which being set on a slight hill, was visible from some distance out. Golden rays of sunshine spilled out to the left and right of the palace complex, the dust motes in the cold morning air lending the beams an almost solid stability. They seemed to beckon travelers into the city.

Wescene eyed the naked branches of the trees on either side of them. Planted every twenty yards or so, a row of oaks, elms and similar trees stood guard along the highway (which Cygnus told the others was called the Land Legs Road) starting from about their position, and continuing into the city for as far as they could see. "I'll bet these trees are absolutely beautiful in the summer," she said wistfully.

Monsrek smiled. "True, but I like it even more so in the fall when they change colors."

Sitdale smiled. "I like them best in winter myself, after a snowfall." He gestured at the trees, painting a picture with his hands. "The whiteness frames each branch, each twig, in a unique design." The half-elf regarded his companions. "Each one, a work of art to vanish in the spring, never to be repeated."

"Spring is the best time, no question," Aiclesis opined. "The whole world, including the trees, comes to life again. "It's an absolute miracle."

Caroline turned to all of them, a wry expression on her face. "Do you all ever agree on anything?"

"Never!" a cacophony of voices shouted out, ending in a swell of laughter. As it died out, Unru's voice piped up with practiced timing.

"By the gods!" he exclaimed. "We just did!"

This set off another firestorm of laughter. Caroline turned to eye Cygnus, who was already looking at her. She knew the mage shared her sentiments- and her jealousy. The camaraderie of the Dorbin party, especially now that they were on the road to finding a way back home, was both heartwarming to witness, and a cruel reminder that things amongst themselves were not quite so rosy. Caroline bit her lip. Argo's question had been gnawing at her for two days now. Soon, they would be in the city, and she might not have the chance again. She took a deep breath and moved closer to Monsrek as they walked.

"Monsrek," she asked as softly as she dared.

The cleric leaned in closer to her. "Yes, my child?"

"May I ask you a personal question?"

A broad smile spread across the priest's face as he placed his arm around the young woman's shoulder. "No, I'm not married, Caroline. But we'll have to keep this from your husband," he added conspiratorially, looking around him in mock concern.

Caroline forced a smile and shrugged just enough that Monsrek knew to remove his hand. A look of concern displaced the smile from his features. "Forgive me, Lady Bigfellow. I'm something of a dirty old man, if you hadn't guessed that by now." A shadow of the former smile flitted back. "What do you wish to know?"

She swallowed hard. "Do any of you- have any children?"

All trace of mirth vanished from Monsrek's face. He eyed Caroline sternly, occasionally shifting his gaze upwards, as if studying the seagulls wheeling about in the blue sky. Caroline hadn't expected her question to generate that kind of reaction. Now, she was embarrassed that she had asked it. She was about to tell the cleric to forget about it, when he sighed and answered.

"One of us, Lady Bigfellow. One of us." He indicated behind them with a nod of his head, to answer the unspoken question in Caroline's eyes.

She nearly gasped. Flond trailed behind his party, walking alone as he almost always did. The wizard's brown hood hid his face from view, but he seemed to be studying the cobblestone streets intently as he walked. Even when he did raise his head briefly to look at something, no reaction shone in his eyes.

"He seems younger than Cygnus," Caroline said to Monsrek, in as close to a whisper as she could manage. "How many? How old are they? Is their mother still alive?"

"He sired a son at thirteen years of age." Monsrek nodded, seeing the astonishment in Caroline's face. "We know little about him, or his mother, save that Flond has left them behind, and they are no longer a part of his life. It is- part of the reason why he is as he is. More than that, I cannot say. You could of course, ask him yourself-"

"I wouldn't."

Caroline turned towards the source of that remark and saw Fee Hal giving her an _I tried it already look_. Somewhat annoyed that the squire had been eavesdropping, she turned back to Monsrek, who was making an expansive gesture with his hands, encompassing his companions.

"This life my companions and I lead, Lady Bigfellow- the life you _used_ to lead," the priest was again looking seriously at her, "is not suited for children. They cannot mix. It never turns out well, in my experience. Never." He tilted his head. "Have I answered your question, my dear?"

Trying to ignore the lump in her throat, Caroline nodded, smiled weakly and moved away

* * *

They were now entering the city proper. The throng of people passing by on all sides pushed the party closer together. "All right, Cygnus," Sir Dorbin's commanding voice rose above the din, "We need to find an inn where we'll stay until tomorrow. That'll be our base of operations. How well do you know your competition?" He smiled at the magic-user.

Cygnus looked around him, and pointed to one of the larger structures, coming up on their right. "The Willow Tree. Good as any, from what I've heard."

Dorbin nodded. "All right. Fee Hal, see to it." The youth nodded and moved on ahead, while the knight turned back to Cygnus. "Thank you again Cygnus, for taking our currency in trade. I know times are tight for you. We shall repay you as soon as possible."

The wizard shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Sir Dorbin. Save your coin for getting back home. I don't know if the church of Heironeous can help you, but even if they can, it's not going to come cheap."

"Cygnus has told us where the Elven Tribal House is located," Aiclesis told his leader. "Wescene, Sitdale and I will rendezvous back with you once we've learned what we can." The three of them began to move off.

"I don't think they'll be able to help you much!" Cygnus felt compelled to yell after them.

Aiclesis turned around and shrugged. "If not, our visit will be short! Besides," he shouted back, "I need to see some more handsome faces around here!" The elf smiled and walked quickly to catch up with his brethren.

* * *

Sir Dorbin looked around him. "We'll need to lodge the horses of course, and none of the inns that I see here have stables." He peered ahead and pointed to a building on the left, about a hundred yards ahead. "I see a number of horses down there. Is that a stable, Cygnus?"

"Yes, and as a matter of fact, they'll do quite nicely. We've been there before."

Sir Dorbin turned around at the sound of that unique voice, a mixture of amazement and embarrassment evident on his face. "Forgive me Perlial. I should of course, er, have asked for your opinion first."

White Lightning tossed her mane, a gesture that Caroline recognized as her equivalent of a laugh. "No offense taken, good sir. That look on your face was priceless, though." She and Perlial bobbed their heads up and down.

Unru grinned and jerked his thumb at the steeds. "I like these horses. They're good people."

"Hold up," Cygnus told the two steeds. "Let's get these saddlebags off you first." Perlial and White Lightning stopped, and motioned for the two normal horses behind them to stop as well, which they did. Cygnus, Torlina and Flond began to remove the bags containing the dragon hide sections and other parts they had collected from Bellicose.

"Well," said Unru, moving off now. "See you later, people. Time to see the sights."

"Any chance you could tell me where you're going, Unru?" asked Sir Dorbin with just a touch of exasperation. "And could you make it the truth for once?"

"The truth?" asked Unru with a surprised look on his face. He then assumed a thoughtful pose. "All right then, my friend. The absolute, honest-to-gods truth." He turned around and started walking away again, calling over his shoulder.

"I'll be somewhere, doing something..."

* * *

The knight glared at Monsrek and shook his head. "You know, it was your idea to bring him along."

The cleric smiled at his companion. "Yes, and you wouldn't have it any other way."

Torlina grinned at Cygnus as the three wizards finished hoisting the bags into their arms. "You know where the wizard's guild is located, Cygnus." she said. "Lead on."

The mage grimaced at Caroline and said, "My day of reckoning, I guess. I'll see you later." He then headed off down the street with Torlina and Flond bringing up the rear. Caroline, Dorbin, Monsrek and the horses resumed their course for the stables.

* * *

As they approached their destination, Monsrek looked ahead of them and an admiring expression came to his face as he pointed. "Well, well," he quipped to Sir Dorbin. "Even on another world, the choicest devotees of your god are drawn to your good looks, my friend. Better not tell Torlina!" The knight sighed heavily. Caroline, looking towards where Monsrek was pointing, could see a young woman maneuvering through the crowd towards them.

She wore the white and gold vestments of a priestess of Heironeous. She was smiling, and trying to catch their attention. When she saw Monsrek pointing at her, the smile vanished from her face and she moved forward cautiously now. Caroline knew that in general, the clergy of the Summoner and of the Invincible One did not get along. The cleric had shoulder-length, dark brown hair, which she kept brushing back from her face. Her blue eyes scanned the party thoroughly as she approached, a look of consternation now appearing.

"Good day, Lady of Valor," Sir Dorbin said in his most respectful voice as he bowed to her. She fixed her eyes upon the knight and smiled.

"Blessings be upon you, good sir." She cleared her throat. "I am Jinella, of the Valorous temple of Willip. Are you by chance sir, traveling with the wizard known as Cygnus? I thought I saw him walking with you, but..." her voice trailed off as she again scanned the crowd, frowning now. "Perhaps I was mistaken."

"No," Caroline said, stepping forward now. "You just missed him. Cygnus has gone off to visit the Wizard's Guild. May I be of assistance? I am Caroline Bigfellow, a close friend of his."

The cleric's eyes widened. "Caroline Bigfellow? The wife of Argo?"

Caroline nodded. Relief swept into the priestess' features. "Excellent! Thanks be to the Archpaladin I found you! I served at the trial which cleared your friends Elrohir and Aslan of the charges against them," she added, then assumed a formal looking demeanor.

A little _too_ formal, Caroline thought. Was she trying to take the credit for that?

Jinella cleared her throat and continued.

"I have been commanded to tell you that the sentence of death upon the criminal Mendoleer was carried out as of two days ago. The blasphemer Talat has been moved to a more secure location pending her execution."

There was a silence. Caroline couldn't tell if Jinella had paused or had finished speaking. Something didn't sound right to her.

"Pardon, Jinella," she stated. "_Commanded_ to tell us? Why would you not wish us to have that knowledge?"

To Caroline's surprise, the bright smile returned to Jinella's face. "I have told you the news as commanded by my superiors. Now I shall tell you the news as I have heard it. Fortunately, I was given no particular instructions regarding that."

Monsrek gave a wry smile. "Are you sure you're serving the right deity, my lady?"

Jinella ignored him and continued. "Mendoleer was murdered in his cell two days ago. He had been in talks with the Baron's men about sparing his life in exchange for information. Talat has vanished without a trace. We have no idea if she is alive or dead."

Ever so faintly, Caroline could feel her heart begin to throb in her chest. _Take it easy,_ she told herself. _There are a thousand possible explanations._

Trying very hard to remain calm, she asked, "How do you know this?"

"There was another prisoner in that area of the dungeon that morning. There was no light, but he heard Mendoleer suddenly begin begging for mercy, and then some kind of roaring sound and terrible screams from the man. By the time the jailor came down with a torch, Mendoleer had been ripped limb from limb by some unknown creature, and the blasphemer was gone."

Caroline turned to eye the horses. They said nothing, but both looked back at her with sober eyes. She returned her gaze to the priestess. "Could you not use divine power to speak to Mendoleer's corpse?"

"I'll field that one," cut in Monsrek. He eyed Jinella. "The jaw- torn from the face?"

Jinella nodded, her lips pursed in a thin line. "The murderer knew what he, or _it_, was doing." She drew a deep breath. "If I may be so bold, Lady Bigfellow," she continued, somewhat haltingly.

Caroline raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

Jinella could not hide her nervousness now. "Since this recent development, the Baron has asked the Church to take a more active role in the matter. My High Priest Lancoastes has said we must know more about Aslan and Elrohir, since they are apparently the physical doubles of the true criminals, one of whom may still be at large."

Caroline closed her eyes, but only for a moment, willing herself to stay focused.

"I have been instructed by Lancoastes to stay with you and the other owners of the Brass Dragon until I have collected as much information on the subject as may be obtained. Then, I shall return to my Temple and report." Jinella continued, self-consciously brushing her hair back from her face again. "Of course, the full devotion of my faith shall be at your service in the meantime!" she added speedily and smiled again at Caroline.

Despite her overall dislike of the Invincible One, Caroline couldn't help but feel a little sympathy for Jinella. Besides, she saw a way to turn this situation to their advantage. She smiled back at the priestess.

At last, she felt like she might be useful.

"Of course, the final decision in such a matter as this rests in the hands of Elrohir, our party leader. You may certainly accompany us back to the Brass Dragon when we leave for home tomorrow, and I will put in a good word for you with Elrohir. However…" and here she glanced over at Sir Dorbin.

Jinella's eyes followed hers. "Yes?" she asked.

"Sir Dorbin urgently seeks an audience with your High Priest Lancoastes, on behalf of Monsrek here and seven other of their compatriots. If you could facilitate such a meeting, I know Elrohir would be highly pleased."

Jinella crossed her arms and glanced dryly back at Caroline. "I believe that could be arranged." She returned her gaze to Sir Dorbin. "In fact, I might be able to arrange a short audience with him right now if you wish, good Sir Dorbin."

Caroline noticed that Dorbin had hesitated slightly. He seemed to dislike the notion of trading favors to get things accomplished. _No wonder he and Aslan get along so well_, she thought ruefully to herself. She was about to give the knight a verbal nudge when he smiled and said, "I would be honored, Jinella of the Valorous One. Lead on." He glanced back at Monsrek.

The elder cleric grinned. "If you two don't mind, I'll accompany you two to this 'Temple Way' that Cygnus mentioned, and then head off on my own for a while. Caroline here and Cygnus have said they are not sure if there is a church of the Summoner here in Willip. If that's the case, I may have to do a little street preaching."

Jinella frowned. "I would not advise that, Monsrek. The people of this kingdom favor law and order. Such rabble-rousing may well bring down an angry mob upon your head."

Monsrek smile grew even wider as he fell into step besides them. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Wouldn't be the _tenth_ time," Caroline heard Sir Dorbin grumble as the three of them walked out of earshot. She stared after them for a few moments, then spoke out loudly to no one in particular.

"That'll be fine. I'll just get the horses stabled then, shall I? Never fear, Caroline Bigfellow is here! The do-it-all woman…"

She shook her head and turned to eye the horses ruefully. "I suppose I could just stick the money in your mouths and send you off to the stables! You don't need me for anything _really_ important either, do you?"

Both horses slowly moved up to Caroline, one on each side, so that their heads were next to hers. "We need you, Caroline," said White Lightning softly.

She regarded them with a smirk. "Yeah? For what?"

"Love." Perlial's voice, spoken as low as the horse could manage it, was husky and sweet with that odd accent. "Nothing is as important to us. A lich's magic made us sentient, but the love of you, your family, and those who went before made us what we are."

"Every night, we give thanks to Odin for you," White Lightning added. "Never leave us- please."

Caroline stared at them for a moment, and then gently hugged each horse around her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. She wiped them clear and gestured to them. "Come on," she said. "Lead the others."

As they reached the stables, Caroline overheard White Lightning speaking to Perlial.

"Plus, she gives the best treats out of any of them."

Caroline smiled, but didn't turn around. She knew the horses spoke to each other in their own language. That comment had been meant for her to overhear.

* * *

Under his hood, Flond's voice carried a scowl. "No matter where you go, it's the same thing. With all the earth-shaking power at our command, we're not a very imaginative bunch of people, are we?"

Torlina shrugged. "I prefer to think that we found what works best, and stuck with it."

Cygnus eyed the stone cylindrical tower that was the headquarters of the Willip Wizard's Guild. "It's not the building, it's the people in it that worry me."

"Too many wizards spoil the brew?" Flond managed to put a smirk on his face as he turned to eye Cygnus.

"Come on now, people!" Torlina, struggling with the saddlebag she was holding to her chest, looked in exasperation at her fellow mages. "Cygnus, you say you've never even met any of these people! How can you have such a sour opinion of them already? By Boccob's staff, you told me this kingdom is ruled by a _paladin!_ Do you honestly think they'd allow some power-hungry monsters to open a guild in their largest city? What fault can you truthfully say you've found in these wizards?"

Flond shifted his own burden and grunted. "They have a lousy sense of fashion."

Cygnus frowned and followed Flond's eyes. A figure dressed in fire-red robes was coming out of the Guild and heading straight towards them at a brisk pace. He was of average height, and packed a bit of a paunch. About ten years older than Cygnus, he had thinning brown hair that was screaming out for a comb. At least his smile seemed genuine, thought Cygnus, unlike Thormord's horrendous attempt at one.

The guild wizard pulled up in front of them, puffing a bit. "Greetings, fellow mages!" he called out heartily. "Welcome to the Willip Wizards Guild! My name is Zantac- have you come to sell goods?"

"Like you don't know?" Flond's voice cut through the space between them like an acidic knife. "Tell me you haven't been scrying on us since we entered the city, if not before." Cygnus winced and could see that Torlina was making a serious effort to control her temper now, and even he didn't feel like going off on this Zantac fellow. _He's probably just the poor sucker who drew the short straw to see who would try to suck me into the Guild,_ Cygnus thought to himself.

For his part though, Zantac seemed unfazed. He reached forward and took the saddlebag from Torlina's arms, earning her immediate gratitude. He turned his smile on Flond. "Probably not, good sir. We spend most of our time scrying on each other!" He winked at Cygnus, who still didn't feel much like returning his smile.

Zantac turned back towards the tower, motioning with his shoulders for the others to follow. "Come on, come on! I promise- it's not a house of horrors. That's back there," he turned and indicated down Land Legs Road with his head. "City Hall."

Despite himself, Cygnus had to grin just a little bit at that. He took a deep breath and followed Zantac, along with the others.

* * *

Zantac took a deep breath as the front door opened automatically for him. _Oh boy, this is not going to be easy. Cygnus probably knows I'm going to lean on him, and that other sourpuss isn't making this any easier! I need to get Mr. Wizard From Another World away from the other two. I need... I need..._ Zantac looked around as the others entered behind him. "Hogeth! Come here! I need you!"

Cygnus, coming in behind Zantac, was surprised to see a half-orc clad in light silver robes stroll slowly over to Zantac and effortlessly take the saddlebag from him with one hand, and then, at Zantac's signal, take Cygnus' burden from him with the other. Zantac smiled again as he gestured at the others who had now entered the building as well.

"Gentlemen, and Lady!" (Here he bowed to Torlina, who smiled back at him.) "May I present Hogeth Grayeye, first-tier wizard and our supervisor in charge of Appraisals and Sales!" Indicating Flond and Torlina, Zantac added, "If you two good people would follow Mr. Grayeye, he'll be able to help you out with all due speed."

Cygnus was amazed, although he tried not to show it. He had never seen a half-orc wizard in his entire life. For his part, Hogeth, who had an inch or two of height on Cygnus, smiled shyly at all the newcomers. When Cygnus' gaze met Hogeth's steel-gray eyes, the half-orc evidently saw enough to detect the human's surprise. The half-orc's eyes dropped to the floor. "Follow me please," he mumbled to Torlina and Flond, who followed him out of sight down the circular hallway that apparently ran the perimeter of the building. Torlina's voice came back, "Cygnus- If we don't see you later, we'll all meet up at the Willow Tree!"

"All right!" Cygnus responded, all the while kicking himself mentally. _Damn it! He's probably all too-used to seeing that look. I thought I was above that sort of thing._

As if sensing his discomfort, Zantac sidled up to Cygnus. "He never wanted to be anything other than a wizard" he said, indicating with his eyes the hallway where Hogeth and the others had just gone down. "No one else would give him a chance."

_That may be true, but it still sounds like a sales pitch_, thought Cygnus as he let Zantac guide him around.

"Let me give you the copper tour," Zantac announced grandly.

* * *

The two of them were now on the tower's third floor. This entire floor was taken up by the Guild's meeting room. Zantac, making small talk, was explaining to Cygnus the numerous paintings that adorned the dark gray stone walls. Each one showed a famous wizard or magical tableau of Furyondy's past. It was actually interesting stuff, but Cygnus was too distracted to enjoy it. Zantac hadn't started on his pitch yet, but Cygnus knew he would, sooner or later. He knew he had to clear the air, so he turned to his fellow magic-user.

"Zantac."

Zantac turned to eye him. Cygnus could see in his face that he knew what was coming, but made no sign.

Cygnus sighed. "Listen Zantac, I'll be honest with you. You seem like a really nice guy. A lot better than I expected from a Guild mage, to be frank. But I've never been part of a guild in my life, and I don't want to start now. I know there are benefits to joining, but there are responsibilities too, and I don't want to promise anything that I wouldn't be comfortable keeping. Now some guilds I've known have allowed for certain transactions between members and non-members. Procedures that allow- certain things?"

Zantac smiled. "Like training up?'

Cygnus nodded. "Yes. I need to, although don't tell anyone." He looked at the closed door to the meeting room behind him, then back at Zantac. "I'd like to do business with you and your people, Zantac. I would. I daresay there's a lot of things I could offer you that you'd find unique. But I won't join. What do say to that?"

Zantac blew air through his lips while studying the floor, then looked back at Cygnus. "Counter-offer, Cygnus. You're going to be heading back to the Brass Dragon tomorrow, aren't you?"

Cygnus crossed his arms across his chest and gave a wry look to the other mage. "You _were_ scrying on us, weren't you?"

Zantac shrugged. "Of course." He wagged a finger at Cygnus. "Now if you'd been a member, you'd have been able to spot the sensor. Anyway, here's my offer. Let me come back with you to your inn. If I haven't convinced you by then that it'd be worth it to join up, " and here he took a deep breath, "I'll drop the issue, and see what I can do about getting you trained up. For full price, of course," he finished with an admonishing glare at Cygnus.

"Done." Cygnus put his arms around Zantac's shoulder. "Now, I'm starving. Where's the best place to eat around here?"

His peer smiled back at him. "Follow me."

As they rounded the hallway, heading back towards the stairs that led to the lower levels, the two wizards passed by a door to the meeting room that was still ajar. Cygnus pushed it open and looked inside. He whistled in admiration. "That's quite a conference room you've got there. And that carpet! It's-"

Zantac reached past Cygnus and pulled the door shut with a slam.

Cygnus eyed him curiously.

"Yeah," said Zantac, forcing a thin smile onto his face. "Yeah, it's- breathtaking."

_I think I owe Martan an apology_, he thought.

He was pretty sure he had seen it start to ripple.


	26. The Journeymen

**10th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Earldom of Farlyow, Furyondy**

Lieutenant Beckett eyed the bronze plaque that the warrior had given him. After giving it a perfunctory examination, he turned it over to one of his colleagues, then returned his gaze to the leader of the trio.

Like his companions, the man who had introduced himself as "Quthfor" had the look of a mercenary himself. If in fact they still were of that vocation, and Beckett suspected that they were, they were probably freelancers. Certainly, Beckett, who had been hired by Farlyow through the Mercenary Guild of Willip, had never seen him before. Quthfor looked about thirty- Beckett's age- with a faded scar running from the right side of his mouth to just under his right ear. A few strands of curly blond hair snuck out from underneath his helm. His hazel eyes kept darting forward to the inky blackness of the cave before him.

His two companions looked about ten years younger, and may have been brothers. They were already lighting torches, and prepping themselves for the upcoming expedition into the cave. They wore no helms, only eager expectations on their young faces. They smiled and joked with one another as they checked their armor and weapons one last time. Beckett's colleagues were teasing them about the horrors to be found within- pure fabrication, as Beckett had given them very strict instructions not to enter the cave under any circumstances- but their baiting seemed to be having little effect.

"So be it," Beckett said to Quthfor, who was now finishing up his own preparations. "Enter as you wish, but be warned. We will not enter this cave, even should you call out for aid."

"Don't worry. We won't need it," came a voice from above him.

* * *

Beckett looked up, and immediately had to sidestep to avoid another bronze plaque that dropped to the ground near his feet. Standing atop the cavern entrance, about twelve feet up, was the paladin of Odin he had met two days ago. With him were the Kara-Turan and the elven child who had been with him then.

The sellsword officer frowned as he stole a quick glance at the plaque lying on the ground. The number "2" was clearly engraved upon it. How had they managed to get back here so quickly? He looked up again. The three were slowly making their way down towards him.

"You don't react well to the unexpected, do you?" the paladin commented as he and his companions reached the ground.

Beckett just stared at the new arrivals.

"We'll be going inside now as well," the one called Elrohir indicated, as he and the paladin Aslan began making preparations of their own. "Unless you have some comment to make" he added, his eyes snapping back to Beckett, who still could not quite make out what had just happened.

To give himself a moment to think, the lieutenant bent down and picked up the plaque and examined it closely. It seemed to be genuine. He frowned to himself. He could in theory refuse the newcomers, on the grounds of forgery or dark magic or- _something_, but if they indeed had the Earl's authorization to enter, that might prove to be disastrous in the long run. He let his frown migrate to the outside, then faced the newly arrived quartet again, who had now assembled together.

"Go then. See if the terrors within are amused by your tricks." He then moved off towards his men.

* * *

The four individuals now moved up to Quthfor, who had by now motioned his two young companions behind him. Everyone save Elrohir and Tojo now had weapons drawn, ostensibly for the upcoming trek inside the cavern.

"So," said Quthfor, trying to take charge of the situation, "Do we enter as allies, or competitors?"

Something between a smile and a smirk graced the ranger's face. "That's up to you, friend. I'd prefer the former, but we're prepared for _any_ contingency," he stressed. He then indicated his compatriots. "This is Aslan, Tojo and Tadoa." He then turned back to Quthfor. "And I am Elrohir. We are freemen of Willip" he stated, still not quite sure if that was in fact true. Quthfor seemed to accept it without question though.

"I am Quthfor. We are the Journeymen of Hardby."

There was a brief silence. Quthfor made no attempt to introduce his two cohorts. Aslan smiled at one of them and asked, "And your name is... ?"

The youth gave him a practiced, icy glare. "Not your concern."

"Right," put in the other one. "Quthfor does the talking here."

Aslan grimaced inwardly. He could see Elrohir and Tadoa bristling, and didn't even want to look at Tojo. _This has to be nipped in the bud,_ he thought. _Where's Argo with a witty retort when you need him? _He put on his best imitation of Bigfellow's patented smile. "I see. Mr. Not and Mr. Right? Pleased to make your acquaintance. Let's not waste our torches then, shall we?" With that he moved off towards the cavern mouth, while his three friends smiled and followed.

_Hey_, Aslan thought. _That wasn't bad. I'll have to remember that one._ Quthfor had cut off the brothers' delayed retort with a sharp gesture, and the Journeymen moved abreast of the others. Quthfor eyed Elrohir.

"You do not need a torch?"

The ranger smiled in reply and unsheathed Gokasillion. A cold white light emanated from the blade. The Journeymen looked suitably impressed, but made no comment. Elrohir thought it would be great for effect if the sword were to speak, but he knew it was unlikely. Unlike Harve, Gokasillion was rather laconic.

"Anything we find, one share to each. " Elrohir said, without even looking at Quthfor for a confirmation. "Let's go."

* * *

After only ten feet or so, the cave floor sloped abruptly downward, at almost a forty-five degree angle. Elrohir and his allies moved cautiously down alongside the left-hand wall, the Journeymen down the right. At this point, the two groups were only fifteen feet apart. "Where did a cave like this come from in the middle of the plains?" grumbled Mr. Right, after nearly losing his footing.

"The water level is not very far below us," replied Elrohir. "I've seen it in- other lands. It erodes wide-open spaces in time. Probably an earthquake in years past pushed a section of it up to the surface," he finished, with an appreciative look at Tojo, who might have nodded a fraction of an inch in response. Or maybe not. Across the cave, Mr. Right actually seemed satisfied with the ranger's answer, or perhaps he was too busy trying not to slip to reply.

The floor bottomed out after about fifty feet. Now, the only light came from their sources. The ceiling remained at about a fifteen-foot height. _Sandcats and Bellicose wouldn't have liked this,_ Elrohir thought. _It'd be rather confining for them_. Then he remembered that neither dragon would have laired here by choice anyway. Even the proud and arrogant Sandcats had known whom his true master was, and his daughter had turned out to be no more than a large beast, unable to even comprehend disobedience to him.

The seven were now in a cavern roughly thirty-five feet in diameter. The floor was dry, but Elrohir noted the stubs of stalagmites and stalactites littering the floor and ceiling, respectively. A faint smell of ozone came from the far side of the cavern. All approached slowly, with caution. Scattered across the floor in this area was a large pile of debris. Sifting through it revealed mostly small pieces of wood and tatters of clothing. Elrohir noted that several spots on the walls looked like they had been blasted.

Aslan squatted on his haunches, examining something in his hand. "This is part of a wagon wheel," he commented to Elrohir. "Did you see any wheeled tracks outside anywhere?"

The ranger shook his head. "No. It must have been carried inside." He sniffed the air again. "Something- burnt. Human flesh maybe, or horseflesh." He looked grimly at the others.

"Let's hope the dragon doesn't come back while we're here," said Mr. Not.

"It won't. We killed it." said Tad, with a heavy emphasis on the _we_.

Mr. Not sneered and was obviously about to retort when Tojo spoke up, a scowl on the samurai's face.

"He speaks truth!"

Mr. Not seemed to take the point so he said nothing, looking down at the floor.

"Well then," came the voice of Quthfor. "We have little to fear then- except possibly a centaur."

"What do you know of this centaur?" asked Aslan curiously.

Quthfor shrugged. "Little. Beckett said that it moved in here about a week ago. Several people who thought to help themselves to the dragon's horde apparently encountered it. Only one or two survived, and they were scared near to madness by the beast, from what he said."

"The latest to try was just before the sellswords were posted," put in Mr. Not. "A farmer and his wife. Beckett said they never came out. I don't think they will."

The others turned to regard him. The warrior held in his left hand a farmer's scythe.

Aslan's brow wrinkled. "May I see that, good sir?" he asked, sheathing his sword. Mr. Not shrugged and tossed the tool to the paladin.

Aslan and his companions examined it. "No burn marks," noted Elrohir.

Tadoa ran his fingers across the handle. "These gouges- made by claws? Centaurs don't have claws, but they're far too small to be have been made by Bellicose."

Aslan gestured to Not. "You want this back?" The Journeyman shook his head, so the paladin dropped the scythe and drew his sword again.

"Aren't we forgetting the real reason we're all here?" asked Mr. Right, a little snidely. "Where's the treasure?"

_Have to admit, the snot's got a point,_ thought Elrohir. He hadn't seen so much as a copper. He walked along the cavern walls. Aside from where they had entered, there were two exits from this cavern, both maybe six feet wide, and spaced about eight feet apart. He peered into each one, hoping they might connect, but each one curved away from the cavern after only a few feet. Elrohir got down on one knee, examining the stone floor in front of one entrance, then repeated the process with the other.

"You're a ranger?" asked Quthfor.

Elrohir looked up over his shoulder at him.

"Actually, I'm an innkeeper."

He then stood back up and addressed all those present. "One's as good as another. I can't make out any tracks. We'll take this one, you the other" he said to Quthfor, who stared back at him for a moment, then nodded.

Elrohir took point down the passage, with Aslan behind him and then Tadoa, while Tojo covered the rear. As the voices of the Journeymen faded away from distance and intervening rock, Aslan spoke up. "I hope these passages reconnect," he said. The paladin then eyed his friend. "Please tell me you didn't lie to them, Elrohir. I've really about had my fill of deceit this week."

The ranger stopped and smiled at his friend. "Not to worry, Aslan. I really couldn't make out any tracks." He turned back to the front and resumed walking.

"I could however, make out some dried blood down this way."

* * *

They traveled about a minute later, and then the passage branched off in a Y-intersection. Tojo pointed down the right-hand tunnel. "I take this way."

Elrohir considered, and then nodded agreement. The samurai walked slowly off.

Aslan now moved behind Tad, and the trio continued. "Is the blood down this way, Elrohir?" the paladin asked. The ranger shook his head in response.

"I didn't see any more of it on either side."

After a short while, they came across a side passage on the right hand wall.

Elrohir and Aslan looked at each other. "I'll take Tadoa with me," the paladin said.

The ranger looked at the child. Tad was making a truly admirable effort to remain calm, but his knuckles were bone white around the hilt of his sword. Elrohir knew if he actually asked Tad, the elf would probably volunteer to go off on his own.

Elrohir nodded. "All right". Tadoa managed to shrug an affronted agreement while simultaneously releasing a big sigh of relief.

Suddenly, a woman's voice echoed down towards them, almost inaudibly at first, then growing louder.

"Help me... please, is someone there? I'm lost... please... I've been down here for so long... please, someone find me."

The voice now began to fade, as if she were moving further away.

"I can hear you, but I can't find you... are you still there? Please, come and find me... I'm lost..."

Elrohir glanced sharply at the others. "Can you tell which corridor that's coming from?"

The two listened, then shook their heads. Elrohir sighed deeply, weighing their options. "We should-"

"No." said Aslan.

Elrohir looked at the paladin, puzzled. Aslan shook his head.

"That voice. It's not right, Elrohir." Aslan seemed to be having a debate with himself, trying to find the right word, then gestured helplessly. "I can't explain how, or why- I just _know_ that's not right. It's a trap."

Elrohir tried to remain calm without upsetting his friend. "A centaur's hooves would carry a long way in these tunnels, Aslan. If that is the farmer's-"

"It's not right, Elrohir. That's all I can say!" Aslan glared at his team leader, then shrugged in helplessness. "Either way, it's your call."

The ranger took a deep breath and mustered all the resolve he could. He pointed Gokasillion down the side passage. "You and Tadoa."

The paladin eyed his friend, and then slowly nodded. "Let's go, Tad." His mask of confidence slowly but visibly fraying, the child followed Aslan down the side passage. They were swiftly lost to sight.

Elrohir stared down the main passage. His sword's light, while steady, was only half a torch's radius. He considered lighting one, but he wanted to keep his left hand free for his shield. He shook his head and moved on, further into the darkness.

* * *

The passageway opened up soon, but it gave Elrohir no comfort. He was now in an area of indeterminate size, filled with stalactites, stalagmites and short sections of walls. Some were only four of five feet high, but other stretched from floor to ceiling. Strange shadows from the rock formations at the edge of his swordlight distracted Elrohir. He now had absolutely no idea which way he was heading, or even how to find his way back to the passage he had come from.

Soon, the ranger found himself in a roughly ten-foot circular cave section. Numerous walls fanned out from this area. Counting the way he had reached here, he had at least eight choices of how to proceed at this point. Elrohir could feel his breathing becoming heavier. The ceiling almost looked like it was lowering, but when he shook his head and looked again, it was still at about the same twelve to fifteen-foot height. Every so often, he _almost_ heard something. Not a voice, not a footstep or the clatter of hooves, but an _almost_ sound of something sliding by stone.

Or was he just imagining it? A small current of fear was starting to tease at him. He could feel sweat running down his arms and pooling in parts of his armor. Suddenly, he very much wanted to see the open sky above him again. Wanted to see it very, very much. Thoughts of running began to tense up his leg muscles. He had to get-

_All right Elrohir, calm down. It hasn't been that long since you were doing this all the time. Get back to where you need to be. There's more involved here than just you. There are your friends. They're in this too, and they don't need their leader panicking on them. Don't chase after what you need to know. Let it come back to you._

A few deep breaths and a swallow from his waterskin later, Elrohir was feeling better. He allowed himself a small grin as he looked around him again. _All right then. Back to the basics. What do I have to work with here? _The ranger concentrated on his senses, one by one.

Sight. Nothing new came to his eyes, but he notched one scratch on two walls in front of him with Gokasillion. That would be the first passage he would try, and he would mark everywhere he went from now on.

Hearing. Nothing he could be certain of. Everything else he discarded.

Smell. Nothing- no, there was something. He sniffed again, deeply. Feces. It wasn't a strong smell, but with the overall lack of ventilation down here, it was probably fairly close, and fairly fresh. So to speak.

Taste. _Some more water would hit the spot,_ he thought. Elrohir took another swig from his waterskin, then carefully replaced it.

Touch. Elrohir looked down at the stone floor beneath him. He debated inwardly for a few seconds, and then slowly got down onto his knees. He removed his helm and laid it down on the ground next to his sword and shield. He then pressed his ear to the stone. When he was young, he had seen elven trackers do this in the forest. They had told him that it worked even underground.

After about a minute, Elrohir retrieved his items and stood up again, shaking his head. Nothing. _What a crock,_ he thought. _That probably only works in stories._

The ranger pressed his lips together in determination, and then slowly headed down the passageway he had marked. It went straight for about ten feet, and then stopped. It appeared to turn to the right, but when Elrohir came to the turn, he discovered that it was only a recess, maybe two feet thick. He turned around to go back to the open area and try another passage.

The centaur was standing right in front of him.

Elrohir had a brief vision of a brown, muscular lower body, and a young man's face on top of an equally muscular torso rising above the lower body's withers. The handsome face smiled at him, its ice-blue eyes holding his with ease.

Suddenly, the ranger's eyes watered violently. He didn't want to blink, but he had to.

In that tenth of a second, the centaur had changed. The lower body was now that of a lion, muscular, but with a tawny coat of fur that rippled in his swordlight. The torso that rose up from it was still human, but now it was female. Undisputedly very female, and undisputedly very naked.

The ranger's gawking was interrupted by the feeling that someone was staring at his eyelids. He slowly raised his gaze to see a young woman's face, framed by thick but stringy black hair. Her eyes were yellow, with vertical black slits for pupils. She smiled at him, realizing that the human was now looking at her true form. Her grin revealed a full row of stained teeth.

"Like what you see?" she purred.

Elrohir's reply (which in fact would have been only, "umm") was interrupted by a massive claw slamming into his face as the creature reared up and attacked. The shock and the pain sent his upper body slamming back into the rock wall. His feet shot out forward from under him, and he landed in an awkward sitting position, the wind momentarily knocked out of him.

In an instant, the thing was kneeling in front of him. She clamped her left hand over Elrohir's mouth. He _mmmphd_ in terror and tried to bring Gokasillion up to strike, but her other hand, which was holding a curved dagger that Elrohir had somehow failed to see, parried his blow- which was poorly executed anyway due to his poor position and close quarters.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps, and then Aslan's voice.

"Elrohir? Is that you? What's happening? Where are you?"

Elrohir dropped his shield and tried to pry that hand off his mouth, but it had a viselike grip. Then, horribly, the ranger heard his _own_ voice coming from the creature.

"I'm all right. I was climbing a wall, and I slipped and fell. No sign of anything yet. Keep searching where you are. We don't want to miss anything."

There was a pause, and then Aslan's voice came back. "All right, then."

No! Elrohir continued to struggle, but he wasn't getting anywhere. He now felt kind of fuzzy, as if everything seemed a little blurred, a little vague. Maybe it was from lack of oxygen, or- he couldn't be sure, but Elrohir knew he didn't like it. He just couldn't figure out exactly what to do about it. Now he was the one doing the parrying, as that dagger moved in closer, seeking his face, his throat. Elrohir knew he couldn't hold it off for much longer.

A piercing cry rang out, echoing over and over against the stone walls. Simultaneously, Elrohir saw a torch come rolling towards him, coming to rest about one yard short of his feet. That put it directly under the creature's stomach. It released its hand from his mouth, quickly stood up and then uttered a high-pitched scream of pain.

His view from this angle wasn't very good, but Elrohir could make out a samurai-shaped whirlwind directly behind the monster. That initial sound had been Tojo's battle cry.

Moving at a speed that the ranger would swear wasn't possible without magical aid, Tojo's katana cut through the air in a dozen dizzying arcs. Some of those ended with fresh blood clinging to the blade. Getting slowly to his feet, Elrohir wondered dimly why the thing wasn't backing up to deal with the samurai. Then he realized that Tojo was standing in the entranceway of the cul-de-sac. The creature was trapped, with Elrohir in front of it, and a burning torch beneath it!

Elrohir desperately tried to clear the cobwebs in his mind, but it wasn't working.

_What did she do to me?_

Then Aslan's voice, along with the sound of running footfalls, could be heard again. "Elrohir! Tojo! Hang on, we're coming! What is it?"

Somehow, Elrohir found both his voice and at least some of his mind.

_"A lamia! Aslan, it's not a centaur, it's a lamia! It's attacking me and Tojo!"_

There was a pause, although the footsteps continued. Then, the paladin's voice came back again.

_"What in The Hells is a lamia?"_

Elrohir had to bring up Gokasillion to bat away a dagger swipe. Behind him, he saw Tojo take a vicious back-kick to his throat. The samurai staggered back a few steps, which the lamia greedily gobbled up. It was almost able to turn around now. The ranger tried to think of how to answer Aslan, but his brain was still numb.

_"Tad!"_ he finally yelled. _"Tell Aslan what it is!"_

_"I'm sorry, Elrohir!"_ came the child's voice. _"I heard tales about them long ago, but I don't remember now! Which ones were they again?"_

_"AARRGGH!"_ Elrohir yelled, both from frustration and from the pain of a dagger stabbing into his left shoulder. _"LOOK FOR THE THING STANDING OVER THE DEAD BODIES OF YOUR TEAMMATES! THAT'LL BE IT! NOW HURRY UP, DAMMIT!"_

The lamia had now emerged into the open area, but as it turned around to face Tojo, who was again harrying it, Elrohir thrust Gokasillion into the creature's side. It shrieked in agony and, wrenching, nearly tore the blade from the ranger's grasp, but he held on and yanked it out.

With a leonine roar, the lamia bolted down one of the passageways, Tojo's final strike slicing off the very tip of its tail as it passed. The samurai grabbed his torch and then ran off in pursuit, with Elrohir following as best he could. Soon, he realized that they were heading back the way he had come. As they passed the side passage, Elrohir saw Aslan and Tadoa approaching. He beckoned them to follow and continued to run, although he knew he had no hope of overtaking Tojo, let alone the lamia. He could still hear the creature's roars and shrieks of pain.

As he entered the large cavern, he saw Quthfor emerge from the other passageway. Their mutual look was interrupted by yells and shouts coming from above. Both fighters ran up the sloped passage as quickly as possible.

Outside, he saw the mercenaries, but no sign of Tojo or the lamia. One of the sellswords was laying on the ground, two others tending to him. Lieutenant Beckett came over to the ranger. "It trampled one of my men, but I think he'll be all right. Another one got a shot off at it from his crossbow, but missed. It ran around the cave," he indicated, pointing in a circle to the north.

Breathing heavily, Elrohir ran around the cave entrance. He could see the lamia, streaking off into the distance. He could also see Tojo slowly coming to a stop, then sheathe his katana and place his hands on his knees, recovering his breath.

The encounter was over.

* * *

Ten minutes later, all seven spelunkers were sitting in front of the cave, resting up. Aslan had no healing available from his Talent, but he offered his paladin's grace. Both Elrohir and Tojo refused, so Aslan healed the mercenary who had been trampled, which earned all of their gratitude.

"Always helps to make friends," the paladin told Elrohir with a smile.

Ironically, it had been the Journeymen who had discovered the lair of the lamia, complete with numerous human bones- and the treasure. A merchant carrying varied art pieces and curios, as well as a fair amount of cash, had apparently been attacked by Bellicose, with the lamia later stealing the loot for its own. Quthfor said the pieces looked like they had come from the Amedio Jungle far to the south, a place Elrohir had only heard of. It was decided that the seven of them would journey to Willip, there to divvy up the spoils.

"You seem distracted, Elrohir. Are you all right?" Tadoa asked the ranger, a concerned look on the young elf's face.

Elrohir smiled at him. "Don't worry, Tad. I'll be fine. The lamia did something to me, but I think I'll be fine after a good night's sleep." He glanced over at Tojo, who was rubbing a dark red bruise on his neck. "How about you, Tojo? Are you all right?"

The samurai nodded, with a rare, tight-lipped smile appearing on his face. "I am fine, Errohir-san. Retirement not quite as peacefur as I imagined, though."

Elrohir nodded back. "That's true, Tojo. Very true." The ranger sat back, trying to collect his thoughts.

_Is it part of what that thing did to me, or did some part of me really enjoy that?_ Elrohir wondered.

_Do I really want to stay retired?_


	27. The Willow Tree

**11th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Willow Tree Inn, Willip, Furyondy**

_I'm glad we've retired,_ thought Cygnus. _I just wish our troubles would go away so everything would be all right again._

It was a common thought nowadays for the wizard, who glanced around at the large circular table at which he was seated. The entire Sir Dorbin party was eating and chattering amiably amongst themselves while awaiting the arrival of Caroline, Jinella and Zantac. Cygnus moved his gaze to encompass the decor of the room. It was rather impressive, and he was considering possibilities for the Brass Dragon. _If we ever have any money again_, he thought ruefully.

The Willow Tree's common room was easily triple the size of the Brass Dragon's. In the center, a bordered mound of earth held an actual willow tree, its top branches brushing against the room's twenty foot-tall ceiling. One wall was composed almost entirely of bordered glass windows, while the other walls boasted beautiful full-length painted frescos depicting impressive landscapes. One showed the city from Willip as viewed from its harbor; another was that of a beautiful city criss-crossed by canals (Chendl most likely, thought Cygnus), and the third another city he did not recognize.

The food was high quality, he noted, looking around at the meals of his dining companions. It was the equal to what the Brass Dragon used to serve, and they had a wider variety. Their prices were at least double, however. Cygnus decided that, once things were back to normal again, he would speak with Argo and Elrohir about the possibility of raising prices at the Brass Dragon, at least a little. With a little more coin in their coffers, they could-

"Your tea, sir?"

Cygnus turned. A boy about Thorin's age (_Thorin's apparent age_, he reminded himself) held a mug of tea in his hands. Cygnus smiled, took the mug from the boy's hands and handed him two silver sheridans. The child smiled and headed back towards the bar. The wizard gazed thoughtfully after him.

_When Thorin was with me, I never thought that much about him, except for his studies. Now that he's not here, I notice it. There's an emptiness that I didn't expect. Maybe it's because a little piece of his mother lives on in him. I know she'd want the best for him._ The magic-user took a sip of his tea, and set it down on the table. He hadn't ordered anything to eat this morning. He wasn't feeling very hungry. Oddly, the quote that Aslan had attributed to Nodyath kept popping up in his thoughts at the oddest times.

_A child deserves better._

Nodyath. Cygnus fingered the rim of his mug. When Caroline had told him yesterday afternoon of what had transpired in the Prison three days ago, Cygnus had felt that familiar feeling of dread, but curiously, it hadn't lasted that long. It just didn't seem possible to him, that if Nodyath still lived, he wouldn't have sought vengeance at his earliest opportunity. Of course, they would know today. Jinella would let them know what the results of Lancoastes' divination were. Cygnus sincerely hoped that Nodyath was dead. That was one more problem that he just didn't want to have to deal with at the moment. He thought of his slate, currently resting in his backpack. His Enemies List. His expression grew grim. _Well, if Nodyath's still alive, he's on the list too,_ he resolved. _I'm tired of others trying to deny us our happiness. Apparently, they only understand one thing. _A cruel grin crossed his face as he remembered adding Lord Dak's name to the list several days ago, only to immediately cross it out. That had felt good.

He turned his attention back to the party of Sir Dorbin. While he was glad that he had at least some money in his belt pouch now- thanks to the dragon parts they had sold at the Wizard's Guild- he knew that Torlina and Flond had done some trading in spells there on their own. He frowned. Between them and the elves going to the Tribal House, more people than ever probably now knew that he, Elrohir, Aslan, Tojo and Tadoa were from another world than ever. While it had never been a very closely guarded secret, they had all agreed to try and keep it as low profile as possible, to keep away the curious. _Like other wizards,_ Cygnus thought sourly.

As if on cue, Zantac appeared in the doorway of the inn.

"You!" he said loudly, while pointing directly at Cygnus. With a sour grimace on his face, he quickly moved to their table and sat down next to Cygnus, in the chair Cygnus suddenly wished he hadn't saved for him. _Could this guy be any less subtle?_ the younger mage wondered.

"Thanks for telling me your two fellow wizards here are from the same world you are," Zantac scolded Cygnus. "Here I am, pulling hydra's teeth to try to get the barest concessions out of you, and Hogeth comes by to tell me about these incredible spells these two sold us without even any prompting!"

Cygnus shrugged. "Well, you know what this means, don't you?"

"Yes, I know what it means," Zantac replied, slapping the back of his hand against Cygnus' chest. "It means I could have been paying attention to that pretty young thing over there, and not wasting my time on your ugly mug!" He indicated Torlina, then turned back to Cygnus with a sly smile. Zantac was crass and crude without a doubt, and yet, watching Torlina blush and Dorbin trying to repress a scowl, he couldn't help but smile back.

Cygnus crossed his arms. "No, this means you don't have to waste your time and mine trying to get me to sign up."

Zantac however, shook his head.

"Sorry, Cygnus. You don't get off the hook that easily. These two told me they'll be leaving this world soon, going back home. The Guildmaster wants to get the complete perspective on otherworldly magic, and that means a full-timer."

"Flond and I are using that money to get all of us home," put in Torlina, apparently feeling a need to explain herself. "That was the only reason we bartered spells," she finished with a defensive look. For his part, Flond was on his second cup of ale, and paying no attention to any of this.

"We belong back on our home world. It may be some time- a few days at the least, until a way home opens up for us," Sir Dorbin stated, his gaze on Zantac. "Lancoastes says that conventional spells will not suffice for this, but he is confident the Church will eventually be able to help us. It's just as well," he continued, those dark blue eyes now locking on Cygnus. "We may still have an important task to complete first."

Zantac raised an eyebrow at that, but did not pursue it. He looked now at Cygnus with what looked like honest curiosity. "What about you, Cygnus? You don't feel like you belong back on Aarde? And your friends? Do they feel the same way?"

Cygnus nodded slowly, staring down at his cup of tea. "It's different for us than it is for them," he said, indicating the Sir Dorbin party. "We've retired now. Home," he looked thoughtful, then shrugged with a weak smile. "Home is where you make it, I guess. And for us, home will always be the Brass Dragon."

There was a brief silence around the table. Then, Torlina smiled and reached across the table, taking Cygnus' hands in hers. He looked up in surprise.

"If our future is anything like yours Cygnus, I would call that a very happy retirement, indeed. Your loved ones at your side, and your children beside you." She finished by glancing over at Sir Dorbin. "What else could one wish for?"

"Indeed," the knight added softly.

"Hmmm," put in Unru. "Perhaps not quite so many murder attempts. And a few less dragons attacking out of the sky. And maybe..."

Cygnus wasn't even listening. For some reason, Torlina's statement had captivated him. Still staring at her (_I never noticed before, but she does look a little like Hyzenthlay_, he thought), out of the corner of his eye Cygnus saw Zantac looking at him even more curiously then before. With some effort, he turned away from Torlina's green eyes to address Zantac.

"Yes?"

Zantac's voice was filled with wonder. "You have children? I knew you were a widower Cygnus, but-" he trailed off, his expression embarrassed.

Cygnus' tone was a little harsher than he intended it to be. "Should have scryed a little longer, Zantac. Yes, I have a son, as does our party leader, Elrohir. Does that change anything?"

Zantac was trying to digest this. _I'm sure the Guildmaster knew this. Why didn't he tell me?_ "Well," he said, his voice a little unsteady now. "Your being a Guild member would increase his safety several fold, but I'll save that for the walk home," he added quickly to forestall Cygnus' objection. "I don't have any kids myself, but I know that one day I do want them. Of course, that kind of involves a woman being somewhere in my life," he added with a self-deprecating laugh. "I do have a nephew, ten years of age, though I don't see him as often as I'd like." His voice grew reflective. "I asked his father once if I could tutor the boy in magic."

"What did he say?" asked Cygnus.

Zantac ran his hand through his hair. "He hit me over the head with a chair."

"Smart fellow," snorted Flond.

Zantac whirled on Flond, now with a scowl on his own features. "How would you know? Do you have a son?"

"Yes, you bastard- I do!" Flond jumped to his feet, banging the table and oblivious to his glass of ale falling off. "Listen, you blind fool!" he said, loudly enough to draw the attention of other tables. "Arcane magic is the biggest, most seductive trap ever laid at the feet of mortals! Who doesn't want to be able to lay waste one's enemies with powerful blasts of magic, to obtain power and wealth, to catch the eye of a beautiful woman or handsome man, to bask in the awe of commoners who don't know any better? What does it mean in the end? Nothing! Can you name me ONE wizard who died of old age, peacefully, in his bed, surrounded by his family, his children? I can't! Magic begets greater magic, which begets even greater magic, which sooner or later, begets another wizard's corpse!"

He strode quickly around the table to Cygnus, who got to his feet, half-afraid that Flond was going to attack him, but the other mage just stuck his face close to his. Cygnus could smell the ale on his breath.

"Does Thorin want to be a wizard, Cygnus?" Flond hissed at him. "If he doesn't, by anything and everything you hold dear, don't push him into it! And if he does," and here Flond could only shrug and look at Cygnus with pity in his bleary eyes. "Then you've already damned your own son. If Nodyath kills you both, it'd still be better than it could be."

Cygnus balled his hands into fists, the command word for the _ring of shooting stars_ on his left hand coming to mind. He managed to grit out, "We don't know if Nodyath is even alive, Flond."

"And we still don't," came a voice from the door.

Everyone turned to see Jinella standing in the doorway. No longer clad in her vestments, she was wearing chainmail armor. A mace hung from her side. From the expression on her face, it was clear that she had caught at least some of Flond's outburst. She slowly moved towards them.

Flond cast his eyes down to the floor. "I'll meet the rest of you back here later," he said, and brushed brusquely by Jinella.

The priestess frowned at the departing mage and then returned her gaze to the ten individuals still around the table, as she came over to them.

"The _divination_ on Nodyath revealed nothing. Lancoastes believes powerful magic- _very_ powerful magic is shielding any knowledge of Nodyath from our faith." She took a deep breath and slowly sat down in the chair Flond had vacated, now moving her gaze to Cygnus. "The High Priest wishes to know, since Nodyath is but a twisted form of your paladin friend. Could Aslan use his Talent to shield himself from divinations?"

Cygnus shook his head. "Not that I am aware of, although the occasion has never come up to ask," he stated. Sir Dorbin took the ensuing pause to introduce the remaining members of his party to both Jinella and Zantac. Jinella eyed Monsrek critically, but said nothing. He smiled back at her and showed her the top of his balding head.

"Nary a lump, my good lady." She smiled back at him.

"Fortune favors even the foolish sometimes," she countered, then turned back to Cygnus. "Are you all right, Cygnus? You look pale."

The wizard smiled weakly back at her. "I'm all right, Jinella." He glanced back over at Torlina, who was looking concernedly at him.

_He's alive. She knows it as much as we do. No one who has such absolute mastery of magic would use it to shield someone who was dead. So many questions need answering, though. Is Nodyath still a threat to us, or has he decided to move on? Who is shielding him, and how is he paying for this service? Is he telling everyone about Rolex and Aarde, or not? And just why is here on Oerth, anyway? Even if he just wanted the gate scroll to get home, he had to have a reason for coming here in the first place. What was it?_

Cygnus rubbed his eyes. When he looked up again, it was just in time to see Caroline walk slowly into the room from outside. At an unspoken signal from Sir Dorbin, everyone present rose to his or her feet, Zantac self-consciously standing apart a little. Even more so than Cygnus, Caroline looked weak and unsteady on her feet. "What's wrong, Caroline?" asked Cygnus.

Caroline tried to smile, but it didn't really work. "I went to the Temple of Zeus, to try and see Argo," she said softly. "Ukansis was very polite, but he said Argo was training elsewhere, and Melinjaro wasn't available. Ukansis doesn't know anything about the nature of the quest Argo's going to be given. Only the High Priest knows, and I can't get in to see him." She began to cry quietly. "I just want my husband back. I'm sorry if that makes me weak, but I just..."

Monsrek walked over to Caroline and enfolded her in his blue robes in a hug, making Cygnus feel guilty that he hadn't done that first. "It'll be all right, Mrs. Bigfellow," he said to the top of her head after kissing it softly. He then bent down so he could look into her eyes. "We children of the Summoner have a knack for getting things done where others can't," he said. "I promise you, at the very least, I'll be able to give him a message from you. I might even be able to get you together for a moment, but no promises there."

Caroline managed a somewhat better smile, and wiped her eyes clear. "Thank you," she whispered. To both her and Monsrek's surprise, Jinella walked over to Caroline and laid her hand on the younger woman's shoulder.

"We will all pray for your husband, Caroline Bigfellow. Prayer is powerful, even from the misguided," she finished with a wry grin at Monsrek, who managed to look only mildly affronted.

Cygnus walked awkwardly over to Caroline. Physical contact with women had always been somewhat uncomfortable for him. Hyzenthlay had been the only exception in his three decades of life, but it hadn't carried over to anyone else. Caroline though, seemed to have no problem in turning to Cygnus and giving him a strong hug. After a few seconds, he was somewhat surprised that he returned it.

"Ahem" came the voice of Zantac. Caroline and the others turned to the red-robed wizard as he walked over to them. "The resources of our Guild are at your command, Mrs. Bigfellow."

_You just want a hug too, you manipulating bastard_, thought Cygnus, then grinned as Zantac got it. Still, something about his demeanor told him that Zantac's promise was not an empty one, even if fulfilling it might get him into trouble. He turned to Sir Dorbin and his party. He was no longer jealous about their supposedly superior relationship with each other. They were people with their own problems, just like Cygnus and his friends. He shook the knight's hand.

"I hope you find your way home quickly, Sir Dorbin. Thank you for all that you have done for us."

The knight smiled and nodded. "We will meet again before we leave, Cygnus. I am certain of it. For now, may the gods watch over you and all of you at the Brass Dragon."

Slowly, Cygnus, Caroline, Jinella and Zantac headed outside the Willow Tree. Perlial, White Lightning and the other two horses awaited them there. Cygnus smiled at White Lightning, and put his hand on her neck. "Hopefully, Elrohir and the others should be back at the inn by now. Ready to see them again?"

There were many people close by, so the mare settled for nodding her head. Cygnus turned to the others.

"All right, everyone. Let's go home."


	28. A Debt Come Due

**11th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The sun was just beginning to touch the horizon in front of them as the inn came into view. Cygnus, currently astride White Lightning, glanced over at Caroline and smiled.

"We made good time. I'll be glad to sleep in my own bed tonight."

Caroline returned the smile, if only half-heartedly. Not having to carry any plate mail-clad warriors or heavy dragon hides, the horses had been able to make good time getting home, and she was glad for that. Her own bed however, did not seem nearly so inviting to her. Not without Argo. She looked back behind her to see how the two new arrivals were faring.

Jinella was looking all around, even at the empty plains, with a look of intense curiosity. Caroline wondered how much the young priestess got out beyond Willip. Not very often, from the looks of it. She would sometimes just stare up at the sky for minutes at a time. It had been sunny and clear these past few days, but now clouds were again moving in from the south and west. Caroline wondered if Jinella was just admiring their crimson beauty in the sunset, or if she was seeing- or trying to see- something else there; an augury in the sky.

Both Cygnus and Caroline had been impressed, if not enthused, by Jinella's determination to find out everything possible about all of them. An able horsewoman, she would write in a book she held while questioning all of them, even the horses, for long periods of time. Little information had been denied her, only matters concerning Nodyath, Talat and counterparts in general. Elrohir had long made it a standing point that casual travel between the three worlds was to be discouraged, on the off chance that it might someday be possible.

Caroline couldn't help but grin as she looked over at Zantac. The Willip wizard was grimacing as he bent low over Perlial's neck, holding onto the diamond collar fiercely. It had quickly become apparent that Zantac had precious little experience with horses. It had thus been decided that he would ride Perlial, who in addition to being intelligent, was less likely than White Lightning to pull a practical joke at an inopportune time. Nevertheless, the mage looked extremely uncomfortable, and he had spared no one his complaints about it. Cygnus hadn't minded, though. It had cut down on the time Zantac had available to expound of the wondrous advantages to being a member of the Wizard's Guild. Although Cygnus had not changed his mind, he had been impressed at how Zantac had lived in the city for three years before joining the Guild, as he put it, "kicking and screaming." Cygnus had told Zantac that, although he still did not intend to join up at this time, he would continue to leave the matter open for now, at which point Zantac had smiled and dropped his sales pitch.

Cygnus eyed the corpse of Bellicose, laying about sixty yards off the road, to the left as they approached. Or rather, he eyed the mass of seagulls, turkey vultures and other birds who had covered what was left of the dragon's body and were slowly devouring the inside, the hide being too tough for them to tear off. A large raven took off from the body and flew directly over the quartet, eyeing Cygnus before continuing its eastwards flight. The magic-user shuddered, although he was not sure if it was from the cold or from nerves. He turned back to Jinella and Zantac with a grim expression.

"Hope you two know what you're getting yourselves into," he announced.

They both put on brave expressions he was sure neither of them really felt. Particularly Zantac.

"There's Talass," said Caroline. "I don't see any of the others."

Cygnus looked, frowning. Talass was standing by the road, about thirty yards from the inn. She was wearing her chainmail armor and had her arms crossed across her chest. Cygnus knew enough about the cleric to be able to tell that this was not a good sign.

He sighed inwardly as he saw the stable boy come out to meet them as they pulled up. _Home, sweet home_, he thought. _Let the revelry begin._By unspoken agreement, Cygnus and Caroline approached Talass first while the others were dismounting a little further back.

* * *

"Hello, Talass," said Cygnus. After a short pause, he added, "We're back," which immediately made him feel like an idiot. _She can see that, you moron._ "Have Elrohir and the others returned yet?"

"No," replied Talass in a cold voice.

Cygnus could see the concern on Talass' face, but she was trying to bury it so deep underneath a hard facade that he knew it wasn't going to be worth the trouble to dig for it.

"I was going to ask you if you'd heard news of them, but I see now that would be a waste of time," the cleric said. Cygnus could see her squint behind them. "Who are those two?"

"The woman is Jinella, priestess of Heironeous," Cygnus replied. "You remember- she was at Elrohir and Aslan's trial. She said that she knew they were inno-"

"What's she doing here?" interrupted Talass.

_Not getting a proper welcome_, Cygnus wanted to say, but Caroline spoke up at that point. "Talass- Mendoleer was murdered in his cell and Talat has disappeared completely. Divinations can gain no information, but it seems like there's at least a real possibility that Nodyath may still be alive. Jinella is here to help us investigate."

That at least got a response. Talass' light blue eyes darted everywhere then sank down to the dirt below. After a few seconds, she looked up again, her stony expression struggling to reassert itself.

"Thank you for letting me know, Caroline," she stated with a curt nod.

Caroline returned her acknowledgement with a short nod of her own, all the while thinking, _I don't believe it. She almost sounds disappointed that her sister hasn't been killed. What is going on with her? She sure didn't sound too happy at that prospect back at my cabin before we left!_ She indicated behind her with another nod. "The man is Zantac, a wizard from Willip. He's trying to get Cygnus to join their Guild, but in the meantime he's pledged himself to help us anyway he can."

Talass eyed the two new arrivals for a few moments, then sighed through her nose, her lips a tight line. She turned her attention back to Cygnus. "Can you take care of that dragon with your spells, Cygnus? The damn smell is driving off customers."

She brushed past him and Caroline, heading towards Jinella and Zantac, who had now dismounted and were tentatively approaching. Cygnus slowly headed back towards Bellicose's corpse, while Caroline followed Talass. Bigfellow was surprised to see the priestess of Forseti put on her welcoming smile and greet the newcomers warmly.

"Jinella and Zantac! Welcome to the Brass Dragon Inn! I am Talass, Elrohir's wife. I'm sure Cygnus and Caroline have already told you all about me. All good, I hope," she added with a laugh as he held her hand out. Jinella shook it first, with a wide smile now on her face, as well.

"Some," the cleric of Heironeous replied. "But they did leave out one amazing fact."

"What's that?" asked Talass curiously.

Jinella's smile suddenly took on a hard edge. "The fact that aside from your hair color, you look almost _exactly_ like Talat."

The smile drained away from Talass' face like water from a sieve.

Caroline and Zantac froze. _Wow_, thought Caroline. _Who'd have thought that Jinella would draw first blood? I suppose one of us should have thought of that._ She looked longingly at Cygnus' retreating back. _A quick dip into the decaying guts of a dead dragon sounds pretty good right about now._

Slowly, Talass withdrew her hand from Jinella's. Now her face gained a hard edge as well.

"You've met both of us already, Lady of Valor. Are you telling me that you just realized that now?"

Despite herself, Caroline couldn't keep a slight grin off her face. _Counterstrike!_

Jinella chewed her lip for a moment, clearly taken aback. She quickly recovered though, with another smile and a shrug. "My High Priest says I'm a slow learner. My apologies." She threw in a slight bow, not taking her eyes off Talass for a moment. "Can you explain this coincidence?"

"I could," Talass stated. "But I'll need a better reason than your simple curiosity."

Caroline could see that both women were now clutching their respective holy symbols. The very real possibility of combat breaking out was now beginning to occur to her. _Why are we always our own worst enemies? _She thought.

She coughed loudly, and in an exaggerated fashion.

Both women looked at her.

_I'm glad I didn't draw my sword. I don't think that would have worked nearly as well this time,_ Caroline thought ruefully. "Excuse me. Talass, Jinella is here to help as an agent of justice in this kingdom. I think we owe her all due respect for that" _That should hit Talass where it hurts._ "And Jinella, Talass has very good reasons for being cautious with you. We've had experience with outsiders jumping to the wrong conclusions about us, even after our valor and chivalry have been acknowledged by no less than Baron Chartrain himself." _Who's more or less your superior right now, I believe._

Both priestesses eyed her for a moment, then returned their gazes to each other.

Jinella spoke first. "Can we talk somewhere in private, Talass?"

Talass seemed to be seriously considering the possibility of an ambush when Caroline said "Talass," and tossed her the key to her cabin. She caught it, startled, looked at Caroline, and then gave a barely visible nod.

"This way," she gestured to Jinella, leading the way to the Bigfellow cabin. Jinella gave Caroline a quick glance, and then slowly followed Talass off.

Caroline gave a deep sigh, then nearly jumped at a tap on her shoulder.

Zantac was standing behind her, in a slight crouch. "A thousand pardons, Lady Bigfellow. Could you tell me where I might..."

Caroline stared blankly at him for a moment, then almost burst into guffaws, causing Zantac's face to redden still further. She pointed towards the door of the inn. "Inside. The bartender will show you where the privy is." Zantac nodded acknowledgement, then half-ran, half-hobbled inside, Caroline waited until the wizard had gone behind, then finally let out the nervous laughter that had been building up.

* * *

Cygnus turned around, frowning. It looked for all the world like Caroline was laughing back there, although he had no idea why this would be so. Talass and Jinella were entering the Bigfellow cabin and Zantac was nowhere to be seen. He shrugged and turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

Some cantrips had removed the smell, but he knew they wouldn't last long. He thought of some spells that would be a great help here, but he didn't have them memorized yet. He began to walk back to the inn. Tomorrow he would be able to-

_No, Cygnus. There will be no tomorrow for you._

* * *

Cygnus went colder than he had ever gone in his life. Except for that one time, six days ago. Aslan's voice in his head that he knew was not Aslan.

_You remember me, Cygnus? How touching. I'm sure you were thinking of me when you put that trap on the scroll._

Cygnus tried to speak, and was able to manage a small croak. "Nodyath, listen-"

_Listen to what, Cygnus? About how honorable you were? About how that mockery of a paladin and all these holy women are so much more morally superior to me? I was straightforward with you Cygnus, and you betrayed me. You never would have seen me again had you done what I asked you to do. Now, you and everyone that you love will be very, very sorry that this dragon did not kill you. Had I known it would have failed, I would have stuck around._

Cygnus' face creased up in puzzlement.

_Yes Cygnus, I was there. But I'm not here to answer your questions. I'm here to deliver on my promises. Unlike you, I keep them._

Somehow, Cygnus' rage overcame his fear. "You kidnapped my son, you gutless coward! You deserve to rot in The Hells!" He whirled around, looking for the enemy he knew was too small to see.

A chuckle sounded in his mind._ Such courage. A small reward for your bravery, Cygnus. You will be the first to die, and so never see the agony of those that you love. Including your son._

Suddenly, practicality overrode all of Cygnus' other considerations. He needed help. His gaze turned to the Brass Dragon, and he slowly began to start walking there.

_The Rokugani of Rolex have a saying, Cygnus. "The price of dishonor is death."_

Cygnus began to run.

_Your debt has come due, Cygnus of Aarde._

The wizard opened his mouth to scream.

_Time to pay._

A white-hot ice pick slammed into Cygnus' head from behind. He went down, rolling on the dead grass and dirt, a cry of pain stuck in his throat. Then it hit again, and again, a constant pounding surf of pain. Now sheer terror merged with the pain. He had to get away. Run as far away as he could. Run and never stop running. Cygnus caught a quick glimpse of a rippling across the ground. He knew he was under psionic attack. He also knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The wizard's legs kept flailing along the ground, still trying to run. The world was starting to turn white, the pain and the fear submerging him now. He knew it would soon be over. Dimly, he thought, _so this is what Aslan's enemies feel. I've really got to have a talk with our little paladin about that._

His thoughts faded away in the white-hot fear and an indistinct voice.

The voice grew louder. Cygnus managed to open one eye, and from his prostrate angle saw Talass standing nearby. She was holding her holy symbol of a bearded man out in front of her and speaking words Cygnus couldn't understand. A moment later, Jinella appeared beside Talass and did the same with her symbol of a lightning bolt. Cygnus caught a glimpse of Caroline running around behind him. He managed to turn his head and saw her begin jumping up and down on the ground and start slicing away at the dead grass with her sword. This struck him as unbelievably funny. If he hadn't been dying, he would have laughed.

Suddenly, the fear washed over him, and was gone. There was no more new pain, but the agony already present claimed his brain as its own. Cygnus curled up in a fetal position on the ground and clutched at his head, desperately wishing for either unconsciousness or death to release him. He was dimly aware of one of the women kneeling down by him and carefully placing his head in her lap.

It was Talass, Cygnus saw. Suddenly, he began sobbing. "I'm sorry, Talass! I'm so sorry..."

The wracking of his body overtook him, and he succumbed to it. He didn't even know what he was apologizing for.

But he knew that he meant it.

Talass stroked the mage's hair slowly, thinking _Cygnus, you foolish, foolish man. What are we going to do with you?_ She glanced over at Jinella, who was also kneeling down now, looking at the wizard with the same concern in her eyes that Talass knew must be in hers. Caroline joined them. Nothing more was said.

Slowly, Cygnus regained some control over himself. Sniffling, he shakily raised his head enough to look straight into Talass' eyes. "Thank you," he managed to croak out. Talass smiled as Cygnus slowly moved himself into a sitting position.

"How... how did you drive him off? the mage asked in wonderment.

Talass shrugged, her smile now assuming a rare guilty air. "Actually Cygnus, I had nothing. I couldn't tell where the attack was coming from, so I just stuck out my holy symbol and starting speaking in Fruz. I was hoping he would mistake it for some spell. I guess he did."

Cygnus' eyes went wide. "You bluffed?" Talass, still looking uncharacteristically guilty, nodded. "What can I say, Cygnus? You know how manipulative we clerics are."

Cygnus gave Talass an _I deserved that_ smile and then turned to Jinella.

"Please tell me you had something."

Jinella matched Talass' shrug and smile exactly. She jerked her thumb at the cleric of Forseti.

"Sorry, Cygnus. I didn't have a clue what was going on. I just followed her lead."

"At least the two of you didn't look like a madwoman, jumping around, yelling and stabbing the ground like it was your worst enemy" put in Caroline. "He probably thought we'd all gone completely insane, and it might be catching."

"You mean we haven't?" asked Cygnus quietly. He started to laugh again, real laughter this time, and soon the three women joined him.

"Well, glad to see things are obviously looking better now." The quartet, now rising to their feet, turned to see Zantac standing nearby. The red-robed wizard wore a look of confusion. "I could use a laugh, believe me. What's the good news?"

More laughter greeted him as the four swept passed him, Cygnus putting an arm around Zantac's shoulder and pulling him along as they headed back towards the inn.

"The good news my friend, is that we're very likely all going to die a horrible death very soon," he told Zantac.

The Willip wizard stopped and eyed Cygnus with a deadly serious look.

Cygnus shrugged. "I guess you had to be there."


	29. Aslan's Concern

**12th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Billet Inn, Willip, Furyondy**

"That's the last of it."

There was a brief silence as each of the seven carefully stowed away their portion of the proceeds in their belt pouches, sacks and backpacks. It had come to about two thousand gold wheatshaffs each. Aslan noticed the looks the Journeymen gave as an equal share was divvied up to Tadoa. They had said nothing though, so neither had the elf.

The paladin looked around at the small room they were crowded into. Quthfor had indicated that he and his two companions would be staying in Willip for a while. He had chosen the Billet because he was familiar with it, and much of its clientele consisted of mercenaries, as opposed to seamen. Aslan could see the early-morning traffic on the Land Legs Road below the window. He then turned around to regard the ranger again, who was still sitting down, rubbing his eyes.

Although he had healed Elrohir and Tojo of their physical injuries yesterday, Elrohir was mentally still not quite back to his old self yet. He claimed to be feeling better though, and had ardently refused all of Aslan's offers to have him healed at a temple, although Aslan was unsure whether Elrohir's reluctance came from a fear of losing most of their new-found gold, or a defiant belief that he would soon be fine on his own. For his part, the paladin had decided to wait and see if a few more days would bring his friend back up to speed.

The voice of the Journeymen's leader took Aslan's attention again. Quthfor smiled and offered his hand. "Well, I guess we part ways here. I only wish we could have stood beside you in combat." He shrugged. "Perhaps we may yet get the chance, on some future day."

Aslan took Quthfor's hand and shook it. "We will always stand by our allies." He then looked over at Mr. Right, who somewhat sheepishly offered his hand as well.

"Robert," he said. "My name is Robert."

"Is that _Right _now?" the paladin asked with a smile, shaking his hand as well. Mr. Not, whose real name turned out to be Bertram, was the next to say goodbye.

After all the farewells were said, the Elrohir party descended the stairs and out into the common room of the Billet. It was moderately full, mostly with armored men having breakfast and talking business. As they began to wend their way through the room, Tojo stopped and turned back to look at Aslan.

The paladin was standing on the bottom step, his light blue eyes scanning the room, a look of intense concentration on his face. As Tojo returned to Aslan's side, the others came back as well. They waited a few moments, and then Elrohir spoke first.

"Aslan?"

The paladin's eyes refocused on his. "It's all right, Elrohir. Let's go."

"You were checking these people out for evil auras, weren't you?" asked Tadoa, in a thankfully quiet voice, as the quartet made their way out of the Billet. Aslan nodded.

"You've been doing that a lot ever since we got here," noted Elrohir. Aslan said nothing, but his expression gave no denial.

"Why?" prodded the ranger.

Aslan looked grim. "I've been lax, Elrohir. I wasn't gifted with this ability to let it go to waste. I- I feel that evil influences are close to us. I can't let them catch us off guard."

Elrohir put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're always on your guard, Aslan. No one does more for us than you do, day after day. Don't overextend yourself, my friend. You're only human."

"Spoken like a true half-human!" came a voice from across the street.

The quartet watched as a figure about five feet tall, garbed in a dark blue hooded cloak over leather armor, dodged horses and crowds of people to make his way over to them. Elrohir frowned. He knew who this was, but he couldn't remember his name. He glanced over to Aslan, and was surprised to see that look of concentration again on the paladin's face as he eyed the approaching figure. _He's really going overboard with this_, he thought. Judging from his reaction, Aslan detected nothing amiss.

The figure pulled up to them and pulled down his hood, revealing the smiling elven face of Ailclesis.

"I should have known you were one of the Hidden when I first met you, Elrohir. I must be slipping." He shook his head. "That's not good in my profession."

Aslan, apparently noticing the momentary look of consternation on Elrohir's face, spoke up first, replying in elven.

"May as well speak the common tongue, Aiclesis. All of us know elven."

The elf raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Really?" he asked in Common, glancing over at Tojo. "I didn't know there were elves in Nippon."

The samurai shook his head and bowed, very slightly.

"Not rearn there. Rearn afterwards. Arways increase knowredge, to better serve with honor."

"And just what is your profession?" asked Tadoa with a sly smile.

Aiclesis looked up at the sky. "My, look at those clouds! It certainly looks like we'll get rain or snow soon, don't you think?" He glanced over at the child and winked.

Tadoa nodded sagely, still keeping the smile. "I thought so."

Elrohir decided to jump in. "It's good to see you again, Aiclesis. I assume your friends are here, as well?"

"Yes. I'm doing some- solo ventures at the moment. It may be a while until we can get home, but it'll happen, sooner or later. I take it your expedition to the lair of Bellicose was, shall we say, profitable?"

The ranger nodded. "Some problems with a squatter, but we took care of it. Are Cygnus and Caroline still here?"

Aiclesis shook his head. "They departed yesterday, back to your home. Jinella and Zantac went with them."

Elrohir's face wrinkled up in puzzlement. "Who?" He looked over to Aslan, who smiled benignly at him.

"You're not forgetting anything, Elrohir. Jinella was- I think- one was of the clerics of Heironeous present at our trial." He paused, and then looked back at Aiclesis. "Why did she go with them?"

The elf's eyes widened slightly. "That's right, you don't know, do you?" His gaze turned back to Elrohir. "Jinella said that Mendoleer was murdered in his cell four days ago, and Talat has vanished. Her church believes Nodyath was responsible, and has ordered her to stick to you people until they can get as much information as they can about him." He paused. "Are you all right, Elrohir?"

Elrohir in fact felt somewhat ill, and he was sure he probably looked it. When Aiclesis had mentioned Mendoleer's death, he had had a momentary vision of his own body, lying dead in a dark, dank prison cell. It rippled through him, leaving him feeling cold and somewhat feverish. He shook his head to clear it. It didn't really work, but he didn't want anyone making a fuss over something they couldn't do anything about anyway. He glanced back at Aslan. "Evil influences, indeed."

The paladin's face indicated acknowledgement, and disappointment. _Nodyath_, he thought. _Damn._ He then turned back to Aiclesis with a puzzled look. "And who was that other one you mentioned- Zantac?"

Aiclesis gave him a wry smile. "He's a local wizard, trying to sign up Cygnus to the Guild here. He's quite a piece of work," he chuckled. "He actually got Flond animated about something. Unfortunately, that wasn't much of an improvement, but there you go," he said with a smile that reminded Aslan of Argo. "Apparently, he's going to stick around and help out until Cygnus either joins up or strangles him, whichever comes first."

"Wonderful," groused Aslan.

Elrohir considered. Zantac sounded like Aslan would consider him a bad influence on Cygnus. Still, he considered, having another wizard around could be-

"Look" Tadoa was pointing down the street. The others turned to follow the young elf's outstretched arm.

People were moving to the far sides of the street, to let a horse-drawn wagon come by. On the wagon bed was a large metal cage, perhaps eight foot-square. Crammed inside were two male humans. Two mounted knights rode on each side, along with almost a dozen foot soldiers in total.

One of the captives, a brown-haired muscular man of about thirty-five or so, wore ripped padded underclothing. He had clearly been wearing some kind of heavy armor before being taken out of it. Several scars ran down his arms, and one down his left cheek. He had unruly brown hair and several days' worth of stubble. Below his dark brown eyes raking over the crowd, his mouth was curled in an animal snarl.

The other man looked a few years younger. He wore a simple shirt and trousers, with a light gray woolen jacket. His blonde hair was cut very short, and his chin sported a bit of peach fuzz. His look of utter calm next to the barely-controlled rage of his partner was unnerving. Elrohir was reminded of Tojo. He glanced over at the samurai, who as usual, was showing no reaction whatsoever.

Several members of the crowd were shouting obscenities and threats at the imprisoned duo, the barbaric-looking of the duo occasionally answering in kind. Suddenly, a piece of rotten fruit came hurling out of the crowd at him.

Instantly, the arm of the other man shot out of the cage, catching the fruit- an overripe karafruit, without so much as a drop of juice spraying. It was instantly sent back on a return trajectory, slamming into the forehead of the man who had thrown it, knocking him down to the ground. More pieces of fruit followed, but all of them were intercepted and returned in like fashion. The soldiers shouted at the crowd to stop. They obeyed momentarily, but then a rock came flying at the back of the blonde man's head. Without even looking behind him, his right hand came up, grabbed the stone and hurled it back over his shoulder in one smooth motion. The thrower, a wiry-looking youth, managed to dodge out of the way at the last second. The rock smashed to pieces against the stone wall of a building.

The wagon stopped. One of the mounted knights jabbed his spear at the monk (_What else could he be, _thought Elrohir) through the bars of the cage, but the man's foot lashed out and knocked the weapon clean out of his hand. On a signal from the lead knight, all his guards took their bows from off of their shoulders, notched an arrow, and aimed it at the monk. He smiled in an almost gentle fashion, and raised his hands in a show of peace. The crowd continued to shout at the two, hoping to rile them up into another display that might result in their deaths, but even the bearded man seemed to realize he was being baited, and made no overtly violent moves. Slowly, the wagon began to move again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrohir saw Tojo turn to him. "Faryow," the samurai said.

The ranger mentally slapped himself. He hadn't noticed that the mounted knights all bore the gray field and white stripe standard of the Earl. As they drew level with him, he stepped out towards one of the knights. "Good servant of the Earl," he called out. "Who are these two men?"

The knight sighed heavily, as if he had been asked this question many times this day already. He answered tersely, without turning his head. "They are the head of a band of brigands that have terrorized the Earldom for some time now. We have scattered the masses, and captured their leaders. They will trouble us no more."

Elrohir turned to ask Aslan a question, when he noticed that the paladin was staring hard at the two prisoners in the cage. _Well, I don't much see the point, but it's understandable_, the ranger thought.

Then he saw the two men staring back. Their eyes were absolutely riveted on Aslan and remained so until the wagon, heading towards the Prison, had moved out of sight.

When Elrohir again looked at Aslan, the paladin was now looking directly at him. The ranger swallowed hard and said meekly "Well, now we know what the Earl's men were doing so that they-"

Aslan cut him off, a rare occurrence for him. "Aiclesis," he told the elf. "Tell Sir Dorbin of this. We'll get in contact later with you later." The elf nodded, raised his hood over his head, and moved off. Aslan began to herd his friends along. "Come on, people, we need to find a deserted alley."

"Why?" asked Elrohir. "I'm betting they were very evil men, but-"

"They recognized you, didn't they?" asked Tadoa. The paladin looked over at the child, as serious-looking as the elf had ever seen him.

"Worse than that, Tad," he said. "They _thought_ they recognized me." His gaze swept over his friends.

"We need to get home. Now."


	30. Jinella's Warning

**12th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Nighttime had brought with it another cold, driving rain.

The blaze in the fireplace of the Tall Tales Room was trying hard, but a chill dampness seemed to permeate the entire inn, even in here. Elrohir and Talass sat together on one of the couches, looking weary. They were sharing a hot mug of tea between them. Between her eyes' constant darting around the room looking for flies, Talass would occasionally look with concern at her husband, who still seemed to have some difficulty concentrating. When he caught her looking at him, he smiled and slipped his arm around her shoulder. She snuggled up to him, but kept her worried face from his eyes.

Cygnus and Zantac sat on the other couch, each sipping a glass of wine. Cygnus had added Nodyath's name to his Enemies List in a conspicuous scrawl. The slate now sat on the end table. Cygnus glanced at it every so often as if Nodyath, in fly-form, might be somehow compelled to land on his own name.

Zantac had used a cantrip- somewhat frivolously, thought Cygnus- to constantly change the color of the wine in his glass. When Cygnus had inquired what he was doing, Zantac had looked startled for a moment. "Oh," he said. "Just- thinking of someone." He had then glanced up at Tojo, who was standing directly behind their couch, staring at the door without moving a muscle.

"Er, Tojo," Zantac hesitantly ventured. "Don't you ever get tired?"

The samurai looked down at the wizard and cocked an eyebrow, as if he thought the question rather odd. "Of course, Zantac-san. When tired, sreep."

Zantac opened his mouth to say that wasn't what he had meant at all, then decided to just drop it.

Caroline, sitting in one of the chairs, grinned at the exchange. She herself had fallen afoul of Tojo's dry sense of humor several times, although the samurai always resolutely denied ever making jokes of any kind. She sipped occasionally from her glass of apple cider- it was far from her favorite drink, but it did remind her of Argo). Caroline tried to stop herself from also scanning the room for flies, but like yawning, it seemed to be contagious. She glanced over again at Aslan.

The paladin sat in the other chair, his fingers pressed together, staring grimly at the fire. With Elrohir not at his full self (although in all honesty, Caroline didn't see that much difference), and Argo absent, Aslan had definitely assumed command. With a methodical manner, he had surreptitiously scanned every staff member and every guest for evil; on the off-chance that one of them might be Nodyath in disguise. This struck Caroline as being extraordinarily rude, as well as potentially disastrous for business. If any one of those so examined had realized what Aslan was doing, they might well have taken great offense, which could have a ripple effect on their entire livelihood.

The paladin had grilled Cygnus so often on the details of his psionic assault that the magic-user had begun to get a headache again. Over supper, everyone had brought each other up to date, and Aslan had questioned everyone intensely. Jinella had retired up to the room upstairs that had been prepared for her, saying she would return in a few hours after she had meditated, but Caroline suspected she had merely wanted to get away from the paladin's near-paranoid demeanor. And considering Jinella was a priestess of the Invincible One, that was saying something.

Only Talass seemed to be throwing her full support behind Aslan's program. _Big surprise_, thought Caroline.

Although they were all armed, none of the fighters except Caroline were wearing their armor. Aslan had indicated that it would be easier to notice a fly landing on you without it, and it would not help in any case against a psionic attack. Caroline still wore her leather armor because she said it did not hinder her enough to make a difference. In truth, she wondered if she was just doing it to spite Aslan. She looked at the paladin again. She really did want to give Aslan the benefit of the doubt on all this. She knew he had their best interests at heart, but damn if he wasn't making it difficult. Very difficult.

The door to the Tall Tales Room opened. Jinella, once again clad in her gold and white surplice, walked slowly in. Aslan caught a glimpse of Tadoa bussing tables in the common room before the cleric softly closed the door behind her. Jinella then leaned back against the door and drew in a deep breath. She didn't look any more rested than before she had gone upstairs. In fact, she looked worse. Aslan rose from his chair, gesturing towards it with his hand. "Jinella, would you care to-"

The priestess shook her head with a wan smile. "Thank you Aslan, but I'm all right." She took another deep breath, again brushing her hair away from her face. "I have received a _sending_, a magical message delivered from Ethelred, my superior in the Valorous Church. He states that the two individuals you and Elrohir saw this morning vanished from the Prison not an hour from their placement there."

_"What?"_ yelled Elrohir. He jumped to his feet, an expression of rage welded onto his features. Jinella flinched as the ranger grabbed the mug of tea from his wife, but he hurled it instead into the fireplace, where it lay in the flames, slowly glowing red. "What kind of system does the Baron have running here? Even _after_ Nodyath killed my counterpart and freed Talat? Didn't he take precautions? Is he a complete and utter fool?" He glared at Jinella, breathing hard.

Jinella made an effort to compose herself. "Precautions were taken, Elrohir-"

"Not enough, it seems!"

Talass stood up now. "Elrohir, scaring all our guests off is not going to change what's happened, is it now?" Her voice was firm as she eyed her husband, who stamped his foot in frustration and stalked over to the mantelpiece.

The door slowly opened, and Tadoa stuck his head inside. "Is everything all right in here?" he asked in a tone of voice that made it perfectly clear that A) he knew it wasn't, and B) their voices were definitely carrying.

Everyone except Tojo immediately gave an astoundingly fake smile to show the child that A) things weren't even close to being all right, and B) they'd keep it to themselves from now on.

The elf rolled his eyes, muttered "humans" and closed the door.

"Exactly what precautions were taken, Jinella?" Aslan asked quietly. He had not resumed his seat, so Jinella slowly moved to it.

"I don't know precisely," she said, slowly sinking down into the chair. "A _sending_ is always very brief, a few sentences, at most. The Baron of course, can utilize the resources of the Church and the Wizard's Guild at his discretion," she indicated, with a nod towards Zantac. He took up the thread.

"I'd imagine an _alarm_ spell, designed to alert a priest or wizard that an area had been breached. They'd be ready with a _teleport_ spell to transport there and deal with the interlopers. There are many variables, though, so I couldn't guess as to more," he shrugged with an apologetic expression.

"Why not have lethal deterrents already in place?" asked Cygnus, frowning.

"Too easy to dispel. Plus, there's always the possibility of the wrong person setting them off," Zantac replied.

Cygnus nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

Talass spoke up. "Jinella, do we know who these people where?"

Jinella's eyes flickered down for a moment before she raised them to meet the gaze of her peer. She slowly nodded. "To a degree. The warrior is a local man named Sbalt. He's been a brigand in these parts for many years, and has apparently risen through the ranks to gain command of his own band. The other man- the monk- is more disturbing, though. She brushed back her hair again and took a deep breath. "Ethelred seems to think that he may be- Dangerous Hands of the Emerald Serpent."

Elrohir, who had returned to his couch, leaned forward. "Who of the what now?"

Jinella looked at him curiously. "Have you not heard of the Emerald Serpent?"

The ranger shook his head. "No, but things seem to be slipping my mind these days." He glanced over at his compatriots, but their expressions told him he was not alone.

Except for Zantac, who had downed his remaining wine in one gulp. _When Cygnus said 'a horrible death', he didn't know how right he was_, he thought, shaking his head.

Jinella cleared her throat. "Well, I'll start first. Please jump in Zantac, if you know something I don't." The red-robed mage nodded silently.

"As you know, Furyondy is a lawful and just land," the cleric began. Elrohir and Caroline both rolled their eyes at this, but she continued. "Evil groups which might have tacit understandings with their lords to exist elsewhere gain no such succor here. They are hunted down and put to justice as quickly and surely as possible. Thus, those who might yet survive in such an environment would need be composed of the most powerful, ruthless and dangerous individuals in the land."

Aslan frowned. "A Thieves' Guild? Assassins?"

Jinella shook her head. "Not as large, and yet much more, good Aslan," she replied. "No one unifying purpose, at least that which we know of, binds these people together, save that they combine their forces in whatever ill scheme they might envision. It might be extortion, banditry, assassination, service to a dark deity, any number of things. The group itself is quite small. We guess no more than a dozen members total at any one time."

Elrohir's eyes widened. "That small? How are they so successful?"

"Several reasons. Foremost, secrecy. They take the greatest pains to mask any trace of their involvement in their schemes. We know none of their true names, only their self-imposed titles. The organization itself is named after their leader. We know nothing at all about the Emerald Serpent himself. Even divinations reveal nothing."

Aslan leaned forward thoughtfully. The look in Jinella's eye told him she had been thinking the same thoughts. The cleric continued. "The second reason is that they are rumored to have connections in many powerful quarters."

"Zantac?" Caroline abruptly asked.

The wizard started, and then put his hand over his heart. "You'll be the death of me yet, Lady Bigfellow," he jokingly grimaced, then looked expectantly at her. "Yes?"

"You said back in Willip that we could utilize the resources of your Guild in getting into contact with my husband," Caroline stated.

Zantac nodded.

"I'm willing to forego that help, if we could instead use it to aid our current situation. What could we expect?"

"Well," Zantac looked introspective, chewing his lip. "The Guild library is open only to members. I might be able to find something in there that could help us."

"Could we expect any aid from your fellow guild members?" asked Caroline.

Zantac nodded. "Some. For instance, there's-"

And here he stopped dead. He didn't know exactly why, but _something_ was telling him not to promise anything. He sat still, trying to make sense of this feeling.

The others looked at him, their expressions gradually growing more curious as the seconds ticked by. "Zantac?" asked Cygnus, nudging his fellow wizard gently.

Zantac looked at Cygnus, and then turned his gaze back towards Caroline. "I'm sorry, Lady Bigfellow-"

"Caroline, please," she smiled.

The magic-user smiled sheepishly for a moment. "Caroline, then. I'm sorry, I don't think that would be- a good idea at this point."

"You suspect the Emerald Serpent has infiltrated your Guild, don't you?" asked Aslan, in an unusually frank tone for him.

Zantac eyed the paladin with just a touch of annoyance. "No, Aslan, I don't suspect that." Here he turned to look at Caroline again. "But I cannot absolutely rule it out, either."

Caroline nodded slowly. She was disappointed, but at the same time relieved at Zantac's honesty.

"Anyone in particular come to mind?" asked Cygnus.

Zantac looked back at him, a grim smile slowly appearing on his face. "You'll find out soon enough, Cygnus. You are still planning on coming back to Willip tomorrow to train up, no?"

Cygnus looked at Aslan, who nodded.

"We've already gone through this, Cygnus. Training up benefits all of us in ways we desperately need."

_Except when Argo needs it, you pompous bastard._ Caroline couldn't stop the thought.

Jinella cleared her throat again. "I will be returning with you."

Everyone looked at the priestess.

"Ethelred has commanded my return to report on what I have found. I told you it would be such, although I did not expect it so quickly. Undoubtedly, the debacle at the Prison has the potential to make many people look bad. I suspect the Church is pulling turtle," she explained with a grimace that made it clear she did not approve of such things.

"Will you return?" the paladin asked.

"I hope to, but I have no say in the matter," Jinella finished, her head now hanging down. She made no effort to brush her hair away now.

Elrohir stood up. "Let's turn in, people. All the protective spells possible have been cast. Let's hope for the best, and get a good night's sleep."

* * *

Elrohir and Talass had gone up the stairs first, followed by Tojo. A few moments later, Jinella had begun the ascent, followed right behind by Cygnus and Zantac.

"I don't get my own room?" asked Zantac in mock outrage. "Jinella does!"

Cygnus smiled and thumped Zantac's chest. "She's a lot prettier than you are, roommate!" Zantac smiled as he watched Jinella momentarily hesitate before stepping out onto the second floor landing. _I'll bet she's blushing_, he thought. _Either that, or readying a curse. Cygnus, you scoundrel, you._

As they reached the door of Cygnus' room, the wizard turned to his peer again, seriously this time. "Zantac, what do I do if people at the Guild start asking me questions about Nodyath or the Emerald Serpent?"

Zantac's expression was grim. "Either say nothing-"

"-or lie like a rug?" Cygnus cut in, smiling.

Zantac nodded, while thinking _No, Cygnus. That's only if you get caught._


	31. The Guild

**13th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Wizard's Guild, Willip, Furyondy**

Silently, Cygnus and Zantac stood in the doorway and watched the activity going on in the workshop before them.

Four wizards were inside the cramped space, working with six sheets of what looked like thin glass to Cygnus. Two of them were ten feet square, but the others were twice as long. As he watched, Hogeth and Thormord (the only two of the workers that recognized) fitted one of the longer sheet's edges into a L-shaped metal frame. One of the shorter sheets was then fitted into the other side of the frame, so the two sheets now made a corner. The other two wizards were making incantations and running their hands over the sheets and the frame.

Cygnus turned to Zantac and whispered, "It looks like they're making a cage box of some kind. What for?"

Zantac could only shrug. "Don't know. Must be a special commission that just came in. I'd heard nothing. Don't ask about it, though."

Thormord addressed his co-workers. "That'll do it for tonight, people. Replace remember to out all your equipment back where it belongs, and I'll see you tomorrow. If only briefly," he added with a quick smile, his eyes flickering to the doorway.

Cygnus and Zantac stepped back into the corridor so that the others could file out.

"Zantac!" Said a rather portly wizard dressed in brick-red robes, who was mopping his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. "It's good to have you back. You must be Cygnus- I'm Martan!" He added, grasping Cygnus' hand and shaking it vigorously.

Cygnus nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Martan. I'm here to train up- I'm sure I'll see you around."

Martan raised an admiring eyebrow at Zantac. "Training up. Really?"

Zantac moved quickly, hoping to squash any rumors. "Trial basis only, Martan." He then leaned in close to his friend. "Where's Aimee?" he asked quietly.

"Spell research. Started just after you left. She should be out of touch for another week, at least." He narrowed his eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"I'll stop by before we turn in. Tell you then." Martan nodded and moved off as Hogeth Grayeye came out.

Cygnus took the initiative, shaking Hogeth's hand and looking him straight in the eye. At six-foot-five, he was closer to that standard than any of the other wizards he had seen here. "Good to see you again, Hogeth. I hope we can talk shop later."

The half-orc peered keenly at Cygnus, searching for signs of patronage or pity. Apparently he found none, for something that probably passed for a smile among orcs appeared on his face. He said nothing, but nodded and moved down the corridor after Martan, as a wizard in dark blue robes, with curly gray hair and a mutton-chop beard came out into the hallway.

"Cygnus, this is Naury." Zantac's introduction was business-like. He knew Naury wouldn't treat Cygnus any better than he treated anyone else, so he decided not to waste any effort to the contrary.

Naury however, surprised Zantac. He wasn't friendly by any stretch of the imagination, but his demeanor was almost personable as he shook Cygnus' hand. "Heard a lot about you, Cygnus. Enjoy your stay." Naury began to quickly move down the corridor after the others.

"Hope it was all good!" Cygnus called after him with a smile.

Naury turned around, with an expression about as much akin to a smile as Hogeth's.

"As a matter of fact, he couldn't say enough good things about you." His light brown eyes seemed to rake over Cygnus. "Must be hard to live up to such a reputation."

"Who was-" Cygnus began, but Naury had already moved out of sight around the curving corridor. A voice from his right drew his attention before he could ponder on this.

"Good to see you again, Cygnus. I trust you're ready for an exhaustive week?"

"I believe you've already met our Scribe and your new instructor, Thormord." Zantac put in. Thormord's green eyes almost glowed at Cygnus underneath his bushy eyebrows, and above that pasted-on smile. "You left for Willip this morning?" He asked as he shook Cygnus' hand. "You must have made good time."

Cygnus nodded. "Yes, sir. We have excellent horses."

Thormord returned the nod. "Indeed, I have heard. I'd love to speak with them sometime," he added, leaving no doubt he knew of their unique qualities. The Scribe's face then took on something of a puzzled quality. "Tell me, Cygnus, did my son ever mention me to you?"

Cygnus' expression now matched Thormord's. "Your son, sir?"

The Scribe smiled and nodded, apparently satisfied about something, although Cygnus couldn't tell what. "The honorific is not needed here, good Cygnus. My son is also a wizard; a somewhat absent-minded one, it seems. You've met him. Thorimund."

Cygnus' expression did not change, except perhaps to add a little apologetic flavor to it. "Pardon, sir-, er, Thormord. Thorimund?"

The elder wizard's face darkened just a touch. "Yes, Thorimund." He paused. "He is a follower of Wainold."

Nothing changed on Cygnus' face. "Wainold?"

The Scribe was now clearly getting impatient. "Yes, Wainold!" He glared at Cygnus. _"You've known the man for years!"_

No change.

"The druid, man! The druid!"

"Oh!" The light dawned on Cygnus now, and he smiled. "You mean Wayne! Yes, I remember Thorimund now. A good man, but he never mentioned you." He looked expectantly at the Scribe now, and was mildly surprised to see Thormord's eyebrows shoot way up, and his mouth fall open slightly.

"Wayne? You call him _Wayne?_ A child's name?"

Cygnus gave a wry smile. "Actually, Argo calls him _Wayne of The Woods_. I think he does it just to see the steam come out of his ears, but that's Argo for you."

Thormord shook his head. "I'm amazed that you all didn't take root and sprout leaves on the spot. Druids have little humor, and those of the Old Faith even less so."

Cygnus shrugged. "That's been my experience as well, but for some reason, Wayne, er, Wainold, seems to tolerate it, if only just."

"Interesting," came a voice from behind them. "Private party, or may anyone join?"

Thormord looked up while Cygnus and Zantac turned around. Zelhile was eyeing them all, with one of his smiles firmly chiseled on his stone face. Thormord quickly moved to make the introductions. "Cygnus, may I present the Guildmaster Zelhile?"

The two shook hands. _Doesn't anyone around here have a normal smile, _Cygnus thought. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the Guildmaster was thinking. He suddenly felt transparent and a little cold, despite the magically maintained temperature in the building. "I'm honored, Guildmaster" he said.

Zelhile nodded slightly, with no change of expression. "I look forward to speaking with you later, Cygnus." His gaze then shifted to Zantac. "I'd like to see you downstairs for a moment, if I may, Zantac." He turned and walked off. "The Meeting Room. Five minutes."

Zantac gulped. Thormord was gesturing Cygnus down the hallway in the other direction. "I've been told you're already set up in your quarters, Cygnus. Correct? Good. I'd just like to speak with you for a few minutes regarding the training before you retire. This way please." Cygnus looked back and gave Zantac a grimace before the two of them vanished around the curve.

Slowly, Zantac headed for the stairs leading down. _How did I ever get into this?_ He asked himself ruefully, then decided _Oh well, no turning back now. There's nothing to be worried about, anyway._

However, he made sure his spell component pouch was stocked and within easy reach as he descended the stairs.


	32. The Road Most Valorous

**13th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
Temple of Heironeous, Willip, Furyondy**

"Come on! What are you, sunshine warriors? You think Evil is going to wait for a spring picnic to attack! Swing like you mean it, you larvae!"

Neither the rain nor the darkness kept the adherents and protectors of the Valorous Temple from their mandatory combat drills in the courtyard of the church. The instructor's booming voice kept the mock combats going. A few _continual light_ beacons placed around the yard's perimeter gave some light, but not enough to absolutely prevent someone from making a slip, even with a practice weapon. The occasional "Oomph!" could be heard amongst the clunking of wood on steel and battle cries.

Jinella wended her way through the courtyard. She was again wearing her chainmail armor, and her helm kept the worst of the rain off, but she was still cold. She noted with envy a small crowd gathered at just the right distance around the active smithy, basking in its warmth without being too close. She got a naughty thrill of satisfaction as one of the loiterers turned, recognized her, and nudged his companions. They all slowly scattered, as if they had only been together a moment there by sheer coincidence.

Sometimes it was hard for Jinella to comprehend that in terms of the priesthood, she was third in command of the Temple. Of course, there were certain paladins, templars and others who technically ranked above her, so that wasn't quite as impressive as it sounded. Still, in a church the priests had an exalted standing that no one else did.

The cleric headed towards one of the four corner towers. Space was at a premium in the temple, since it was a very old building, one of the first in the area. The city had quickly closed in around it, leaving little room for expansion. Thus, with the exception of the High Priest, all church members conducted business in their quarters. Jinella grimaced as she entered the tower and began the climb up the stone stairs.

She wasn't looking forward to this at all.

* * *

Jinella stood stock still as Ethelred sat at his desk, slowly perusing the book she had brought him, filled with all her notes on the Elrohir party. He had already debriefed her verbally, and now it seemed like he was going to read the whole damn thing while she waited, dripping wet, standing at attention, before him. She shook her head slightly, and a drop of water landed on the book.

He looked up, as if he had indeed forgotten she was there. "At ease."

She relaxed, with a sigh that was perhaps a bit louder than she had intended.

Ethelred eyed her and frowned, then looked back down at the book. He carefully daubed at the wet spot with a cloth, then closed it and looked back at Jinella. A smile that would have been at home at the Wizard's Guild appeared on his face. "Well done, Jinella. This information will prove most valuable. Your service is noted and appreciated." The wretched smile vanished, but an inkling of actual concern creased the corners of his eyes, which were already well worn with crows-feet. "Get yourself warm and dry Jinella, and get some sleep. Grab something to eat first, if you want. The kitchen is still open, I believe. Dismissed."

He opened the book back up and looked down at it, waiting for the customary prayer of parting. When he didn't receive it, he glanced back up, puzzled.

Jinella was still standing there, hands clasped behind her back.

Ethelred sighed, then decided to beat her to the punch. "Permission to speak freely, granted."

The whisper of a smile flitted across Jinella's face. "I request your leave to return to the Brass Dragon tomorrow."

Ethelred's brow furrowed. Clearly, that hadn't been what he expected. "For what purpose?" he asked.

The priestess managed a small shrug while still maintaining her posture. "These people need our aid."

The Assistant High Priest frowned. "Thousands of people need our help, Jinella. It is a sad fact that not all of them will get it. What elevates these people above all others?"

_What indeed,_ she thought to herself. Was she acting on emotion here, rather than solid church principle?

And if on emotion, which one? Images crowded her mind; Cygnus, writhing in agony on the ground; Caroline, grief-stricken at the thought that she might never see her husband again; Talass; a priestess of an unknown god who turned out to be very much like herself; The Tall Tales Room, filled with valiant but very weary ex-adventurers who had given their all for others and now were only trying to find peace for themselves; A comment made behind her as she ascended the stairs, so unexpected she hadn't even known how to react. Nearly twenty-four hours later, she still didn't.

_What are you feeling, Jinella?_

She returned a level stare to her superior. "These people embody the very precepts of our teachings. That is what elevates them."

Ethelred leaned back in his chair, smoothing out his dark blue cassock lined with silver trim. "Why then do none of them worship the One who gave us these teachings?" he asked sternly.

Jinella wished he hadn't asked her that. "They are from very far away-"

"The knight Sir Dorbin is from the same world they are, and yet he seems to have found the time to venerate the Invincible One!" Ethelred interrupted. "Besides, from what you have written, the Bigfellows hail from the Great Kingdom, and Talass from the Fruztii." He shook his head sadly. "Zeus, Odin, Forseti. Dying gods of dying faiths. If they are so stubborn as to deny the righteousness of Heironeous, let their gods save them."

The priestess could feel an edge creeping into her voice. "Is it written that everyone must worship Heironeous?"

Her commander's voice now carried the same edge. "And is it written that the worship of," and here he nearly spat out the word, "_Hextor_, is to be supported by those of your family?"

"Talass is innocent of any sin of her sister! Within a _zone of truth_ she has stated this, and I do believe her! This counterpart of Aslan, Nodyath, is determined to destroy these people, and if-"

"You are needed elsewhere Jinella." Ethelred was apparently not inclined to argue the point, and was now pulling rank. "There are scrolls that need penning. You will find your list in the Armory. Also, there are cases on the docket that you will need to-"

Now, it was Jinella's turn to interrupt.

"You mean there is someone who actually hasn't managed to escape the Prison?" she asked snidely, and then immediately regretted it. That wasn't Ethelred's fault. Jinella had always disapproved of sarcastic remarks, and now she had just made one herself.

Ethelred said nothing, but his right arm shot up to point at the wall behind him.

Jinella sighed and followed his pointing finger. The walls of Ethelred's living space were covered with pages of an old Holy Text of Heironeous that had been recovered from some dank subterranean pit years ago. The book had been too waterlogged and damaged to be usable for services, so it had been given to the Assistant High Priest. He had carefully removed each page, on which was written one of the Analects (with an accompanying illustration) and nailed, glued, or otherwise attached them to the walls. The one currently being pointed out to Jinella was the 52nd Analect, which stated_ Do not neglect provisions, either material or spiritual, for of such seeds do victories grow._

Eyes blazing, Jinella scanned the walls until she found what she was looking for. She thrust out her arm, pointing at another Analect. Ethelred followed her finger.

_The 9th Analect. When your path is unclear, always choose the road most valorous._

He shot up to his feet, his face now scrunched up in anger. _"Request Denied!"_ he shouted, and then glared at his subordinate. "You will return to your assigned schedule, Jinella!"

Jinella swallowed hard. She was beaten. She was too well disciplined to even consider any other course of action, and they both knew it. She gave the barest possible bow. "Blessings upon the valorous."

Ethelred answered perfunctorily, "Praised be Heironeous, Archpaladin."

Jinella turned on her heel and left.


	33. Problems

**14th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The rain wouldn't stop.

Elrohir sat slumped in his chair in the Tall Tales Room, staring moodily at the fireplace. He was reasonably sure that the lingering aftereffects of the lamia's touch had worn off by now, but a general malaise had settled over him- indeed, over everyone. He didn't know if the constant downpour was the cause of it all, or just a sympton.

The ranger grumbled to himself. This had been the wettest Fireseek he had yet experienced on Oerth. He longed for the snow that would ordinarily be here at this time. There should be a clean, white layer of snow over everything by now. Instead, there was just an endless sea of cold mud.

He rubbed his eyes again. He hadn't slept well these past few nights. No one had. The specter of a kidnapping (or more likely, a murder) that could strike at any time, any place, had made restfulness a thing of the past. For some reason, it seemed even worse this time than it had the last, perhaps due to the certainty that their enemy was very much alive, and just as much prone to vengeance.

Elrohir glanced over at Tojo, who was sitting in the other chair, eyes closed, apparently lost in thought. He looked normal enough, but the ranger knew that the simple fact that the samurai was sitting in a chair as opposed to standing up, or even sitting on a couch, was proof that his internal stores of energy were low. One violet eye opened slightly at the creaking of Elrohir's chair, and then closed again. Elrohir envied him his serenity, no matter how illusionary it might be. The ranger drew a deep breath. He worried again that all this anxious waiting and no actual activity was dulling his senses.

However, he had no trouble at all hearing Talass' scream.

Elrohir and Tojo exploded from their chairs, the ranger reaching the door a split-second first as the sound of metal smashing against stone came from upstairs. He wrenched it open and the two of them ran up the stairs, ignoring the wide-eyed looks of shock from the patrons and the staff in the common room, the commotion still registering upon their ears. The duo rushed to the door to Elrohir's room, the ranger drawing Gokasillion en route. He flung it open.

Talass was standing by the left wall, next to the bed she shared with Elrohir, her war hammer clutched tightly in her hand. A spot of chipped stone on the wall about three feet above the bed clearly showed where she had struck it with her weapon. Breathing heavily, she turned a wild-eyed gaze upon her husband and the samurai. They looked back at her uncertainly.

"Talass-" Elrohir began.

The cleric pointed towards the far side of the room, where a small writing desk sat. She gulped and started speaking disjointedly, her voice thin and reedy. "I was... reading... I must have fallen asleep... you know what it's been like..." She gave them a look both defensive and pitiable. Elrohir and Tojo exchanged glances, the samurai lowering his eyes and stepping back a few feet in deference.

"I woke up... just barely. I saw a fly on my arm..." Talass was trying hard to maintain her composure, "I shrieked... sorry about that, I didn't mean to... it flew over to the wall there..." She pointed to the spot, then gave Elrohir a weak grin. "I got it, so I guess it wasn't him... at least there's one less fly around... our customers should be happy..." She sat down on the bed, dropped the war hammer to the floor and covered her face with her hands. She didn't cry, but her body shook with the effort to avoid it. Tojo silently moved off while Elrohir slowly sat down next to his wife.

She raised her face and stared at him, her eyes bloodshot. Elrohir was unnerved. Next to Tojo, Talass was the most unflappable one of them all. Now, she looked close to cracking.

"Is this it, Elrohir?" she asked him. "Is this his plan? To drive us insane with the worry of what he might do, what he could do, at any moment?" She shook her head violently, as if she might shake loose horrible thoughts and feelings that were plaguing her. "We have to do something. Barahir and Thorin can't stay in the Shield Lands forever. We've got to take the fight to Nodyath somehow. We've got to _destroy him!"_ she finished, her voice growing louder now.

"Dearest," Elrohir spoke in a voice he hoped was calming, while taking her hands in his. "We've already tried that. It didn't work."

Talass snarled at him, yanking her hands free. "Then we try again! Get the Rock out, and let one of the staff try it!"

Elrohir sighed. "That's not even an option right now, Talass. You know Cygnus always keeps the key to the chest with him-"

Talass threw up her hands in frustration.

_"Why?_ Why can't he leave it with one of us? That's so damn stupid! Now we can't get at _anything_ in the chest if we need it! He's in Willip, using all the money we just got to train up, leaving us broke again! And for what? Is it going to help us? And even if it can, will we still be alive when he gets back? We can't just sit here and wait to be picked off, one at a time! _We need a plan!"_ Her eyes burned into her husband's. "You're our leader, Elrohir! _Lead, damn it!"_

Talass buried her face in her hands again. Small sobs trickled out of her.

"His Talent- magic can't even stop it. It's too much. Too much..."

Elrohir sat silently. He felt close to crying himself. He didn't fear his own death, but everyone else... they might not be saying it as Talass had just did, but they were depending on him, and he wasn't delivering. He gently laid his left hand on his wife's shoulder. "Talass-"

She shook it off without raising her head. "Leave me alone."

Elrohir stood up quickly. He felt frustration building up within him. A strong urge to smash something was proving very difficult to ignore. His right hand clenched tighter, and he just then noticed that it was still holding Gokasillion. He sheathed the sword, looking around the room as if the answer to their problems might be found there.

_All-Father, show me the way._

Talass was now sprawled out on their head, her face buried in the pillow. She had forced herself to stop crying, but Elrohir could still her pained lament tolling, echoing in his ears.

_Too much. It's too much..._

Elrohir's gaze settled on his plate mail, laying next to Talass' chainmail in a partitioned box set up in the corner of the room.

_Too much?_

The _continual light_ torch ensconced on the wall gleamed off the armor. He had cleaned it recently, and it glistened in the light. It seemed to offer security, protection-

Elrohir tried to scatter the thought. That was a false hope. Like everything else they had, it could do nothing against Nodyath's Talent. It was just a bulky impediment to-

The ranger's eyes narrowed.

_Bulky?_

He walked slowly over to the box and stared down at the plate mail, then at the backpacks and other traveling paraphernalia that he and Talass had carefully stored in their room. Suddenly, something clicked into place.

He whirled to face his wife. "Talass, put your armor on!"

She raised her head to look at him. Suspicion, anger and sorrow were all written on her face. "Why?" she asked.

"Just do it! I'll explain later!" Elrohir was already rushing out the door. He thundered down the steps, blowing by Tojo, who was standing by the door to the Tall Tales Room. Ignoring the curious stares and whispers of the patrons, the ranger ran to the front door, yanked it open and ran out into the rain.

* * *

Caroline Bigfellow stood in the stables, each hand holding an apple that she was feeding to the pegasi.

"Sorry guys," she said apologetically as the winged steeds sniffed at, and slowly, almost disdainfully, began to chow down on the apples. "We're out of karafruit. It wasn't a very good season for them, as I understand," she explained, trying to keep a smile on her face that she knew never fooled anyone, even Gylandir and Sequester. She leaned in against Sequester, who softly whickered at her.

Caroline couldn't keep Argo out of her mind. In a few days, her husband would probably be starting his religious quest, and be out of reach. Monsrek had promised her some kind of contact, but she had heard nothing for three days now. There was a cold, hollow feeling in her chest that even a soft pillow warmed up by the fireplace couldn't touch.

She glanced back behind her. One of the stable boys, a lad of about ten, was taking a break from his grooming to play with Dudraug, Grock and Mirage. When he noticed her looking at him, he stopped and gave her a shy smile before resuming his duties. Caroline suspected that he, like most of the young male staff here, harbored a secret crush on her. She returned his smile and resumed stroking the pegasi and talking to them in a low voice. Then, she heard Tadoa's voice from outside.

"Caroline! Are you in there?"

"In here, Tad!" She replied, then frowned a little. She knew what this was probably about. Caroline had been Tadoa's primary instructor in swordplay, but he had reached the limits of what she could teach him, although she had not told him that. She supposed it was possible that Argo or Elrohir might be able to teach him more, but she suspected that he was going to need some more actual combat experience. That, she didn't look forward to. Not for Tad. As far as she was concerned, the elf was still a child. An incredibly advanced child, but nonetheless-

Tadoa appeared in the stable entranceway. The expression on his face instantly told Caroline that whatever he wanted, it had nothing to do with his training.

"Caroline, can you come and take a look at this, please?"

She put up the hood on her cloak and followed the elf outside. Although it was late afternoon, the rain made everything look dirty and dingy. When she saw where Tad was heading, she slowed her gait a little, trying to squint through the rain, but continued to follow the elf until she was standing beside him, about fifty yards to the west of the inn.

There were black stalks coming out of the ground. At least thirty of them, by Caroline's count, covering a circular area roughly fifty feet in diameter. They were all about two feet high, and- most disturbingly- black.

Caroline knelt down by one of the stalks and examined it. It was fibrous, definitely a plant-like material. Several ovoid leaves hung from a few places on the stalk. She glanced over at Tadoa, who was looking grim.

"Tad, how long have these been here?"

"I didn't notice them yesterday," the child replied.

_Great Zeus, that's fast_, Caroline thought. She slowly grabbed one of the stalks with both hands and began to pull. With not too much effort, she was able to uproot it. She eyed the roots. They seemed normal, although she readily admitted to not being an expert about such things. She eyed Tadoa again.

The elf shrugged. "Looks like young corn, except for it being black."

Caroline gave him a puzzled look. "Corn?"

"It's a grain that grows, or at least it did, back on Rolex," Tadoa said, with a bit of a grimace. "It's pretty much a human-grown food. I can't remember if I saw it on Aarde or not. I know I haven't seen or heard of it since we arrived on Oerth. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be black, though."

Bigfellow regarded the plant in her hand. "This is edible? Which part?"

Tadoa moved up to her, pointing. "As it matures, a growth, called an cob, will appear on each stalk. Yellow kernels surround the cob. These kernels can be cooked and eaten." He looked down at the hole where Caroline had pulled the plant up, then his eyes widened. "Caroline, look!"

As the two of them gaped, a new black cornstalk slowly pushed its way up through the muddy soil and grew until it had reached the same size as its brethren. The entire process took less than two minutes.

Caroline stood up, dropping the stalk she held. "I assume it doesn't normally grow this fast."

Tadoa shook his head. "I think if it did, it'd be awfully popular."

A noise from their right drew their attention. They were just in time to see Elrohir, going at full tilt, pull up at the door to Aslan's cabin, yank open the door and rush in. They looked at each other, then Caroline spoke first.

"Stay here, Tad. I'll go see what's up, and bring them back out here."

* * *

Aslan had been doing exercises, mostly push-ups, in his cabin, when he heard someone come running towards his door through the rain. The exercises were tedious in the extreme, but that was part of why he did them. The paladin found that routine activities could be used to strengthen his powers of concentration, by fighting the mind's natural tendency to wander while engaging in such pursuits. The cold, damp air in his cabin also helped to keep him focused. He got up from the floor, clad only in his undershorts, just as Elrohir came rushing in, out of breath and barely pausing to shut the door behind him.

"Aslan!" The ranger moved right up to the paladin, so quickly that Aslan took a step backwards in reflex. "Exactly how much weight can you transport with you?"

Aslan's face showed his confusion, but the ranger was clearly very much in earnest about this, so he decided to answer the question first. "About 250 pounds, Elrohir. Why?"

Elrohir answered his question with another one. "How sure are you of that?"

The paladin frowned, thinking back. "When I was still new to my Talent, my mother had purchased a large scale for me to experiment with. It was 250 pounds back then, and I do not believe it has changed since then." His eyes grew thoughtful. "It was not easy for my mother to acquire that scale. She had to go to-"

Elrohir cut him off. "Aslan, don't you see? Nodyath! If that's all you can transport, that's probably all he can transport as well!" He moved past Aslan into the paladin's bedroom, moving stuff around, looking for something.

Aslan followed, and stood in the archway between the two rooms, a trifle irritated now. "And this means what, Elrohir?"

Elrohir spun around to face the paladin. In his hands, he held the rest of Aslan's padded underclothing. "Suit up, Aslan! Don't you see?" He asked, tossing him the clothes. "If we all wear our armor and full gear, and maybe add some extra waterskins, we'll be too heavy for Nodyath to kidnap!"

Aslan considered. Elrohir's reasoning made sense so far as it went, but he was still a long way off from feeling euphoric. "So then, he'll simply attack, either with a weapon or with his Talent, like he did with Cygnus."

"That's right Aslan," Elrohir said, with a self-satisfied smile he hadn't dared put on in a week now. "But if he uses a weapon, his target will at least have some protection, and if he uses his Talent…" and here the ranger gestured at his friend, "Now you're here. You'll be able to spot where the attack is coming from, and take action quickly, isn't that right?"

"Hmmm." The paladin considered. "True enough." He then glanced back sharply at Elrohir. "This works well for you and me, Elrohir. But Tojo doesn't wear armor, and he'd never burden himself down like that. And there's no way young Tad could manage it. I don't even know if the women will be able to, with that much weighing them down. And what about when Cygnus returns?"

The ranger nodded, a bit more soberly now. "I know it's not perfect, Aslan. But it's a start, and we need to start somewhere. Don't you think?"

Aslan eyed his friend, while putting on the remaining underclothes. He could see the underlying emotion on the ranger's face. He nodded, allowing himself a small smile now. "It is a good start, Elrohir. A good start indeed." He moved over to his plate mail, and began picking it up, then looked over at Elrohir again.

"Helping me into this faster would be a smart idea as well, you know."

Elrohir, apparently lost in thought, gave a start, then grinned at the paladin and began assisting him.

At that point, the door burst open again, and Caroline ran in.

"Ye gods, woman!" Aslan gave a jump, causing pieces of plate mail to go flying. The paladin backed away from Caroline, causing the young woman to grin like a hyena. "Shut that door! It's cold in here!"

_My, but he's skittish_, she thought to herself wickedly. "So I see."

The paladin's face went red, but Caroline couldn't tell if it was embarrassment, anger, or both. She decided not to press the issue. "We need you two outside," she indicated. She started to leave, then stopped and peered at Elrohir. "Is everything all right, Elrohir? You came running out here pretty fast."

Aslan answered for his friend. "A possible Nodyath defense. I'll tell you about it outside. Do I have time to suit up, or-"

Caroline lowered the intensity of her grin, but still kept it. "Pick up your pieces, Aslan," she said, indicating the plate mail at his feet. "I'll see you two outside. It's only a corn problem," she added, leaving the cabin and closing the door behind her.

Elrohir and Aslan stared at each other. "A corn problem?" They asked in unison.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Caroline opened the door to the Bigfellow cabin and entered, Grock now at her heels. After closing the door, she found her backpack and began to fill it up with whatever she could find, while the wardog jumped on her bed and looked at her.

Elrohir's idea about "bulking up' to protect themselves against Nodyath seemed to have some merit, she thought. Caroline wasn't sure how much she weighed, so she didn't know how much extra encumbrance she'd have to pile on. She was guessing it'd be at least twice the maximum weight she'd normally carried, back before the group had retired. Torches, extra sling bullets for Argo's sling, anything that looked bulky went in the pack.

Aslan and Elrohir had agreed with Tad's assessment of the strange plants. It was corn, they had said, although they agreed with the elf's observation that it was not supposed to be black in color. Apparently, this grain was quite prolific on Aarde. The paladin had sensed no evil coming from the plants, but he wasted no time in declaring that the stalks should be destroyed. Caroline had no problem with that, although the thorny question of how to accomplish that remained unanswered. Fire seemed to be the consensus, although that would have to wait until after the rain stopped, of course.

Caroline hoisted the pack onto her back. "Whoa!" She cried out, almost toppling over backwards before she corrected her balance, leaning forward slightly to compensate for the load. "I sure hope this makes me close to 250," she grimaced to Grock, who barked at her.

Bigfellow grinned at him. "Hmmm. I'd better be sure, though. How much do you weigh, Grock? Will you fit in here?"

She moved forward, arms out, towards the wardog, who recognized the game and ran first to one corner of the cabin, and then another, barking all the while with Caroline in huffing pursuit.

Without warning, Monsrek's voice flooded into her mind.

_Caroline Bigfellow, this is Monsrek. To see Argo, have Aslan bring you to Zeus' temple tonight at sunset. This is your only chance. Reply now._

Caroline stood stock-still. All rational thought seemed to have pushed out of her head by Monsrek's message. Then, like a returning tide, it hit her with a thundering crash.

_Yes! Yes!_ She practically screamed it out with her mind. She hoped she hadn't waited too long to reply. _I'll be there!_

Still half-staggering, she opened the door and rushed back out towards the corn patch.

* * *

Aslan gazed with wonder as Caroline came running back at a drunken stagger. He assumed it was from the stuffed backpack she wore, although he had no idea why she'd be rushing so. Elrohir had gone back to the inn to get Talass, so he looked down at Tadoa, who shrugged, equally perplexed.

Caroline came rushing up. "Aslan! I heard from-"

Her foot slipped in the mud and she went down, face-first in the wet grass and dirt. Aslan and Tadoa helped her up. She was caked with mud, but unharmed, and apparently unconcerned about the fall. She clutched onto the paladin's arms, babbling with excitement. "Aslan! Aslan! I just heard from Monsrek! A _sending_! He says I can see Argo tonight, but we have to be at the temple of Zeus by sundown. That's what, two or three hours from now? Plenty of time to prepare! We should be able to-"

She stopped cold. Aslan was staring at her with a very strange expression. Caroline usually had trouble reading the paladin's face, but she knew with absolute certainty, that this wasn't good.

"Aslan?" Her voice dropped low. "What is it?"

Sorrow was slowly creeping into Aslan's face. He looked at Caroline, covered with mud, wide eyes staring at him. He thought she never looked so much like a little girl as she did right now. His heart was plunging into his stomach. He replied in an equally low voice, "I can't take you, Caroline."

"What?" Caroline felt no anger at all, only confusion. Obviously, she had somehow miscommunicated something to him. She searched his eyes. "You- can't?"

Aslan swallowed hard. "If I took you Caroline, I'd only be at half-strength when we returned. We're under siege by a telepathic enemy. He's looking for weaknesses. If he attacked any one of us psionically, I'd have little chance of stopping him. I'm sorry, I can't take that chance."

Caroline's knees buckled, but Aslan held her upright. She was still beseeching him with her eyes. "Couldn't you mindrest in Willip?" she asked, her voice starting to crack.

He shook his head sadly. "Then I wouldn't be here at all, and still not at full strength when I returned. Elrohir's plan won't save Tojo or Tad if he attacks them, and I'm not here. I'm sorry Caroline, but I have to stay here, and at full strength, for all our sakes. I hope you can find it in your heart to understand."

He was looking for it, and now he saw it. The beginnings of comprehension in Caroline Bigfellow's face. Anger was not there yet, but it would follow.

"Aslan." She was whispering now, clutching even tighter onto his arms. "I don't know much about the worship of Odin, but surely his religious quests can't be that much easier than those of Zeus, can they?"

He shook his head again. "No Caroline, they're not."

She seemed to sieze upon this. "Then you know how dangerous they can be! Argo doesn't have your Talent. He might not- come back." Caroline was looking so pitiable now that Aslan was fighting to hold back tears himself. "Please, Aslan- I'll never ask you for anything else again. I didn't know when Argo left last week that I might never see him again... please... even on Sequester, I couldn't make it in time myself," she finished in a barely audible whisper, looking as if she might faint. "I'm begging you."

Aslan drew in a long, deep breath. He needed to control this situation, or he was going to give in. "Listen to me Caroline," he said in a voice that he hoped was both gentle and firm. "I have to make decisions about what can or can't be done. You may understand or you may not, but I have to deal with the greatest good; what will give the maximum number of us the maximum chance for survival in any given situation. Now, your going to see Argo is not going to increase his chances of coming back from his quest alive, but it will reduce everyone else's chance for survival by leaving them more vulnerable to Nodyath. It may seem cruel, but that's the way it has to be! Do you understand that, Caroline?"

He waited. Caroline's eyes flickered across his face. She did not faint. She slowly regained her balance, and removed her hands from the paladin's arms. Her lips tightened.

_Oh, no_, Aslan thought.

Caroline took her first deep breath since she had come back outside, and slapped Aslan across the face. Her hand hit the side of his helm however, and she winced, squeezing the hand under her left armpit. Aslan instinctively moved forward to help, but she stepped back, a look of pure hatred upon her face.

"You son of a bitch," she seethed. "You know nothing about love; what its value is, what it means to be _in love_ with another person. Do you know anything about that, Aslan?" she asked, her voice growing louder. "Why bother with protecting our lives if they're not worth protecting in the first place? You _left_ Argo in Willip, you bastard, because his gambling was a weakness in your eyes. He was doing it for me, for you, for all of us!" Her eyes shot fire at the paladin. "But you don't care, do you? You hate Argo! You've _always_ hated him! But you know what? He never hated you! He told me that! He said you were actually one of the best friends he'd ever had!" She laughed, a loud, hollow sound. "Well, I'm glad he's not here now, or he'd see how wrong he was! He can die in peace now, never knowing that the high and mighty _Aslan the Paladin_ betrayed him, and everything that he stood for!" Caroline stepped back up to Aslan, looking him straight in the eye.

"You know what's funny, Aslan?" she asked, her voice quivering in a high tone that was almost a screech. "Nodyath; your evil counterpart who wants to kill us all- he came back for Talat! He loved her, and he came back for her! _He knows about love, and you don't and never will!"_ Caroline staggered back into the cornfield, shrugging off her backpack and letting it drop down to the ground. She then sank down to her knees in the mud, pulling down the hood on her cloak, her agonized face upturned to the gray sky. _"Nodyath? Nodyath, are you there?"_ she wailed.

Aslan's eyes widened. Tad looked like he was in shock.

_"Take me, Nodyath! Kill me, I won't resist! I don't want to live without Argo!"_ Her cry turned into a keening scream, shouted out into the downpour, then slowly faded into uncontrollable sobs as she buried her face in the ground between the stalks.

Aslan didn't even notice that Elrohir, Talass and Tojo had joined them. They all stood and watched.

Aslan's voice was so soft that Elrohir almost didn't hear it. "Why does this hurt so much?"

The ranger turned to his friend. At first, he had thought Aslan was referring to Caroline, but one look at the paladin's face told him otherwise. He slowly placed his hand on the paladin's shoulder. "What we want never hurts, Aslan. What we need so often does."

The paladin turned to look at Elrohir, at all of them. With the rain streaming down his face, it seemed impossible that any of them could distinguish the tears rolling down his cheeks.

But they did.


	34. Tojo and Caroline

**15th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Caroline opened her eyes.

Although she heard nothing, she knew someone was in her cabin with her, or had been until recently. She could see the light from the fireplace in the other room. Someone clearly was tending the fire, and keeping it going. She shifted underneath her blanket, turning from her left side onto her right. Judging from how sore the former was, she must have been asleep for a while.

It was still raining outside. Caroline closed her eyes again, hoping it would all go away- the rain, the heartbreak, everything.

She vaguely remembered Talass helping her to her feet, and walking her back to her cabin. She had helped Caroline undress and cleaned her up. Despite the fireplace going in the front room, the younger woman couldn't stop shivering, so the cleric had gone and given her one of her nightrobes. Talass hadn't said much that Caroline could recall, beyond a few vague words of comfort. Her outburst had completely drained her, so Caroline had just lain down and tried to sleep the rest of her life away. Sleep hadn't come, but she kept her eyes closed and did not move or respond as she heard people coming and going quietly. They had known that she was still awake, and simply choosing not to respond to any of them, and they had accepted that. She had heard Talass' voice, and Elrohir's, and Tadoa's.

But not Aslan's.

The thought of the paladin made Caroline grind her teeth together. She still hated him, although it was a cold, dull, empty hate now. She remembered lying in bed, hoping for another telepathic contact. Sometimes, it would be Monsrek, wondering why Caroline hadn't showed up in Willip.

Other times, it would be Nodyath, announcing that he was here to take Caroline up on her offer. She would hold her breath, waiting for a lethal burst of psionic energy to come crashing into her mind.

But it never came, although sleep eventually did. _Maybe even Nodyath feels sorry for me_, she thought.

* * *

Caroline's eyes felt dry and puffy from all the crying she had done. She was hungry, and her throat felt parched. She knew she wasn't going to get any more sleep, yet walking over to the inn for something to eat or drink seemed less possible right now than climbing Mount Celestia. She just couldn't do it. She wondered if someone had brought her backpack back inside. It held several waterskins, and some hardtack, possibly even a piece of smoked venison. Slowly, she maneuvered herself into a sitting position, and turned around.

The firelight illuminated the silhouette of a man standing in the archway, looking at her.

Caroline started, a quick shriek coming from her throat before she could stop it. The figure likewise started, apparently not expecting such a reaction. Even before he stepped back and bowed low, Caroline had recognized him though, and was ashamed of her reaction.

"Tojo?"

The samurai slowly rose up, but not all the way. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"A thousand aporogies, Carrorine-san. Tarass has been watching over you. She- needed quick break, asked me to make sure fireprace stay warm. Not wish to disturb your rest."

Caroline tried one of her weak smiles, but those muscles seemed to have forgotten how to obey. She settled for what she hoped was a kindly look from her eyes, even if the samurai couldn't see them. "That's all right... Tojo-sama," she said, hoping she was using the correct Nipponese suffix. "You didn't disturb me at all. Thank you for your concern."

Tojo bowed again, then stood upright, his own self again. "Honored to serve. I wirr get Tarass for you now." He turned to leave.

"No!" Caroline shot out her hand towards him before she even knew what she was doing.

The samurai turned back, eyeing her quizzically.

Caroline swallowed hard, not quite sure what was going on. A minute ago, she'd have been happy if she never saw another sentient face again. Now, she didn't want to be alone, and for some reason, Tojo being here was not making her more uncomfortable, as anyone else might have done. "Please," she croaked, "If you don't mind, could you stay with me- just for a little while?"

Tojo was clearly puzzled, but he nodded. The samurai took a step forward, and then seemed to remember something. He held up a finger to Caroline, indicating that she should wait for a moment. He then disappeared into the front room, coming back with a steaming mug of tea, which he handed to Caroline. She nodded thanks, blew on the tea, and took a sip. It was a mint brew, one of the Brass Dragon's standards, but she was somewhat surprised that it tasted fresh. She assumed Talass or Tojo had simply been keeping it hot in the small iron pot that swung over the fireplace. She gave Tojo a questioning glance.

"Thank you, Tojo. This is good, but it tastes fresh. How did you know when I would wake up?"

The samurai gave her one of his raised eyebrows. "Not know, Carrorine-san. That fourth cup. Tarass drink other three."

Now it was Caroline's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Three cups? No wonder she had to, er- take a quick break."

She finally got the smile out, and was delighted when Tojo rewarded her with a full smile of his own. She couldn't recall ever seeing that before. The samurai, his usual serious expression quickly back in place, slowly sat down on the floor lotus-style, in front of her bed. He kept his gaze on the wall, just to the right of Caroline's head. While the samurai's reluctance to look a woman in the eye had been previously irritating to Caroline, now it seemed to her to be revealed not as some strange Nipponese custom, but simple shyness on Tojo's part, and this struck her as so funny that she had to choke off a laugh, less she offend him.

An eyebrow rose again, but there was otherwise no reaction.

Caroline could the whistling of a gust of wind outside. She shivered briefly, and then looked at Tojo again. "Have I been asleep long?"

The samurai considered. "It shortry past midnight now, I berieve."

Caroline closed her eyes. _Too late_. She forced the sadness from her mind. There would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, there was something else that she wanted to do. Gathering the blanket as firmly as possible around herself as possible, Caroline got out of bed, and sat down besides Tojo. She moved slowly, like one would around an unfamiliar dog, to avoid making it nervous. There was absolutely no doubt that Tojo was unsettled by this, yet he remained resolute, and unmoving. Again, this seemed sweet to Caroline. She settled herself in with a sigh, smiled again at the samurai, and then kept her gaze parallel with his.

Bigfellow was in fact gathering up her nerve. She was about to ask something that was not only potentially embarrassing, but theoretically dangerous, given the samurai's strong code of honor. Still, it was something that, for some inexplicable reason, she just _had_ to know.

She cleared her throat, glancing at her sitting partner out of the corner of her eye. "Tojo, may I ask you- a personal question?"

She heard a very slight intake of breath. The samurai's violet eyes flickered to Caroline's face, then down to the floor, then back to the wall. Caroline instantly regretted asking. Her curiosity was not worth Tojo's friendship. She doubted that neither Elrohir, Cygnus nor Aslan, who had all known Tojo for years more than she had, had ever pried like she was about to do. She knew there was some event in Tojo's past that had led to him departing from Nippon in the first place, and dearly hoped that she wasn't touching on it. Well, it was too late to back off now. She held her breath and waited.

Almost imperceptively, Tojo nodded.

"Have you ever been in love, Tojo?"

Those purple eyes went back to meet hers. An almost bemused expression came onto the samurai's face as he exhaled slowly. He nodded again. "Yes, Carrorine-san. Very much in ruv once." His gaze returned to the wall, and he was silent for a while. Just as Caroline was considering whether it might be safe to ask for details, he continued.

"I very young, thirteen maybe. Her name Kyoko. She my age, very beautifur. Her face- it right up room when she enter. I want very much- to be with her."

Caroline proceeded cautiously. "And did she love you?"

Tojo frowned. He seemed to be searching for a way to translate some Nipponese concept into Common. "I was in training to be samurai to Yanigasawa daimyo, as my ancestors do for many generations. She was," and here he hesitated, "_heimin_." He looked over at Caroline. "Not nobirity, not gentry. Beneath my station."

Caroline nodded to indicate her understanding. "Your family did not approve?"

The samurai shook his head, but Caroline couldn't tell what that meant. He continued, however. "There was another boy, Hido. He awso _heimin_. Hido ruv Kyoko too. He," and here Tojo hesitated again, "not honoraber. We each try to win her affection. I know Kyoko ruv Hido more than me. She rike his type behavior. I become desperate. I..."

The samurai stopped, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

Caroline didn't dare speak, but she couldn't look away. When Tojo finally raised his eyes to look at her again, she saw pain in them. Pain, and shame.

"I- act dishonorabry, to try and be rike Hido. It not work. She choose Hido anyway. I roose Kyoko, I roose honor, I roose- everything." The samurai closed his eyes and took a deep sigh. When he opened them again, he again stared at the wall. He did not speak again.

Caroline felt sorry for Tojo, and she felt sorry that she had invaded his privacy like this. This bizarre _need_ she had to know was almost satisfied, but not yet. "Tojo," she asked, licking her dry lips, "May I ask you one last question?"

Tojo did not respond. Caroline leaned in closer, and took the plunge. "If it had worked, Tojo; if you had won Kyoko's heart because of what you had done; would it have been worth it?"

The samurai again turned to regard the young woman. He looked thoughtful for a few seconds and then, surprisingly, the bemused expression returned to his face. "No, Carrorine-san. Not worth it. Must be aber to rook in mirror and be at peace with person you see there." He gave a slight shrug. "Not know if this true, but berieve so." His expression turned serious again, almost sorrowful. "I am sorry, Carrorine-san. My answer- not what you wish to hear?"

Now it was Tojo's turn to be surprised as a smile spread across Bigfellow's face. "Maybe not what I wanted to hear," she said quietly, "but what I _needed_ to hear."

Caroline felt satisfied now, and grateful. She desperately wished she could give Tojo a hug, or a quick peck on the cheek, but she knew how uncomfortable that would make him, so she settled for a deep bow, her forehead scraping the floor from her sitting position. Somewhat puzzled, Tojo returned the bow.

The door opened.

Tojo rocketed back to his feet, moving quickly even for him. They both turned to see Talass enter. She blinked in surprise at the scene before her.

"Oh. Hello- I'm glad you're awake, Caroline. How are you feeling?" the cleric asked, her gaze switching from Caroline, up to Tojo, and back down again.

"A little better, Talass. Tojo has told me you've been keeping watch over me. Thank you." Caroline said. She had hoped to prevent any awkwardness here, erroneous thought it might be, but she suddenly realized that she had just bowed again, this time to Talass. Self-consciously, she rose to her feet, hugging onto the blanket fiercely as she made her way back to her bed. Caroline smiled again, but this time only inwardly as she watched Talass shake her head, throwing out the "impossible" scenarios she had imagined.

Tojo bowed once more to Caroline, and then headed- rather swiftly, she thought- for the door, but Talass caught his sleeve and whispered something in his ear. The samurai gave her a brief nod and left the cabin. Talass turned back to Caroline, now with a slight smile on her face.

"There's someone here to see you, Caroline."

Caroline's eyes narrowed. "I don't want to speak with Aslan right now, Talass."

Talass' expression hardened in turn. "Well, you're going to have to, sooner or later, Mrs. Bigfellow," She stated, crossing her arms across her chest. "However," she added, her face softening a little, "that's not who I was referring to."

Caroline looked confused. "Who then?"

Talass went to the door and opened it again. A man clad in plate mail, wet from the rain, walked in and bowed slightly to Caroline, his dark blue eyes twinkling. "Good evening, Lady Bigfellow."

She gawked for another moment, and then managed to pull herself together. "Sir Dorbin! How- I mean, I'm pleased to see you of course, but- when did you arrive? And why have you come? Is your party with you?"

The knight seemed somewhat amused by her confusion. He bent his right arm in the fashion of a lord escorting a lady. "I am your chariot, milady. If I may be so bold as to suggest that you throw on something a little warmer, we can be off to the Temple of Zeus."

Caroline blinked. "The temple? But- isn't it too late?"

Sir Dorbin shook his head. "You may not have quite as much time with your husband as originally planned, but it will still happen. Boastful though he may be, Monsrek does appear to have some pull with the Olympic priesthood. He was concerned when you did not show up as you had said-"

Caroline cut him off. "That was Aslan's fault! He refused to take me, and Monsrek never sent another _sending_ to-"

Dorbin raised his hand, his features turning stern now. "Hush. I have already spoken with Aslan, young lady. I am aware of his reasons for refusing to use his Talent, and I will not gainsay him. And as for Monsrek, the _sending_ is a very powerful boon, and difficult to pray for. He can use it at most once per day. He sacrificed much to bring you that message, Lady Bigfellow."

Caroline was silent. Sir Dorbin was right. The enormity of her selfishness was planting itself squarely in front of her, and she couldn't ignore it. "I'm sorry," she whispered, eyes downcast.

The knight moderated his tone. "Accepted. We're all mortal, and don't always act as we should, my own self included. Now, I will leave you to get dressed, Lady Bigfellow, but before we can leave, there is one thing that you _must_ do."

The young woman looked up slowly at Sir Dorbin. "Yes?"

The knight moved over to Caroline, and to her slight surprise, sat down on it next to her and took her hand in his. He looked straight into her eyes.

"You and Aslan remind me much of Monsrek and myself, Caroline," he said with a slight smile. "Many is the time that I have been tempted to take that holy symbol off of his neck and choke him to death with the chain. However, I have been with Monsrek many years, long enough to know that what he does may not always be right, but that he believes it to be so. He deserves not only my respect, but my friendship as well. He has both."

Caroline sighed and gave Dorbin a sour look. "You want me to go apologize to Aslan, don't you?"

The knight shook his head. "No. I want you only to talk to him. What you choose to say is your choice entirely. And before you ask, no, this is not Aslan's idea. It is mine, and he has no idea I am telling you this." The knight got up and headed to the door. He pulled it open, looked back at Caroline, and said, "I'll be waiting in the common room. For some reason, teleporting makes me thirsty."

He left. Talass followed, shutting the door behind her after a last look at Caroline. Lady Bigfellow took a deep breath, and while getting dressed, began to think.

* * *

Aslan was sitting in the Tall Tales Room, his chair angled so it faced away from the door. He had shed his armor, and sat nursing a glass of wine, staring off at nothing in particular. Occasionally he would look to the corner of the room. Next to the chest, Grock and Mirage lay sleeping, tumbled together in a canine heap. The paladin sighed and took another sip of wine, listening to the faint sound of rain outside and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.

He heard the sound of the door opening and then closing. Aslan didn't bother to look to see who it was. It was probably Sir Dorbin, come to tell him he was leaving with Caroline.

"Sleeping with the enemy, Grock? Whatever am I going to do with you?"

Aslan peered around the back of his chair. Caroline stood just inside the door, looking at him with a thin smile.

The paladin gave a curt nod of greeting. "Caroline."

Bigfellow went to the other chair and moved it so that it was directly facing Aslan, and then sat down in it. She leaned forward, her chin propped up on her hands.

Aslan spoke first. "Aren't you off to Willip?"

Caroline took a deep breath. This wasn't going to be easy, but that was her own fault. "Soon," she said. "Listen- Aslan," she began, and then stopped.

She didn't know how to get the words out.

The paladin stepped in, his voice sharp. "I don't know what you've come to say, Caroline. I can only hope you're not looking for an apology, because you're not going to get one. I stand by every single thing I said yesterday. I'm glad that you're going to be able to see your husband, but that doesn't change anything from my point of view." Aslan sat up straighter in his chair. "You may be right in part, Caroline. I've never known romantic love, and I probably never will. But there-"

Caroline cut in. "Why not, Aslan?" she asked. "Was that part of your calling?"

He shook his head slowly. "No Caroline, it's just… part of who I am. Part of the choices I've made in my life. But I'm comfortable with that, just as you're comfortable being with Argo. I have no plans to change who I am, and you're just going to have to accept that!" Caroline winced as he glanced over at the wardogs, then back to her. He seemed to be having trouble controlling his temper. "There _are_ other kinds of love than the romantic type you know. You- mean a lot to me, Caroline. I never wanted doing the right thing to come between us, but if it does- I'm willing to sacrifice that friendship for the greater good." He gave a small shrug, and his lips pressed together. "Seeing you in agony like that broke my heart Caroline, and that's the one part of me my Talent can't heal." He wiped his eyes. "We're so different, it seems. I think I've learned in the past two weeks that you really are Argo's wife." The paladin looked away, into the fireplace. "I swear, sometimes I want to take a hammer and knock some sense into the both of you."

"Because you're our friend?" asked Caroline softly.

Aslan looked back at her, his eyes sad. He shrugged. "I'd like to think so, but now- I honestly don't know if I can be." He looked away again.

_Oh my god_, Caroline thought. _What have I done?_

She slowly rose from her chair, and then knelt down in front of Aslan. She reached out, and cradled Aslan's bearded cheek, pushing it back to look at her. "I didn't come here for an apology, Aslan. I came here _with_ one."

She stood up and gently kissed the top of his head. "I'm sorry, Aslan. Please forgive me," she whispered, tears falling now, down her cheeks and into his hair. He made no response. She began to walk back towards the door. "You can let me now if you do when I get back. Either way- I'll understand."

The paladin eyed her critically. "Tell me truthfully, Caroline. Why this sudden change of heart? Is it because you got what you wanted?"

She looked back at him and smiled, wiping the tears away. "Actually no, it was before I even knew Sir Dorbin was here. I had a little heart-to-heart with someone, and that really helped me to see things more clearly."

He grunted. "With Talass, I presume?"

She shook her head. "No. With Tojo."

Aslan scowled at her. "I said _truthfully_, Caroline. You know how much I hate lies."

"Ask him yourself." Her expression turned serious. "Take care of yourself Aslan, and if Nodyath shows up, tell him the offer is rescinded."

He nodded slowly. "I'll do that."

Caroline left. Aslan regarded Grock and Mirage again, who were both waking up now and yawning at him. He kept looking back at the door, his face creasing with bewilderment and doubt.

_Tojo?_

Aslan looked up at the roof and shook his head in bewilderment. "Lord Odin, I don't know anyone anymore."

* * *

Sir Dorbin stood up from the bar as Caroline emerged from the Tall Tales Room. Caroline looked shaky. He could tell she had been crying, but decided not to ask her about it. After all, it was only to be expected. Instead, he held out his hand to her and smiled. "Shall we be going, Lady Bigfellow?"

"Can you give me five minutes, Sir Dorbin?" she asked.

"Of course, my Lady," the knight replied, surprised, "but I assumed you were anxious to have every-"

"Thanks! I'll be right down!" she said, already on her way up the stairs.

* * *

Yanigasawa Tojo sat on the floor in his room, working with a thin piece of wood about two feet square. He bent low over it, using a tiny knife to make cuts. On some areas, he would scrape away a surface layer of the wood to show a different texture. He reached over and adjusted the flame on the lantern which sat on the floor nearby.

The woodwork was an abstract representation of Negacha Province, back in Nippon. It was crude, but it was the best the samurai had to work with here. He straightened up again and examined it. A low forest covered much of the bottom, while wisps of mountains, dim in the mist, rose up in the background. To the left, a suggestion of a town could be seen, and next to it, running along the entire left side of the woodwork, a few carefully placed lines represented the sea. The narrow but deep Strait of Nippon that separated his homeland from Gravoland.

Tojo rarely worked on his woodcarving, but he had tonight. Since coming back from the Bigfellow cabin, he had found himself unable to sleep. This had not surprised him. He knew how memories, once unearthed, could cling to oneself.

He considered. Caroline had indeed surprised him tonight. He would never have expected her to ask such questions of him, and he had briefly been quite nervous indeed, unsure of her intentions. It was obvious that she was taking great pains to avoid dishonoring him, and she had succeeded, although the memories itself reminded Tojo of his failings. To be sure, not his greatest failing, but an unhappy time for him nonetheless. Still, he mused, if in some strange way, it would help Caroline to recover, he considered it worth it.

Of course, he had not told her everything. Far from it. He knew that even if he had won Kyoko, it would have been meaningless anyway. His teachers and his parents had not known about Kyoko, but he doubted they would have let him marry her. This romantic love that the _gaijin _seemed so obsessed about had little room in the stratified upper society of Nippon, being mostly the province of songs and stories. It certainly could not be permitted to sway a samurai from his vow of _bushido_. Perhaps if Kyoko had been a different kind of girl, the kind he had always dreamt about-

Tojo shook his head. Fantasies were useless things. He returned his attention to the woodcarving when he heard a faint sound behind him. He turned around. A small sheet of paper, the kind that Talass used in her religious writings, had been folded up and slipped underneath his door. Puzzled, he reached over, picked it up and unfolded it.

It was written in Nipponese, horribly crude, but just barely legible.

**You did not lose Kyoko, Tojo. She lost you. **

**Thank you for your kindness. **

**Caroline Bigfellow**

The samurai grinned, folded the paper back up, and placed it in a pocket of his robes.

"_Ieh doitashimashte_, Bigferrow Carrorine," he whispered. "You are very wercome."

He blew out the lantern flame and went to bed.


	35. Watch Those Hands, Paladin!

**15th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Caroline cursed loudly as she stumbled in the mud, trying to maintain her balance. She did so, but only barely. She was bent over so far forward from the weight of her backpack and assorted items hanging from her belt, that she felt it was a wonder she was able to move at all. Clearly, her previous estimate of what constituted 130 pounds of gear (what she was told she would need to reach the magic number of 250) was woefully low. The fact that she was in the midst of a downpour that she was now sure was going to flood the entire Flanaess did little to lighten her mood. Already the water was already sloshing halfway to her knees with every step she took in the mud. She glanced over at Talass, who was a few steps behind her, similarly encumbered and doing about as well.

"Did I miss something?" Caroline shouted out at the cleric. "Exactly when did we join the Royal Army?"

If Talass replied, Caroline couldn't hear it. The wind had picked up this afternoon, making a terrible situation even worse. Somehow she was still able to hear over the wind the sound of the self-appointed drill sergeant, Aslan the Paladin.

"Keep moving!" he shouted. "We have to see how well you move like this!"

"I'm a nymph, dancing lightly through the forest! Can't you tell!" Caroline shouted back, but she continued to stagger in a vague approximation of a large circle in front of the inn, as Aslan and Elrohir, neither of whom were wearing armor, looked on. Talass continued to plod along behind her.

_Oh well_, Caroline thought, smiling grimly to herself. _They can't take this morning away from me..._And indeed, it had been wonderful. In a darkened courtyard behind the Temple of Zeus, Caroline had finally gotten her meeting with Argo. She would swear it hadn't lasted five minutes, although Dorbin had said later it was closer to twenty. Caroline couldn't get enough of her husband. Caroline swore she could feel her soul healing as they embraced. Afterwards, they had sat down on a nearby bench and talked. Caroline had insisted that Argo fill her in first.

* * *

The ranger shrugged. "Not much to tell, my love. My instructor's a heartless monster, but I think that's a requirement for the job, so that's okay. His name is Sir Damoscene. Quite a guy, actually. He's from Chendl, and they say he trains rangers that work directly for the king himself."

"And he's a Zeus worshipper?" asked Caroline, intrigued.

Argo nodded. "A rarity around here, I know. He said there's no Olympic temple at all in Chendl, so he enjoys getting back out here when he can. He was actually due to head back to Chendl to train up a ranger there when I showed up on Melinjaro's doorstep, and he stayed here to train me up as a personal favor to him." He stretched his back straight and grimaced. "I still have no idea what my quest is going to entail, but I'm not worried at all about it now. Considering how brutal Damoscene's training methods are, it couldn't possibly be worse than the preparation. I've got to remember to slap Melinjaro upside his head for this."

Caroline snuggled up closer to her husband. "Now, now. Don't be hard too hard on the High Priest, dearest. He did marry us, after all."

Argo seemed to consider this, then nodded.

"You're right. Two slaps."

He looked at her and grinned, moving in for another kiss. After a moment of feigned insolence, she leaned in to meet him when the suddenly the image of her slapping Aslan came roaring back into her mind. She pulled back, stricken.

Argo's auburn eyes searched his wife's face. "What's wrong?"

And Caroline had told him the whole story, from the beginning. By the end, she was sobbing in his arms. Argo held her close, but it was clear she had managed to amaze even him.

He whistled. "Whew. I don't know what to say, my love. Annoying Aslan is a fine art. I should know; I've devoted my life to it." He looked back into her eyes. "The thing you have to understand about Aslan is- he wants to help people. He really does, but he likes to catalog them in his own mind, so he knows exactly what they need. Any kind of negative emotion, especially a passionate one, unnerves him. He has trouble remembering we're not the same, day-to-day. We have moods."

Caroline laid her head on his chest. "I really went over the line though, didn't I? I'm sorry," she said softly, trying to stop the tears from starting again. "All I could feel was that he was keeping me from seeing you."

Argo stroked her hair, then raised her chin with his hand and planted a soft kiss on her lips. He looked at her in earnest. "My father told me once that the only reason ever to draw a line in the first place was so that you could step over it and get the good swag that was on the other side." He hugged her tightly again. "You're a Bigfellow now, Caroline. Excess is our stock in trade. Life is short. As far as I'm concerned, it's the only way to live."

Caroline sniffled. "I can't see much good 'swag' coming out of this business with Aslan."

Argo raised a cautioning finger. "You never know. I've seen some pretty terrible situations turned around in my day. I'll speak with Aslan when I get back, but in the meantime you're going to have to live with it, love. The trick is to try and compromise with him, without compromising yourself.

Caroline rolled her eyes. "Well, that sounds easy."

Her husband shrugged and gave her his famous pained smile. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm great at theory, but lousy at practice."

She gave him her own smile, one a bit naughtier than his. "Really? That's not how I remember things..."

Their passion had been interrupted by a discreet throat-clearing from Sir Dorbin, who stood patiently back a ways while the two slowly pulled apart, sharing the same guilty smiles of frustration. "Be strong, my love" Argo had whispered to her before he walked back to the temple. "I promise you- I'll be back."

Just as he opened the rear door leading back into the temple, the ranger turned around again. Even at this distance Caroline could hear the amazement in his voice.

_"Tojo?_ A bad boy for love?"

Caroline had laughed, and Argo had shaken his head in astonishment and left, closing the door behind him.

As Caroline approached Sir Dorbin, she could now see that he carried a large balancing scale in one hand, and a sack slung over his shoulder. From the jingling, it sounded like it was full of coins. She raised a questioning eyebrow at the knight.

"Copper commons," he explained, adjusting the sack. "Aiclesis has been busy getting these for me. Weighting measures for the scale. This should help with Elrohir's plan for your safety. Are you ready to return now, Lady Bigfellow?"

She smiled sadly at him. "I suppose so. Thank you for your generosity Sir Dorbin, and please thank all the members of your party for me. I never could have gotten to see Argo without..." She trailed off, her eyes falling downwards.

"You're nervous about seeing Aslan again, aren't you?" the knight asked quietly.

Caroline nodded, looking back up at him. "I can't say I'm looking forward to it."

Dorbin nodded as he moved up to Caroline. "I cannot promise you a happy ending to all this, Lady Bigfellow. My only advice would be to pray to your god," he said, looking around at the courtyard. "I've found that it's often in the small things between us that they make their true miracles manifest."

"A miracle sounds like just the thing right about now," she replied, smiling wanly at him. "I'm ready when you are, Sir Dorbin."

* * *

That miracle seemed a long time coming to Caroline as they all gathered together in the common room save Dorbin, who had returned to Willip after a quick drink. Originally, they had tried Aslan's cabin, but it had quickly become too crowded for all of them, plus all the items they had assembled for weighing. When Mirage had bounced up onto the bed and sent the bag of commons spilling out onto the floor, Aslan had snarled and nearly kicked his wardog, drawing shocked looks from everyone. It was not only Caroline that the paladin was being short with, it was everyone. She tried to be compliant and uncomplaining, hoping that nobody would accuse her of turning their friend against all of them.

_Even if it is true_, she thought.

The patrons currently in the common room were certainly curious as to why weapons and various sundry items were being spread out on tables and then methodically weighed out on a scale, one at a time, but the paladin's scowl kept all questions at bay. Aslan was using his ability to _detect evil_ so often now, Caroline wondered if it was possible for it to burn out. She didn't dare to ask Aslan directly about whether he still considered her a friend. Right now, she was pretty sure what the answer would be.

Cygnus their resident bookkeeper not being here, Tojo (who had remarkably beautiful handwriting, thought Caroline) was scribbling figures into columns and adding them up. He, Aslan and Elrohir talked quietly together while the women glanced at each other, waiting. Tadoa was helping out the staff as usual, occasionally throwing a curious look their way, but he said nothing.

Elrohir came around the table and addressed his wife and Caroline. "All right, we've weighed everything we can and sorted it out as best we could. Aslan and I already know how much extra weight the two of us need. Thanks to our plate mail, it isn't much. Now your armors are too big for this scale, but we have a general idea of what they weigh." Elrohir took a deep breath. He seemed to be prepping himself up to say something unpleasant. "Caroline," he said, looking at her, "We think you need to carry about 130 pounds of gear to reach your target."

Her eyes nearly popped. "A hundred and thirty pounds? That's an awful lot of weight to carry Elrohir, especially for a long time!"

"Depends," came a cold voice. "Do you still consider Nodyath your friend?"

Everyone stared at the paladin. Even Talass looked as though she considered that remark a little extreme. No one said anything however. They just turned to look expectantly at Caroline, who wondered if a quick prayer to Hades might cause the god to open a crack in the earth and swallow her up. Blinking back tears, she said quietly "No. No, I don't. I'll do my best."

Elrohir slowly turned to his wife. "Talass, you'll need to carry about the same load. Maybe ten pounds less, but that's about it." The cleric simply nodded her assent without comment. The ranger indicated the table. "All right, you two. Load up and then assemble outside. We need to see if this is going to work."

* * *

_This isn't going to work_. Caroline grimaced as she continued to wallow in the muck. Her back and her legs were killing her now, and the rain was soaking down everything, making it that much more heavier. She was sure that she was now carrying close to 200 pounds counting the water, but she still didn't dare say anything to Aslan. She considered that, if Aslan wasn't going to be her friend anymore anyway, maybe she should just haul off and slug him right in the jaw. That thought kept her going for a few more steps, and then she heard the paladin's voice call out.

"All right, stop!"

Caroline stopped and raised her head to look as best she could. She saw Tadoa come running over from where he had been inspecting the corn patch.

"The stalks are at least four feet high now," the child reported breathlessly. "I figure that by this time tomorrow, they'll be," and here he gestured weakly with his hands, "you know- ready to harvest."

"All right," said Elrohir. "Thank you, Tad." The elf nodded and stepped back towards the front door of the inn, anxious to observe but also to stay out of the way.

Aslan stepped forward and regarded the two women. "How often you keep this weight on is up to you, ladies. I'm sure it's uncomfortable, but keep in mind it will also keep you safe while you wear it."

"You realize this will drastically cut down on our mobility in combat," Talass remarked.

Aslan nodded. "That may be true Talass, but the whole point here is to avoid combat in the first place. I spoke with Sir Dorbin before he left, and he's going to continue to work with us to find a way to take the fight to Nodyath. Hopefully, this set of affairs won't last for long."

Talass did not seem very mollified, but she made no further comment. Caroline raised her hand. Aslan eyed her with a sour expression.

"Yes, Caroline?"

"Since you don't know exactly how much we weigh, how can you be sure we're carrying enough?"

If Caroline was expecting a sharp retort from Aslan, she didn't get it. For answer, he merely turned to Elrohir. The ranger stepped forward, somewhat hesitantly.

"We've been thinking about that very same question, Caroline. Now it's not very scientific, but Aslan and I feel we have a pretty good handle on what 250 pounds feels like." He turned to Aslan with a nervous smile, but the paladin showed no response. Elrohir cleared his throat and then turned back to the women. "That's why neither of us is armored up right now. We're going to pick each one of you up, and use our best judgment as to whether you're over 250 or not."

Talass and Caroline, who had moved to within a few feet of each other, exchanged identical stares of incredulity. "I feel safer now, don't you?" Caroline asked Talass.

The cleric smiled back at her. It was the first real smile Caroline had received since returning from Willip, and she was incredibly grateful for it.

Elrohir walked up to his wife, and then squatted down in front of her. One hand grasped the back of Talass' calf, the other just above her knees. Trying not to grunt, he hoisted her up about three feet in the air. Caroline was impressed. She had forgotten that Elrohir was nearly as strong as Argo.

The ranger took a few halting steps carrying Talass, then grinned at her. "You know honey, if you ate a little more at breakfast, you wouldn't need so much extra gear now."

She smiled a thin smile at him. "I can still reach my war hammer you know, dearest."

Elrohir returned the smile, and then turned to the paladin. "I think she's over, Aslan. Come and see what you think!" He gently set her down, and then backed off as Aslan, looking grim, came up and squatted down.

Aslan put his arms around Talass' legs as Elrohir had, and then lifted, but not without a grunt. Aslan was definitely not as strong as his allies, and everyone knew it. Still, he lifted the cleric, but when he tried to take a few steps with her, his left foot got stuck in the mud, and he stumbled just a bit. He looked up at Talass with a mildly embarrassed expression. "Sorry".

She nodded to show there was no problem, and he put her back down. "I agree Elrohir," Aslan said. "She's good." Now the two approached Caroline.

She held her breath. For some reason, the tears were threatening to start up again, but she fought them back.

Elrohir went down, put his arms around Caroline's legs as he had done with Talass, and lifted her up into the air. He hefted her a bit and took a few steps, trying to concentrate. Then he looked into her eyes. There was an expression of fear there that touched him.

Very softly, Elrohir said to her, "It'll be okay, Caroline."

He put her down as gently as he could and stepped back. "I think she's over, Aslan, but see for yourself."

With the same stony expression, the paladin squatted down in front of Caroline, put his arms around her legs, and lifted. She wanted to close her eyes, but kept them opened, and focused on his face. He looked thoughtful, concentrating. Aslan took a step, but his foot shifted again in the mud, and he stumbled again. He glanced up at Caroline, a little of both exasperation and embarrassment evident on his face now.

"Sorry," he said.

Like so many things in Caroline Bigfellow's life, she would never know what possessed her to do what she did next.

She put on a coy smirk, looked him dead in the eye and said, "Watch those hands, paladin. I know your type."

Aslan stared at her. His eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open. He didn't even think to put her down.

Caroline wagged her eyebrows up and down at him.

Time stood still.

Slowly, an expression began to take shape on Aslan's face, but Caroline couldn't recognize it. She wasn't even sure if it was a good one or a bad one. She just continued to look into those light blue eyes. Then suddenly, she recognized his expression. Argo used it all the time, but she had never, _never_ seen it on the paladin's face.

It was a wicked smile.

Aslan began to move around quickly with Caroline. Her body was thrown forward, then backwards in his grasp. "Oof! What the-"

"I don't know, Elrohir!" Aslan called out. "I can't get an accurate estimate! She's not being very cooperative!"

Caroline could only gasp. "Me? Why, you little- _Whoa!"_

The two of them went down in the mud. No one else could even think to move.

Covered in mud, Aslan and Caroline, both on their knees, looked at each other. The paladin picked up a handful of mud.

"I think she needs a few more pounds!" he shouted and then flung it at Caroline, who, laughing, retaliated at once.

The others stared dumbly. Talass was the first to break out of the trance. She moved to the pair, a stern expression on her face.

"Sure, very amusing. I'm the one who has to clean you up, you know. Get out of the dirt!" she said to Caroline. She grabbed the younger woman's hand, but was nearly pulled off-balance herself. "Oh, no you don't!" she cried. She struggled, but it was a deadlock.

Talass looked over to the paladin. "Aslan, would you please-"

"No problem, my lady," Aslan replied, grabbing Talass' other arm and pulling her down into the mud.

_"That's not what I meant!"_ the cleric yelled, trying to wipe the wet dirt off of her. "This is disgusting! What in the name of Valhalla has gotten into you two!"

Elrohir came over and put his hands on his hips. "I suppose there's no way I'm going to come out of this clean, am I?" he asked, shaking his head and smiling.

Talass paused. "Well, since you seem to think it's _so_ much fun..." A quick yank later, and the ranger had joined his friends in the muck, flinging mud balls at will.

A yell and a blur followed as Tadoa flung himself into the mix, followed by three very exuberant dogs.

* * *

"So Aslan," Caroline asked, breathing heavily. "Am I good?"

The paladin considered, then held out his hand sideways. "You'll do."

"Approval from Aslan, the high-and mighty?" Caroline asked in wonder, then looked up at the gray, rainy sky above. There was a flash of lightning, and then a loud rumble that almost shook the ground. It seemed to echo on forever.

_"You tell 'em, Zeus!"_ she cried out to the heavens, and then looked at Aslan again, who now regarded her with a wry look.

"That would be, 'You tell them, _Odin'_, Lady Bigfellow," he said with a grin.

"Either way, it's a miracle," she whispered.

Then she plastered him with another mud ball.

* * *

Tojo, watching quietly from the door of the inn, felt it open beside him. All of the staff and current patrons of the Brass Dragon inn slowly peered outside, staring in absolute shock at the chaos in front of them. The barkeep looked over at Tojo. "What's wrong with them?" he asked in wonder, and perhaps a little fear, as though it might be something that was catching.

The samurai raised an eyebrow at him, then turned back to the jubilee.

"Everything rook just fine to me."


	36. The Cornfield

**16th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The rain had stopped. Although still windy, the afternoon skies were beginning to clear. Elrohir the ranger, resplendent in his newly cleaned plate mail, drew Gokasillion from its scabbard and held it aloft. The sword's white light washed over him as he turned to address his companions.

_"Are we ready, my friends?"_ he shouted out.

They all looked at each other. Caroline, shifting under her huge load, spoke first.

"We're burning down a patch of corn, Elrohir. Are you expecting it to put up that much of a fight?"

Talass, similarly burdened, shook her head at her husband. "You really haven't gotten comfortable with the fact that we've retired, have you?"

Aslan gave his friend a wry look. "Who knew farming was so exciting?"

Sighing, the ranger glanced over at the samurai. "Well, that's three snide comments. Anything to add, Tojo?"

The Nipponese warrior shook his head slowly, just a hint of an innocent smile upon his face.

Elrohir resheathed his sword. "Fine. Just trying to drum up a little team spirit, that's all", he grumbled as he walked back towards them. "We certainly don't seem to have any problem when it comes to fighting each other. I just thought we could channel a little of that energy against an _external_ threat for once."

"I'm with you, Elrohir!"

The ranger looked over at the elf and smiled. "Thank you, Tad. It's nice to know _someone's_ with me here." The child beamed with pride.

Aslan placed his hand on Elrohir's shoulder. "We're all with you, my friend. I think that what we're all just trying to say is that this situation doesn't demand a man-the-battlements mentality. We most certainly do have those," he added, giving a stern look to the two women, "but I think our corn problem here can be handled best by a logical, straightforward approach."

Elrohir nodded, then turned to regard the corn patch again. The black stalks had reached a height of just over six feet, and were now sporting black ears and black, bushy tassels on top. They blew gently in the breeze. Other than their color, the plants seemed as normal as any other. Elrohir could feel the taste of corn in his mouth; that wonderful flavor. He hadn't had it in years.

The ranger dismissed those thoughts from his head. "All right then, everybody. Oil flasks out, please."

Aslan began walking back towards the stalks. "Get them ready to light, but hold off a second," he called out over his shoulder. The others, while readying oil flasks (each rigged with a cloth fuse) looked on curiously as the paladin walked over and into the approximate center of the patch. He looked down at his feet for a moment, then back at the others. "I thought I saw-"

The ground below him began to move.

With a low rumble, the earth beneath the corn patch began, very slowly, to rise. Aslan jogged out of the patch without incident, then stopped at its edge to watch, along with his companions, who maintained their positions about ten yards further back.

After about a minute, the ground stopped rising. A mound of earth, about fifty feet in diameter and five feet high in the center, now lay before them. The corn stalks, seemingly unaffected, had risen with the earth.

Elrohir turned to his wife. "Talass, _detect magic_, please?"

The priestess concentrated, clutching her holy symbol. "The stalks are the same as before," she stated. "I get a moderate aura from them." She frowned, continuing to process the information being provided to her by the spell. "I'm getting a stronger reading now, coming from that mound." Talass looked at her husband, then at Aslan. "I think it's actually coming from _underneath_ the mound, although I can't be certain." She shook her head. "Nothing else I can tell."

The paladin had been staring at the ground. Now he looked back up at the rest of them, an uncertain expression on his face.

"Evil, Aslan?" asked Elrohir.

Aslan was seemingly at a loss for words as he regarded his companion. "I...don't know, Elrohir. It's like I almost sense something, but not quite." He shrugged. "I've never experienced that before." He dropped down to his knees and began digging in the dirt with his gauntlets as the others silently watched.

The paladin got down to a depth of about six inches before he hit something that looked and felt like packed earth. He could go no further. He got back up to his feet, drew his sword, and stabbed it down into the earth.

It couldn't make a dent.

Aslan frowned and resheathed his weapon. "I don't know what this is, but I don't like it." He announced to his compatriots. "Let me check one more thing, and then we'll fire all of this up". He reached out and wrested one of the ears off a stalk.

It was somewhat clumsy with his gauntlets, but Aslan managed to shuck the ear. He looked at the cob resting in his hand. It was as black as the rest of the plant. He ran his thumb over the kernels, not sure what he was looking for. He glanced back up at the others. They were waiting patiently for him, Talass and Caroline constantly shifting their positions to better manage their burdens. A small pang of guilt went through the paladin. He shouldn't be wasting time here.

"All right," he said, tossing the ear aside. "Light your flasks and-"

_"Aslan, look out!"_ five voices screamed simultaneously.

Aslan turned just as a griffon that hadn't been there a moment before buried its beak in his left shoulder, the sharp appendage piercing his armor. Blood spurted from the wound as he cried out. He drew his sword and fought back, but the beast's massive bulk bore down on him, its beating wings buffeting and hampering the paladin's efforts to strike a decisive blow.

The others dropped their flasks and, drawing weapons, charged the beast, not wishing to risk striking their friend with an errant arrow. Soon, they were all engaged in battle with the monster, but Talass and Caroline, as predicted, were having a particularly hard time with their extra encumbrance. Elrohir and Tojo however, quickly scored telling blows on the griffon, causing it to shriek out with pain. It was still fighting though, and showed every inclination of being in a beserk rage. Nothing short of death was going to stop it.

His initial shock at the surprise attack over, Aslan was now holding his own. With everyone engaging the griffon, he fought defensively, swatting away a massive swipe of the monster's lion-like claws while waiting for the best moment to strike. What he saw now of the beast, even in the heat of battle, was enough to give him pause.

The griffon seemed diseased. Whole patches of its fur were gone, with raw, red skin underneath. Its eyes were surrounded by a pale yellow-mucus, and its ribs showed on its underside. Before the paladin could make sense of this, the griffon roared in agony as Gokasillion, and then Tojo's katana, found their marks. The beast toppled over on its side.

And vanished.

A quick glance around at his friends showed Aslan that none of them were seriously wounded. He healed himself, then offered healing to the others. As he predicted, they all refused, saying they had little more than bruises and scratches.

"I know that," he said, looking grim. "But I'm not done picking corn yet."

The others stared at him. He told them about his observations about the griffon, which they corroborated. "I have some unanswered questions here," the paladin began.

"One such question- who scrying on us during this batter?" Asked Tojo.

Now it was the samurai who was the object of everyone's astonished gaze. He looked around, and a contrite look came into his face. "Aporogies for not saying so during fight," he said, bowing slightly. "Was somewhat... distracted at time."

"Not enough that you didn't spot the sensor," Aslan added, shaking his head with a wry smile. "You continually amaze me, my friend." His face turned serious again. "Did it disappear when we killed the griffon?"

Tojo nodded and pointed towards the cornfield. "First appear then, then come over here to watch batter."

"All the more reason for us to get to the bottom of this," Aslan stated. "Something tells me either Nodyath, this Emerald Serpent that Jinella talked about, or both, are involved with this."

Elrohir shook his head slowly at his friend. "As long as you apologize Aslan, I'm on board with whatever you suggest."

The paladin frowned at him. "Apologize? For what?"

The ranger smiled back. "For telling me farming wasn't exciting."

* * *

Ten minutes later, the party was again ready for combat. Talass and Caroline, refusing any advice to the contrary, had shed most of their excess weight. Bows were drawn and nocked. This time, it was Elrohir who picked an ear off a stalk. He didn't even bother to shuck it, he just hurled it away and watched as it tumbled end over end, landing about thirty yards away.

Instantly, there was a tree there, rising up nearly forty feet into the air...

Eevryone's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Slowly, with weapons aimed, they approached the tree.

It was bizarre looking, to say the least. Both bark and leaves were a brilliant orange color. The trunk of the tree seemed to be covered with a kind of waxy resin, perhaps some kind of sap, that imparted a glossy sheen to the wood, making it appear almost metallic. Numerous branches struck out horizontally from the trunk as normal, but sub-branches nearly as long as the primary ones jutted horizontally off from them, all at a 90 degree angle. There were large welts on both the trunk and the branches, appearing as ragged slits inside ovoid growths.

Everyone looked at each other. No one saw any hint of recognition, although Tadoa looked like he might hurt his facial muscles, he was concentrating so hard.

Elrohir, with both sword and shield in hand, motioned for the others to stay back, then walked around the trunk. He peered up into the orange foliage, then back at his allies. He shrugged.

"I'm at a loss here. What do you people think?"

With no sound whatsover, one of the horizontal sub-branches above Elrohir suddenly swung down, headed in an arc straight towards the ranger's back. As it descended, what looked like a blade of some kind popped out of a welt on the limb. Elrohir, alerted by the looks on the faces he was gazing at, swung around just in time to take the blow square on the shield. The impact nearly knocked him off of his feet, but he stood his ground. The blade-like object that scraped along his shield was, he could see now, a giant thorn of some kind.

Arrows fired from readied bows. Those that struck the trunk of the tree bounced off.

Weapons were drawn, and again the entire party was soon engaged in combat. Although the trunk itself seemed to have no obvious attacks, the branches above were surprisingly mobile, and the group constantly had to dodge or deflect swinging branches from above, all equipped with razor-sharp thorns. Aslan settled into his usual supporting mode, keeping an eye out for anyone who got hurt bad enough to require emergency healing. When he had the time, he would try to drive his sword into the trunk, but it was slippery from the resin. Most attacks simply bounced off.

"Back off, everyone! Use the oil flasks! Burn it!" yelled Elrohir. Just as the party had retreated beyond the reach of the tree's branches however, it disappeared.

Everyone regrouped, Aslan healing here and there. Elrohir noticed Tadoa had an especially grim expression on his face. "What's wrong, Tad?" He asked.

The child looked up at the ranger. "I'm sorry, Elrohir. I should have recognized it earlier. The orange color threw me. I've never seen an orange one before. I could have warned everyone if I knew."

By now, everyone was listening. "You know what kind of tree that was, Tad?" Talass asked quietly.

The elf nodded. "It was a scythe tree. I remember seeing a copse of them back home, on Rolex. It was near Invertown."

Now it was Aslan's turn to look grim. "Did anyone see another scrying sensor this time?"

Everyone shook their heads.

"Hmmm. I've got a seed of an idea people, but I'm not sure yet. I want to pick one more ear."

* * *

Aslan held the ear of corn in his hand. "Ready, people?"

"Would it matter if we weren't?" Asked Caroline with her best imitation of her husband's pained smile.

The paladin gave her a sour look, but the ends of his mouth went up just a little. He threw the ear about thirty yards.

When it landed, it was instantly replaced by a bird.

Once again, with bows drawn, the group examined the new arrival. The bird resembled a stork or crane of some kind, standing about five feet tall. It was a brilliant copper in color, it's feathers reflecting the afternoon sun. It regarded the party silently as they moved slowly towards it, making no sudden moves.

Aslan, the only one with a melee weapon drawn, motioned the others to hold at about ten yards distance while he slowly moved in closer. As he approached, it almost seemed like there were wisps of fog around the creature's head. It eyed Aslan steadily, tilting its head, as the paladin continued to move in.

This time, it was Elrohir who cried out. "Aslan! Look out for its-"

Just as Aslan realized that what he was seeing was not fog, it was steam- and it was rising out of the creature's beak, it shot a thin stream of superheated water at him, striking the paladin squarely in the face. He cried out in pain and backed up as the others fired. The bird swung its wings in front of its body. When arrows struck them, there was a metallic clang, and they bounced off, but one arrow, possibly Tojo's, drove right through the creature's neck. With a loud squawk, it flew at them.

It took about thirty seconds to dispatch the bird, after which it too disappeared. For the third time, that day, the party regrouped.

Aslan ran his hands over his face, satisfied that his healing had done its job. He looked at Elrohir. "So, you recognized it, did you? What was it?'

Elrohir looked thoughtful. "I've never seen one myself, but I'm pretty sure that was a Hellasian Stork."

Aslan folded his arms across his chest. "From Hellas? On Rolex? How do you know?"

"Do you remember Tlan, the ranger we met during our stay on Rolex? The one who trained me up?" The ranger asked. Aslan nodded.

"He told me about Hellasian Storks. Said he'd battled them before."

The paladin pointed to the scenes of their last two battles. "A bird and a tree, that as far as we know, are native to Rolex alone."

"But griffons are found on all three worlds," put in Caroline.

Aslan nodded. "Yes, but that particular griffon was suffering under some kind of horrible wasting disease. I'm willing to bet it was caused by the Devastation" He said, looking back at Elrohir, who nodded assent.

"So," the ranger said. "Everything we fought today was summoned from Rolex." He took a deep breath. "Nodyath."

"It would seem so," replied the paladin. "Yet it seems like a less than totally efficient weapon to use against us."

"He may be using what he has," said Elrohir, who shrugged. "Besides, he could attack while we were distracted," he added, looking sternly at his wife now. Talass however, made no move to pick up her additional baggage.

"Enough of this," she said, stepping forward and pulling out her oil flask. "It's time for some scorched earth."

* * *

That night, the party ate in the common room together.

Elrohir looked at his friends, who were all picking at their food listlessly.

"We shouldn't really be surprised that burning the stalks didn't work," he said. "We should have known they'd grow back."

"Trolls don't" Caroline replied. "Hey, you never know until you try."

The ranger smiled weakly, but said nothing.

"We need to break through that mound."

The others looked at Aslan. The paladin had hardly spoken a word in the past half-hour. He regarded them soberly.

"Tomorrow I'll be at full strength again, " he continued. "I have a strong suspicion there's an empty space underneath that mound. I'll try teleporting."

"If space there, probabry not empty, Asran-san", Tojo told him, his eyes locking with the paladin's.

Aslan rose up. "Well," he said with an grim smile, "If you people will excuse me, I'm not very hungry. I think I'll turn in early. The one bright spot is, if something goes wrong tomorrow, at least I'll have saved you all the cost of a burial."

Talass shook her head. She hated gallows humor. "Not funny, Aslan."

"Not untrue either, Talass," replied the paladin as he left the inn.


	37. The Mattock of The Titans

**17th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

_I hope I know what I'm doing_, thought Aslan.

The paladin stood on the outskirts of the mound. On it, the charred stalks of the corn that had been burned yesterday lay beneath the latest patch of black stalks, which whipped around in the stiff breeze. A cold northerly wind made the paladin shiver, his armor and excess baggage notwithstanding. Winter had definitely returned, it seemed.

He looked back at his friends. Their mood was much grimmer than yesterday. Few words were spoken between them. The women were once again shouldering their full burdens. Even Elrohir had confided to Aslan that he didn't think Talass and Caroline were going to be able to carry this much weight all day long for much longer, yet both of them no longer complained about it. The somber realization of their situation- that they were in a battle with an enemy who so far had all the advantages- weighed down upon everyone heavier than any material weight could.

Elrohir eyed his friend. "I know you feel you have to do this Aslan, but I really don't think you should."

Aslan looked back at the cornfield and sighed. "I have to, Elrohir. I've weighed all the pros and cons of this. The situation will only get worse if we don't act." He turned around to look back at the ranger. "What do we do if Nodyath decides to start attacking our guests... or our staff?"

"Are you going to hold yourself responsible for the actions of your counterpart, Aslan?" Elrohir replied.

The paladin raised an eyebrow at him. "You're about to remind me my counterpart has nothing to do with me, aren't you?"

Elrohir shrugged and gave him a thin smile. "No need to, now."

Aslan returned the smile. "Point taken, my friend. But I'm still going in." He eyed the black stalks again, and the dirt mound beneath them. "We can't wait any longer for Sir Dorbin's party to come up with a plan to save us every time we have a problem."

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Came the knight's voice behind them.

They all spun around. Not only was Sir Dorbin standing about thirty feet to the east, near the stables entrance of the inn, but a female figure clad in chainmail stood with him.

It was Jinella, and between the two of them, they were holding upright a most peculiar object.

The party regarded it with curiosity as they approached the pair. It looked for all the world like a gigantic pickaxe, easily nine feet tall. The end opposite the pick however, was flattened and sported three tines. They both held onto the giant tool firmly, keeping it standing upright.

"What is that?" Asked Caroline as they reached the new arrivals. Jinella answered, smiling broadly.

"This, good people, is the _mattock of the titans_. It's a special possession of our church. It looked like something you could have used yesterday, and-"

"Wait a minute!" Elrohir interrupted. "Was that you scrying on us yesterday?"

Jinella nodded soberly. "As I had mentioned, our church is still actively investigating Nodyath, as per the wishes of the Baron. Ethelred was... checking in on you yesterday, and noticed your distress. He reported his findings to our High Priest Lancoastes, and I just... _happened_ to be nearby," the cleric stated, an impish grin returning to her face. "I suggested that the mattock might be of great use to you, and he readily agreed, providing I return it promptly to the temple, of course."

Aslan eyed the mattock, and then turned his gaze back to the knight. "This thing is huge. You'd have to be twelve feet tall at least to use it properly." He grew thoughtful. "Well, as long as you're here to stand guard, Sir Dorbin, I could _polymorph_ into a size large enough to-"

The knight shook his head. "No need, my friend. I didn't agree to bring this monstrosity here, just so you would have to do all the hard work."

The paladin seemed puzzled. "But... you told me earlier Sir Dorbin, that you don't have my Talent for polymorphing."

Dorbin nodded. "That is true, Aslan. However, I think I'm... up to the task."

And he began to grow.

As the party looked on in wonder, Sir Dorbin swiftly grew larger and larger. Within moments, he had doubled his size, and was smiling down on them. "Not as impressive as your Talent, Aslan," his voice boomed down at the paladin, "but good enough for ditch-digging, wouldn't you say?"

With that, he picked up the mattock. A few quick strides brought him to the edge of the mound, where he immediately began to swing the tool into the dirt. Chunks of earth exploded outward, causing the other seven individuals to stand back.

After a minute or so, the giant Sir Dorbin, wiping his brow, spoke down to them.

"This could take a while, my friends. No need for you to stand out here freezing. Head back inside; I'll call for you when I'm done or if I find something interesting, whichever comes first!"

Elrohir looked at Aslan, who shrugged. The party, along with Jinella, started to head back to the Brass Dragon, but Tadoa hung back.

"I'd like to stay out a little while with Sir Dorbin, if that's all right."

Elrohir looked at Sir Dorbin. "I'd be delighted," the giant said. The ranger nodded at the elf. "All right, Tad."

"Make sure you don't distract him," Talass warned. The elf gave her that martyred look that only children have really mastered. "Yes, Talass, I'll be careful."

The others left. Tadoa watched silently for a while as Dorbin continued to dig. The knight glanced down at the child and smiled.

"Sir Dorbin," the elf said, somewhat hesitantly. "May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, young Tadoa," he replied, as he swung the mattock again. Large dirt clods continued to fly everywhere.

"Exactly how did you and your party wind up stranded here on Oerth?"

The huge fighter looked down at him, one large eyebrow raised. "Didn't Elrohir or one of the others tell you?"

Tadoa shook his head, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It's been kind of a hectic week..."

"No doubt," Dorbin grinned. "I'm afraid it's not a very exciting story," he said. "We were exploring the dungeons of Venom, and came across a most peculiar device. It looked like a large bowl or dish, about eight feet across, I'd say. Three pillars stood around it, each with a miniature pyramid atop it. We were experimenting with it, when young Fee Hal decides to jump inside the bowl." The knight shook his head, causing droplets of sweat to fall all around Tad. "Ah, the foolishness of youth- present company excepted, of course."

Tadoa grinned.

"He vanished of course," Sir Dorbin continued. "Monsrek was able to divine that he was still alive. Lacking any method of calling him back, it was decided unanimously that we should all be in the same boat, so we went after him." The knight paused in his labor for a moment. "I wonder if Sir Menn ever came in search of us."

"Sir Menn?" The child asked.

Dorbin looked down again at the elf and smiled. "A knight, such as myself. The other member of our party."

Tadoa was surprised. "You mean there's more of you?"

The knight laughed, his booming voice almost making Tad wince. "You make us sound like a swarm of locusts, young Tadoa! Yes indeed," he added, resuming his labor with the mattock. "He had stayed behind on other business while we entered the dungeons."

Tad shook his head. "The same as was with Elrohir and his party. Who would have thought it?"

Sir Dorbin stopped swinging the mattock again. "Excuse me?"

Tadoa looked at Dorbin's inquisitive, large eyes bearing down on him. He gulped and continued, meekly. "Er, that's how Elrohir and his friends got back here to Oerth after their last journey to Aarde," he said. "Venom's bowl."

The knight turned his gaze upon the Brass Dragon Inn. He seemed to reflect for a few moments, then shrugged his massive shoulders. "Hmmph! He might of left us a note or something."

Tad just stood there, unsure of what to say. Sir Dorbin looked back down at the child and gave him an easy smile. The elf visibly relaxed, and Dorbin again returned to his digging...

"So," asked Talass, swallowing a piece of chicken stew. "I understand you have to return the mattock to Willip after we're done with it, Jinella. But will you be returning here after that?"

Elrohir, sitting next to his wife around a large table in the common room, chuckled to himself. From what he had heard of concerning the initial meeting between these two women, he was amazed that they seemed to have reconciled their differences so quickly.

Jinella shook her head sadly, her brown hair falling in front of her face again. "It's very unlikely. I'm sorry, I wish it could be otherwise." A hint of that impish smile returned as she pushed her hair back. "I had quite a row with Ethelred about it a few days ago. I was upset at the time, but I really am needed elsewhere." She looked over at Talass, while picking up her glass of wine. "One doesn't get to channel divine power from a god by putting one's own desires foremost."

Talass smiled back and nodded sagely.

Jinella looked around at everyone. Her next grin had an embarrassed cast to it. "You people here seem like a large family. Quarrelsome in the extreme, but a strong undercurrent of faith and love runs underneath it." She leaned back in her chair, reflecting. "Seeing it made me homesick, I guess."

"You come from a large family, Jinella?" Elrohir asked.

The sly grin made a return appearance. "Seven brothers and sisters."

There were whistles all around the table. "None of us can match that, Jinella" Talass admitted. "In fact, we have almost no siblings among us. I have a sister-"

"I know," interrupted the priestess of Heironeous. Talass gave her a slightly strained smile before indicating Caroline. "And Caroline's husband Argo has- excuse me, _had_ a sister. She's dead now."

Caroline looked down at her lunch plate. She was not comfortable with this subject.

"I'm sorry, Caroline" Jinella said soberly.

Bigfellow managed her usual weak smile. "That's all right. Thank you."

Conversation resumed at a lower level, with stops and starts as people finished their meal. After some time, Tadoa came running back in.

"Dorbin thinks you'd better see this," he said, then spun around and ran outside again...

The knight had excavated the entire mound area to a depth of about ten feet. He stood halfway towards the edge of the huge pit, looking grimly down at an object that occupied its center.

All the faces of the Elrohir party held various expressions of disgust or revulsion. A large black, quivering mass, about five or six feet in diameter, lay in the pit. It looked almost like some obscene kind of pudding, although blue lines looking somewhat like veins ran all throughout its surface. It quivered constantly. On its "top", rubbery- looking cilia a foot or so long waved slowly about like ebony worms.

Sir Dorbin looked over at Aslan, who bore a look of intense concentration on his face.

"No mere ooze, this." The paladin announced. "I'm getting the same sense of... _proto-evil_ I got yesterday, only it's stronger now."

"It looks like its in the larval stage," said Caroline softly.

"Well, we're not waiting around to see this butterfly," said Aslan. He looked up at Sir Dorbin. "Destroy it."

The _mattock of the titans_ swung down hard, and the black mass burst open with a horrible squishing sound. A viscous goo splayed all around, although fortunately not out of the pit. Dorbin looked down at his legs, covered in black ichor and grimaced, although there seemed to be no obvious ill effects other than a bad smell.

There was a crackling sound. The stalks of corn which Sir Dorbin had unearthed with his digging and which were lying in a pile beside the pit, quickly shriveled up into dry husks.

A palpable wave of relief swept over the party. Aslan was satisfied that he detected no more evil auras as Sir Dorbin climbed out of the pit, laid the mattock down on the ground, and shrunk back to his normal size.

Elrohir grinned at the knight. "We're about the same size, Sir Dorbin. I'd be happy to find some clean clothes for you to wear while we wash those."

"I think I'll take you up on that offer, Elrohir" Dorbin replied. "I wouldn't mind a drink and a chance to rest up after all that."

"The rest of you head back in," Aslan said. "We'll be right behind you."

The others headed back towards the inn while the paladin turned to the knight. "It seems we owe you our thanks again, good sir," he said. "You've been quite the godsend for us. I only hope you find a quick path back home to Aarde. Any progress on that yet?"

Dorbin shook his head. "None as of yet, my friend, but I'm not concerned. As I've mentioned before, a greater task still remains." His dark blue eyes indicated his conviction.

Aslan nodded. "I understand." He glanced back over to the pit, then smiled again at the knight. "Still, we must not deny ourselves our small celebrations. Today at least, we have triumphed." He brushed his hands together while nodding towards the pit. "That's that!"

_No, you cheap copy_, the voice of Nodyath crashed into his mind. _THIS is that._

And the attack began.


	38. Nodyath Attacks

**17th Day of Fireseek, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The wave of mental energy crashed into the two fighters, causing them to gasp and grab their heads. Although they did not suffer from the fear effect that a non-psionic would, the sensation was just as excruciating. Aslan grimaced in pain. With the possible exception of that ambush by the intellect devourer four years ago, this was the strongest psionic assault he had ever experienced. A quick glance at Sir Dorbin showed that he was suffering as much as he. Slowly, the paladin twisted his head to eye where his Talent told him the attack was coming from.

As he had expected, it came from a point on the ground. Nodyath, as usual, was in fly-form or something similar. A rippling in the air that the paladin knew was only visible to the target's attack or another psionic originated about fifty feet away, on the far side of the pit. It formed a cone, thus catching both Aslan and Dorbin in its field, and extending at least ten feet beyond them.

Aslan gritted his teeth. _All right, Nodyath. We know you can dish it out. Let's see how well you can take it!_ He knew it was impossible to use Talent disciplines while under assault, so he concentrated and let loose a psionic blast of his own back at Nodyath. A moment later, he sensed Sir Dorbin doing the same. There was a trembling they both sensed as their attacks struck home, but then Nodyath fired back again.

The paladin desperately tried to concentrate, despite the pain. _Taking on both of us at once?_ He wondered to himself._ Nodyath's my counterpart- he can't possibly have twice the defenses I have!_ He again blasted back at his unseen foe, as did Sir Dorbin. Again, they sensed a direct hit, but the counterattack came swiftly. Aslan didn't dare turn his head away from the source of the attack, but he couldn't help but think about his friends. By Odin, let at least one of them have turned around before they went inside!

The attack continued. With a mighty mental effort, Aslan again set loose a psionic blast at his foe, but there was no accompanying blast from Sir Dorbin. Aslan glanced over from the corner of his eye.

The knight was down on his knees. His dark blue eyes, tormented, turned to Aslan.

The paladin understood instantly. Sir Dorbin had nothing left. Aslan cursed himself. Dorbin probably didn't match Aslan's capability even at full strength, and he had already teleported and used his growth discipline today. Nodyath had waited for just the right moment. Another wave of psionic energy slammed into them. Aslan's eyes closed from the sheer agony of it. A "white noise" was growing in his ears, and when he opened his eyes again, everything seemed just a little bit brighter than before.

"Aslan!"

The voice- Elrohir's, he thought, but he couldn't be sure, came through loudly, yet dim at the same time. Despite the feeling that his head was being slowly constricted in a vise, Aslan grinned, if only mentally. _Can you take us all, Nodyath?_ He could hear now his companions running towards him and Dorbin. In just a few seconds, they'd be here with him. They-

The paladin's eyes widened. _The field! They can't see it! They'll run right into it!_

Aslan hurled another psionic blast at Nodyath, then painfully turned his head to see his allies. As he thought, they were running full-tilt, and were almost upon him. He managed to thrust out his hand.

"STOP!"

They pulled up just short of the invisible cone, expressions of bewilderment on their faces. _Please_, Aslan thought. _One of you get it._ He managed to get out..."Range!"

It was Elrohir, who had known Aslan longest, who hit upon it first. "They're under psionic attack! If we get too close, we'll be caught in the field as well!"

Talass glanced over at her husband in alarm. "Elrohir, I know of spells that might help protect Aslan, but I've got to touch him!"

The ranger shook his head. "Find another way!" He shouted.

The attack continued.

Talass and Caroline, both hurling curses that Elrohir was pretty certain wouldn't be approved of by most of the gods he knew, started unstrapping their backpacks and other excessive burdens. Tojo, his bow drawn and ready, was slowly moving laterally to the left, his eyes squinting to see some sign of their foe. Jinella tried desperately to concentrate. She knew a bluff wasn't going to work this time. She thrust her holy symbol in front of her and started chanting.

Aslan didn't remember falling to his knees, but that's where he was now. Another wave of sheer pain washed over him, and the vise on his head tightened. Sir Dorbin was now crawling on his belly, painfully slowly, clockwise around the edge of the pit. Aslan knew he'd never make it to Nodyath.

A partial feeling of calm came over him, the pain easing just a fraction. He looked up to see Jinella casting some kind of spell, and she knew she was the source of this partial relief. He didn't know what it was, but at least it helped him think, if only for a few more seconds.

"ASLAN!" Elrohir yelled. "WHERE?"

Grimacing, the paladin's right hand shot out in the approximate direction of the cone's origin.

"FLANK HIM!" The ranger shouted at the top of his voice. Sword and shield in hand, he slowly began to make his way counter-clockwise around the pit, staying at least ten feet from the edge at all times. Tojo mirrored his movements in the other direction. It was good, Aslan thought, but as the energy smashed into him yet again, he didn't know if he would be alive to see the end of this battle.

_His helm of telepathy- it probably boosts his mental strength as well, or he's got another magic item for that._ Aslan couldn't believe it. From the beginning, he had utterly failed to predict any action of his own counterpart. Now he, and all of his friends were going to pay for his mistakes- with their lives. With a strangled scream, he let loose one last psionic blast at Nodyath, and fell on his face in the dirt. He began to crawl in the opposite direction as Sir Dorbin. _You won't get all of us_, he thought through the growing whiteness.

The attack continued.

Sir Dorbin paused, and raised his head to face Nodyath's location. "Did you read my mind too, you abomination?" He snarled, and then yelled out "FASCIO LUMINOSO!"

The ruby on his helm abruptly pulsed white, and a beam of pure white light about a foot wide shot out from it, narrowly missing its target.

"HEY, NODYATH! CATCH!"

Caroline Bigfellow's shout cut through the cold air. It was followed by a leftover flask of oil from the day before, its cloth fuse alight, sailing through the air towards their unseen enemy. As Aslan watched, it arced down... and fell into the pit five feet short of where Nodyath was hiding, exploding harmlessly on the bottom.

A globe of absolute darkness twenty feet across, courtesy of Talass, suddenly appeared across the pit, but it's closest edge was ten feet to the right of Nodyath's position.

Elrohir and Tojo continued to move around the pit, their eyes straining to catch any movement along its edge at all.

Another shout from Sir Dorbin. Another beam of light just missing its quarry.

Again, a tidal wave of agony passed over Aslan, and the vise tightened once more. He couldn't take any more. He couldn't-

The attack stopped.

The others, seeing Aslan and Sir Dorbin slowly rise to their knees, and then to their feet, stopped moving but maintained battle-readiness. Aslan looked around. The rippling was gone, and he was pretty sure he had felt that distinctive _ping_ of a discipline being used near him. So close to victory, Nodyath had exhausted himself, and used his last reserves to teleport away. At least, that was the paladin's theory, and a quick glance over at Sir Dorbin seemed to indicate that the knight was thinking the same thing.

"He's gone" Aslan gasped out. The others quickly moved over to him and Dorbin, and slowly walked them back to the inn...

Twenty minutes later, Aslan and Sir Dorbin sat in the chairs in the Tall Tales Room. They were wearing clean clothes, and blankets had been placed over their shoulders. They both slowly sipped cups of hot tea. The others had fussed over them until they had to gently but firmly shoo them away. Now, they were alone, save only for Mirage. Cooped up inside the inn during the attack, the wardog had been unable to come to the aid of his master, although Aslan was actually grateful for that. Nodyath could have easily killed Mirage with his Talent. The paladin stroked his dog's head slowly as he regarded the knight.

"Sir Dorbin?" Aslan asked softly.

The knight looked up from his tea at him. He looked absolutely exhausted, and Aslan figured he probably looked no better to him. He guessed at something he'd been thinking about for a while.

"You've hunted down... other people with the Talent before, haven't you?"

Dorbin slowly nodded without comment.

"Ever encountered someone with Nodyath's power before?"

The fighter took another sip of tea and shook his head. "Not like him." He looked up again at Aslan. "Or like you."

The paladin sat back in his chair, lost in thought.

Sir Dorbin's voice was quiet. "He has... so many possibilities open to him," he stated, his eyes looking right into Aslan's. "What are you going to do?"

Aslan was a long time answering, and in the end, it was the only thing he could say. And he didn't like it.

"I don't know, Sir Dorbin. I just don't know."


	39. A Month at The Brass Dragon

**17th Day of Readying, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy.**

The thought came to Elrohir suddenly, out of nowhere.

_By the High One! It's been a month since Nodyath last attacked us!_

The ranger looked again at the small wooden, rune-inscribed plaques that hung from a nail in the wall of his room. He had come up to his room to take a quick inventory, to see what was needed for an upcoming shopping trip to Willip. Talass used the plaques as a kind of calendar to keep track of the days, mostly to aid her for certain ritual ceremonies to Forseti that she still conducted. Elrohir stared at them, rubbing his chin and thinking.

Routine had returned to the Brass Dragon.

To be sure, it was not the same routine that Elrohir, his family and his friends had known the previous year, but somehow they had managed to stabilize their chaotic lives into something that allowed them to go on day-by-day without going mad from all their concerns and worries.

Elrohir slowly sat down on his bed. He glanced over at the box where his and Talass' armor lay.

No one was walking around armored and/or with excessive weight anymore. Talass had been the first to rebel, saying that it put Tojo and Tadoa at heightened risk, and she didn't want to be responsible for that. A day later, Caroline had also dropped the idea, saying it was just too wearying, and she was developing bruises all over. Elrohir was disappointed, but he hadn't taken it personally. He sighed and looked over at the far side of the room, where a small bed lay empty next to Talass' writing desk.

The ranger swallowed hard. Barahir. He missed his son.

The last time he had seen him had been about three weeks ago. Aslan had teleported to the Square Castle to check up on the children. While they were physically well, it had been explained to the paladin that they could no longer stay there. Keeping them essentially locked in a room for almost three weeks was having a serious effect on their state of mind. Aslan had thus brought them back to the Brass Dragon for a one-day furlough. It had been emotionally wrenching. The children were overjoyed at returning, but the next day Aslan had left with them again, this time to the elves of Welkwood, the party's only other ally that they would entrust their offspring with.

Barahir had practically gone berserk when the time came for him to leave. Thorin had been solid and uncomplaining, but it was plain to anyone who looked at the boy that his heart was breaking. There had been a lot of tears at the inn after Aslan's departure with the children.

Elrohir continued to stare at his son's bed, frowning. As much as he missed his son, he had finally had to admit to himself what Talass had been telling him for some time now.

He truly didn't want to be retired anymore. Elrohir wanted to be in the thick of things again, where the risks were greatest, but so were the rewards. As for how to reconcile that with his son's safety and well being though, he didn't have a clue. Elrohir had grown up never knowing his father, and he knew he didn't want that to happen to Barahir. The ranger leaned forward, propping his elbows on his thighs and resting his head in his hands. He closed his eyes.

_Give me strength, All-Father. Show me the way once more..._

Downstairs, Elrohir's wife smiled as five men rose from the table in the common room and thanked her before heading out the door and around the back to the stables. The group had consisted of a group of merchants who had been traveling to Willip from Gorsend. En route, they had come across the body of a traveler who had apparently died from exposure to the elements. They had scavenged the corpse, and had been engaged in an argument over the proper division of the meager spoils. Talass had introduced herself as a priestess of the Justice Bringer, Forseti. She said she had some small experience in this area, and had proceeded to draw up an equitable distribution plan that they had all agreed to. In gratitude, they had each offered her a percentage of their shares, but she had politely declined, while taking the opportunity to preach the gospel of peace and justice to them. If only a tiny fraction of it stuck, Talass thought, it was a better deal for her than if they had simply given all of the loot to her.

As the men left the inn, Talass considered. This was probably what she would be doing back home in Rhizia, if she had never left. She and Talat would be-

Talass frowned, annoyed that the image of her sister had interrupted her thoughts yet again. She often wondered what had become of her, whether she was still with Nodyath or not. Just as often, she wondered whether she would ever be able to decide how she felt about that.

She walked outside and stood basking in the late morning sun. It was still cool, but Talass had always preferred the outdoors. She walked around to the stables just in time to see the young stable boy finish bringing out the merchants' horses for them. She eyed him waving to the men as they rode off to the southeast. She could just discern the glimmer of a copper coin (a tip, no doubt) in the boy's hand. _He deserves it,_ she thought. _They all work hard for us._ That was not, of course, the whole story as to why Talass had insisted that they double the staff's pay. It was also due to the fact that they were now in a potentially dangerous situation every day, and they knew it. Good help was indeed hard to find, and harder to keep. The turnover rate was so high at the Brass Dragon that all of the party, even Aslan and Talass, had trouble remembering their names.

The boy reminded her of her son. It was strange, Talass thought, that Elrohir, whom she knew was actively bucking for everyone to "unretire", seemed to be taking Barahir's absence harder than she was. She missed her son terribly, but somehow she didn't worry every day over whether he was safe. To be sure, she would have preferred he stay with the Shield Landers rather than with the elves, but she knew that was just her personal opinion. Barahir would be okay. She _knew_ this, as only a cleric could know...

Back inside the common room, Cygnus, who had glanced up as Talass followed the merchants outside, was now again engrossed in his ledger books, spread out on another of the tables there.

Well, not exactly engrossed, but it was something he did very well, and he took pride in it. At least he wasn't scowling and wondering how they were going to survive financially week-by-week.

The prices at the Brass Dragon had been doubled, effective the beginning of Readying. There had been a lot of complaining from customers of course, but the Brass Dragon, not being located in a city, had little immediate competition. The nearest roadside tavern was located about 25 miles northwest, further up the road.

They were still in bad shape, Cygnus calculated (especially with the recent staff raise, which he had opposed. Talass however, would not go along with the price increase without it, so the mage had reluctantly agreed). Still, it seemed like there was some hope for the future. Revenue was up again.

The wizard watched Tadoa serving drinks to the clientele, Dudraug sticking close to his side. The elf was Thorin's best friend, he knew. Well, it might be harder for Tad, but at least now Thorin could play with as many elven children as he liked.

Cygnus shook his head. _Who are you trying to fool?_ he asked himself. He wanted his son back home. Silently, he cursed Nodyath (as he did almost daily) for destroying the tranquility they had worked so hard to reestablish after Hyzenthlay's death. Cygnus was amazed that there had been no sign of their enemy for an entire month, and ardently hoped that some hideous fate had befallen him, but he just didn't think that was the case. As Nodyath himself had pointed out, he was a survivor.

It'd been over two weeks since Cygnus had even glanced at his Enemies List. _Maybe,_ he thought, _just maybe, if we can find Nodyath and take care of him once and for all, we can put all of this behind us._ Having trained up recently (he had to admit Thormord was an accomplished magic-user, although his personality was everything he expected, and disliked, about a guild wizard), Cygnus felt more confident that he could contribute to this goal now. He glanced back to the bar, and couldn't repress a smile...

Zantac's face showed his intense concentration as he bent over, adding the final solution to the liquid in the glass beaker placed in front of him on the bar. The beaker had been placed in a frame atop a candle. As he gently stirred the combined liquids, the mixture swiftly turned a bright, clear green.

He stood up and smiled over at Cygnus. "Green goop!"

His fellow wizard returned the smile. "You do realize that it's tradition that whoever brews a new batch has to test it out on themselves, don't you?"

Zantac's eyes narrowed. "You must have forgotten to mention that little detail. In any case, if I were a traditionalist, I'd still be back at the guild, fetching components for Zelhile and keeping his coffee warm with cantrips."

Cygnus raised his tankard of mead at him in a toast. "I'll put the rebel back in you yet, Zantac."

His fellow wizard's face grew thoughtful as he mixed the green goop into another mug of ale. "It never really went away, Cygnus. You just do what you have to do to survive, you know?"

Cygnus nodded soberly. He knew.

"In any case," the red-robed mage added, coming around now to Cygnus' table with his mug and sitting down next to him with a mischievous smile, "Give this to Aslan when he comes in. He needs something loosen him up. I think 'rebel' is a curse word to him."

Cygnus shrugged, seemingly uninterested in the proposed prank. "He's a paladin; what do you expect? We all make allowances for each other here."

_I like that philosophy_, Zantac thought as Cygnus returned his attention to his ledgers. He turned to watch the bustle of a busy tavern room. A people-watcher by nature, it was something Zantac had always enjoyed back in Willip. He leaned back, considering.

Zantac had been quite frightened, going to that meeting with the Guildmaster over a month ago, but Zelhile had merely emphasized the importance of signing Cygnus up, and how much he _trusted_ that Zantac was the one who could pull this coup off for the Guild. Zantac had nodded and said all the right things, all the while looking the Guildmaster straight in the eye.

It beat looking down at the floor. Zantac was pretty sure he could see the red carpet rippling beneath him.

He'd put the week that Cygnus was training up to good use, trying to find out as much as possible about the Emerald Serpent. He had been disappointed to find nothing at all of substance in the Guild library. He was sure that it stocked a treatise written several years ago about the Serpent, but now it wasn't here.

Aimee. Once again, a nameless _something_ was in play here, telling him that she might have useful information. Yet it wasn't until the breakfast of the day they'd left the Guild to come back to the Brass Dragon that he'd seen her. All of the wizards had been sitting, eating and talking in a room far too small for that purpose (It was done once a week on orders of the Guildmaster, who always had announcements afterward). He'd glanced up, and seen her at the far side of the room.

The Succubus had smiled at him, and her hair had turned a brilliant emerald green.

Zantac had paled and sat back down heavily. After the meal, he had grabbed Cygnus and rushed him out of the Guild and to the stables. He didn't confide in Cygnus his reasons (because he didn't know what they were). He just knew he didn't want to go back there again.

"Still with us?"

Zantac blinked, bringing himself back to the present. Cygnus was looking at him quizzically. Zantac's face grew serious as he spoke.

"You know the Guildmaster wants me to sign you up, Cygnus."

His fellow mage nodded slowly. "Yes?"

Zantac grunted, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, regardless of whether you finally say yes or no, I'm out of here either way." He looked back at Cygnus, who saw the look in his eyes.

_So that's what wanting to be free looks like_, Cygnus thought. _I've never seen it from this angle._

"You know," he said slyly, lifting up his mug, "I've been accused of taking a long, long time to make up my mind." He raised an eyebrow at Zantac, who slowly smiled.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes" Cygnus replied. "Years, in fact."

He toasted Zantac. "Happiness and Long Life, my friend."

Zantac returned the toast. He recognized Cygnus' grin and his own short-term memory loss just a second too late...

Aslan was just about to enter the inn when Zantac threw open the door and came barreling out, nearly running over the paladin in the process. Aslan turned to watch Zantac make it maybe twenty feet before doubling over and emptying his most recent meal rather graphically on the ground. He could hear Cygnus' laughter from inside the inn, and he shook his head dolefully.

_Nothing unexpected when you run an inn, I guess._

"Wonder if I could learn to _detect immaturity,_" Aslan mumbled to himself as he changed course and headed for the stables. Two minutes later, he was racing northeastward across the plains on Perlial. Long-overdue exercise for his steed, and a chance for Aslan to feel the wind on his face again.

To be sure, the paladin could have used his Talent to _polymorph_ into something that could run fast or even fly, but Aslan was still loath to use his abilities frivolously. He always had been. It was a very rare occurrence, but sometimes, the excessive use of psionics attracted... _things_. Psionic things.

Psionic things that were never, ever friendly.

Aslan could feel Perlial's exhilaration as the mare galloped on. It was at these rare times when he could let himself go. As much as possible, he emptied his head of all conscious thoughts, letting whatever wanted to come inside to do so.

He was somewhat annoyed that it was a thought about Nodyath.

He realized now that he had been wrong about his counterpart. Obviously, Nodyath had not abandoned his stated purpose of destroying them all, but neither was he hanging around the Brass Dragon day and night, watching for just one second of weakness. He had other irons in the fire, and returned here from time to time, taking a potshot at them if the circumstances looked favorable.

Aslan frowned. Of course, the only thing that didn't fit in this neat little package was Talat. Did Nodyath really love her, as Caroline claimed? Or did he need her for some other purpose? She was a native of the Flanaess, Aslan reasoned. Having a knowledgeable guide around would greatly accelerate Nodyath's acclimation to this world. Of course if that was true, then Nodyath was planning to stick around for a while. Possibly a very long while.

The paladin leaned forward. "How are you doing, my friend?" he yelled over the horse's thundering hooves.

Perlial's head rose as she replied, as loudly as she could. "I'm fine Aslan, but I think you should duck!"

"What?" Aslan yelled back, then did just that as a shadow swooped low overhead, heading southeast. He turned Perlial around to the right and slowed her down to a cantor as he watched Caroline, flying overhead on Sequester, look back and wave at him. Although she was already too far away for him to see clearly, the paladin was sure she was laughing at him. He shook his head with an exasperated smile.

_You didn't really expect peacefulness and contentment when you retired, did you Aslan?_

Her laughter subsiding, Caroline Bigfellow turned her attention southeastwards once more, shielding her eyes with her hand from the sun. She could see the Brass Dragon and the cabins below, and then they swiftly receded to the rear as she paralleled the main road.

Readying had been kinder to Caroline than the Fireseek before it, but the relative quiet of the last few weeks had only intensified her sorrow at Argo's absence. She had grown quiet and withdrawn again. Although she now felt closer to the others than she ever had before, Caroline still preferred to spend most of her free time alone. She wasn't sulking, but Mrs. Bigfellow still thought of the day as something to be gotten through, not enjoyed. She lifted her head again and stared into the blue sky above.

_Mighty Zeus, thy will be done. Let it be that we will be together again, soon._

For some reason, today had been different. Caroline had awoken feeling unusually refreshed, invigorated, even mischievous. She didn't know why, but she did know she didn't want to waste the opportunity. A ride on her faithful pegasus had seemed like just the ticket.

After several minutes, she saw five horses ahead of her on the road, and swooped low over them, grinning again as their riders fought to maintain control of their startled steeds. She was about to turn Sequester around for another pass when she saw the sun glinting off something further on down the road. Guiding the pegasus onward, she saw there were ten people approaching on foot, most of them armored. Unlike the horsemen, they seemed to have no particular reaction to her approach. Curious, she guided Sequester in for a landing nearby as the group stopped and awaited her.

As she dismounted and slowly walked over to them, the smile returned to her face.

It was the Sir Dorbin party. The knight stepped forward, smiling broadly. "Lady Bigfellow! An unexpected delight!"

Seeing Dorbin again reminded Caroline of her meeting last month with her husband. Acting on impulse (as she so often did), the young woman ran up to Sir Dorbin and flung her arms around him in a hug. It seemed hard for Caroline to remember that she had once thought of the knight as stuffy, dull and stuck-up. Somewhat surprised, Dorbin returned the embrace to an assortment of laughs, whistles, catcalls and comments from his party. Unru's voice (as _it_ so often did) carried clearly.

"Totally faithless! I told you you can't trust these Zeus worshippers."

Caroline raised her head and stepped back, frowning. That comment seemed a little over the line to her, and she was about to say so when she heard the reply.

"Yeah I know, but when they're that gorgeous, you take the good with the bad!"

Caroline literally squealed and dove into the mass of adventurers. Fee Hal and Sitdale leapt out of the way as Caroline rushed past them and jumped into the waiting arms of her husband. The two whirled around together until they were both dizzy, then clung to each other tightly, the rest of the world forgotten.

After what was either several seconds or several hours, the two disengaged. Sir Dorbin walked over to them.

"We'd met up with Argo in Willip when he came back from his quest, and thought we might as well accompany him back to the inn. As things stand, we have some free time of our own, and thought we might stay there a few days as well, if you don't mind. At least now we can pay our own way."

Caroline smiled at the knight. "You and your friends are always welcome at the Brass Dragon, Sir Dorbin." She glanced back at the joyful face of her husband and squeezed his hand. "We'll throw Aslan out of his cabin to make room, if we have to!"

Argo read his wife's face with a practiced eye. "So, I take it things are pretty much status quo back home?"

Caroline shrugged, seeming to consider. "Well, a lot of things got dragged through the dirt... and there was some mud-slinging, but everything's pretty much back to normal now."

The ranger raised an eyebrow at her, but he knew he'd get the full story in due time. For now, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. "How could you have gotten so much more beautiful in just one month?" he whispered.

The tears were threatening to start up again as Caroline hugged her husband again. She still couldn't believe he was home. "Told you I'd come back," he whispered in her right ear, before giving it a quick nibble and pulling back again with a sly grin, which she returned. "When we get home," Caroline said softly, "first I'll fix you up the best cup of mulled cider you've ever-"

Argo's face suddenly hardened. "No!"

Caroline blinked, surprise overriding everything else. "What?"

Argo's face softened again. The ranger gave his wife his trademarked pained smile. "I'm sorry, my love. I just meant that... no more cider for me. And no more apples. Ever. In fact, I'd be just as glad never to hear the word 'apple' again."

Caroline's face was a perfect picture of bewilderment. Argo leaned in close again. "My quest. I'll explain later."

She nodded, and then nearly jumped at an unfamiliar voice.

"You people are blocking the road!"

It was the five merchants. The Sir Dorbin party moved to the side to let them pass. Caroline, embarrassed, hid behind the others as the horses trotted past, their riders shooting nasty looks and muttering to themselves. She then emerged from the rear of the party and walked back over to Sequester. The pegasus gave her a haughty look and threw her head back.

"Oh, shut up!" Caroline scolded, her hands on her hips. "You enjoyed buzzing them, too!"

The common room at the Brass Dragon was nearly bursting at the seams with customers that night. It seemed like a hundred different conversations were going on at once, most of them quite loud. Elrohir, standing by the bar, looked around. His friend was back, and the Sir Dorbin party would be here for a while. Worried thoughts seemed to fly out from the ranger's mind and evaporate. He took another sip of wine and smiled.

The room was so crowded, he would not have noticed the new arrivals if the chill from the open front door had not gotten his attention. However, the blast of the trumpet that followed instantly plunged the room into silence.

A man stood there, clad in a gleaming set of full plate and a great helm with a visor that covered his face. Most of those present quickly pegged the man as a knight. There were three others with him; a young page of about eleven, a squire of maybe sixteen years and a young man who had the bearing of a herald. It was he who had blown the trumpet. Underneath the horn was a small banner bearing the standard of Furyondy.

The knight removed his helm and handed it to his squire. Cold blue eyes gazed out of a ruddy, weather-beaten face, slowly taking in every face in the room. His hair was silver. Frost from his breath had settled on his silver mustache, accentuating its appearance. A faded scar running up from his neck stopped on his left cheek.

The herald had pulled out a scroll, but the knight waved it away without taking his eyes off the room.

Elrohir could feel eyes turning to him. He began to make his way through the crowd to the front, but the knight had already begun speaking.

"I am Sir Hallian of the Royal Court of Chendl," he announced in a strong, if slightly raspy voice. "I seek the following individuals: Elrohir, Talass, Aslan, Cygnus, Tojo, Argo Bigfellow and Caroline Bigfellow."

The named persons slowly moved to the front of the crowd and stood in a line as the others drew back slightly. Sir Hallian's stern eyes swept over them. His face still showed no expression.

"His Most Pious Majesty, King Belvor IV of Furyondy, requests the honor of an audience with those I have so named."

No one said anything. The knight retrieved his helmet from his squire.

"We leave in the morning."

He turned and walked out, his retinue following.


	40. The Vision

**17th Day of Readying, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

There were more people sleeping outside the inn than inside.

They were divided into two main groups. The Sir Dorbin party was set up about fifty yards southeast of the inn, to the south of the main road. Directly across the road were several tents belonging to Sir Hallian and his entourage, whose full numbers approached Sir Dorbin's party in size. Numerous tents and two opaque hemispheres of magical force had been set up, and several campfires blazed. Both groups were getting ready to retire for the night. There had been some conversation (particularly between the two knights), but now the last stragglers were heading back to their own campsites to turn in.

Tadoa, Mirage at his side, sullenly watched. He had spoken with both groups, trying everything he could think of to be allowed to accompany Elrohir and his party to Chendl, but no one would promise him anything.

Aslan's voice came from far off. "Mirage!"

The wardog bolted, heading home towards the paladin's cabin. Tadoa followed. When he saw Aslan standing in his doorway, ready to turn in, the elf picked up his pace. "Aslan!" he called out, puffing to a stop as he came up. "Aslan, can't I please go with you tomorrow?"

Aslan inwardly grimaced. He knew this had been coming. _Why am I always the one to bear bad news?_ he thought briefly, before pushing self-pity aside. He knew this would be hard on the child. "Tad" he began, "We've already talked this over. Yes, Sir Hallian would take you along with us if we demanded it. But that's no guarantee that you would be granted an audience with the king with us. And even if you would, we need you here."

"To do what?" Tadoa cried. "Sir Dorbin's already said he and his party will watch over the inn while you're gone!" He glanced back over to their campsite just in time to see Wescene and Sitdale disappear into a tent together. The child swallowed hard and turned back. "There really isn't anything here for me," he added in a quiet voice.

"Dorbin and his party are not familiar with the Flanaess, Tad" Aslan replied, looking the elf in the eye. "You are. Situations may arise where they will need your help, your advice, your wisdom. I understand your disappointment, but we do need you here. I ask you as a friend, and as a valued companion, to make this sacrifice for us."

Tadoa stared back for a while. Whatever it was that made him an oddity among elves was battling with just being a child. He dropped his gaze to the ground. "All right," he said softly, then began to walk away.

"Tadoa!"

The child turned around. Aslan gave him as much of a smile as he could muster.

"You watch out for flies, all right?"

The elf started a smile, then dropped it and just nodded. "I will. You too."

The paladin slowly closed his door, then bent down and rubbed Mirage's ears. "You look after him, boy" he said to the wardog. "You look after him with your life."

Argo and Caroline lay spooned together, underneath their blanket. Argo had taken a short nap upon arriving home, so he would be up later "for other activities" as he had put it. Although Sir Hallian's arrival had put a damper on things, Argo had been uncharacteristically quiet even beforehand, after relating the story of his quest to his wife (Once Caroline heard the phrase "golden apple" she had said nothing until her husband had reached the end of his narrative).

Now the two were quiet. Caroline could feel Argo's warm breath on the back of her neck. She smiled and inched backwards, getting the maximum amount of body contact. Argo's hand wandered slowly, knowledgeably, bringing Caroline wonderful waves of warm pleasure. To think she had been (or thought she had been) so close to losing this...

Her husband's voice drifted over softly. "Are you ready for tomorrow, my love?"

Caroline languidly turned around, taking Argo in her arms. His expression was a mixture of love and concern. She smiled at him, and they kissed. "Of course. I've stayed in practice. I have to admit, I'm looking forward to it, whatever it turns out to be. I can't help but wonder how our names came to the attention of the king himself, though."

The ranger looked thoughtful. "Baron Chartrain was in Chendl a while ago. I wouldn't be surprised if he mentioned us. We're useful tools, you know."

Caroline gave him a wry look, propping her head up on the bed with her elbow. "And I thought I was cynical."

Argo returned the look. "Look, I'm not saying there's no difference between Belvor and Ivid, but I didn't go live in a swamp for ten years just to kowtow to the latest sovereign who comes along. I'd rather look forward to other things," he said, caressing Caroline's neck with a light touch of his fingers.

"Like loving?" she asked, smiling, her voice low.

He nodded. "And children."

Earlier, that comment would have been troubling to his wife. Now her smile merely deepened as she began a series of kisses down Argo's chest.

"You'll have them, Argo Bigfellow Junior" she said, moving up to whisper in his ear. "Just as you promised me, I promise you that..."

Cygnus had just begun to doze off when he heard the knocking on his door. Drowsily, he pulled on a nightrobe, stumbled to the door and opened it.

Zantac stood outside.

Cygnus eyed him with heavy lids. "I don't care how many nightmares you've had Zantac, you are _not_ getting into my bed."

The Willip wizard crossed his arms. "Is that what passes for wit on Aarde? No wonder you came here."

Cygnus rubbed his eyes, trying to keep them at least half-open. "What is it, Zantac?"

His fellow mage eyed him with a steady look. "I want to come with the rest of you tomorrow."

Cygnus' eyes blinked fully open.

"Is this what passes for sanity here on Oerth?" he asked. "Why in the name of Asgard would you want to do that? There are plenty of ways to get killed a lot closer to home."

"Look Cygnus", Zantac replied, moving past him into the room, where he sat down in the only chair. "If I'm going to stay here with you people, I have no intention of being a leech. I have to know how you think, how you fight. You may not want to join the Guild, but that hasn't stopped you wanting to hone your skills, has it? It's the same with me!"

"Come on in, Zantac. Have a seat, why don't you?" mumbled Cygnus sleepily as he sat down on his bed. He shook his head to try and clear out the cobwebs. "Sure, I have no intention of taking up knitting, but marching out on some godforsaken quest, mission or what-have-you was not what I had in mind." He glared at Zantac. "There are other ways to improve our skills. Ways that won't leave my son an orphan."

His fellow mage shrugged, and gave him a sad smile. "Yes Cygnus, but you have no choice," he said quietly. "You've been summoned by King Belvor. Unless you can improve your skills hanging upside down, naked, in some dank prison, you're going to go. And I want to come along. You know the king will accept me if it means making your party stronger. Whatever he's going to ask of you, he doesn't want you to fail."

Cygnus stared at Zantac for a long time, then shrugged. "You're a damn fool, Zantac. You know that?"

The older magic-user sighed and gave Cygnus a sage look. "Yes, as I reliving my lunch today after imbibing that poison that you tricked me into swallowing, I realized that I might be a touch more foolish than I had supposed." He stood up and headed back outside to the corridor, stopping in the doorway. "But I've wanted to be a wizard all my life. More than anything else in the world." He paused. "Sound familiar?"

He left, the door closing quietly behind him...

Elrohir raised his head slightly as he heard someone walking down the corridor to his room. Zantac, he guessed, judging from the direction of the footsteps. He breathed a silent sigh of relief as he heard the wizard's door open and then close. The ranger looked back at his wife.

Talass was asleep, but she was clearly having unpleasant dreams. Her face was twisted, and her hands clenched and unclenched the sheets. Elrohir was debating whether it would be better to simply wake Talass up and comfort her (perhaps with one of those foot rubs that she liked so much) when the cleric's eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright in bed, gasping. Dudraug the cooshee was already up, standing at the foot of the bed, gazing expectantly at her.

"Dearest- what is it? Did you have a nightmare?" Elrohir asked, taking her hand and softly rubbing it.

Talass' blue eyes flew to meet his. With great effort, she slowly slowed her breathing down, using her self-control to eliminate any signs of losing control. Talass hated to lose control, and she hated to have anyone else see her doing it. She nodded slowly, but waited to speak until she was sure her voice would be steady.

"Yes. Not just a nightmare, though. An omen."

Her husband frowned. Talass rarely remembered her dreams, and for that reason considered most of them to be omens. Elrohir, being a worshipper of Asgardian gods, hardly denied the existence or importance of omens, but he still thought that their interpretation could be colored by the viewpoint of the one who experienced them. Still, his wife _was_ a priestess...

Her hand clenched his tightly. "I don't remember most of it, but there was a fossergrim... he told me that great sorrow and great glory lay before us... he led us past a waterfall, and there was a lake, and a volcano rose up in the middle of it." His wife's eyes closed in her attempt to wring out every possible detail. "There was a town, or city, or something, on the base on the volcano." Talass' eyes opened again, looking vacantly at Dudraug now. "A place of great evil." She stroked Dudraug's head with her right hand, holding firmly onto her husband's hand with her left. "I heard a dragon roar, and then the volcano roared back. The earth trembled, and the skies above grew dark with smoke... I couldn't see any of you anymore..."

She turned to look back at her husband. "We shouldn't go, Elrohir. We shouldn't be doing this."

Elrohir tried to avoid a sigh of exasperation, but it just came too quickly. "Dearest... you know we have no choice in the matter."

The scowl he had been waiting for made its appearance. "You're happy about this, aren't you? 'Unretirement' at last! Fine! Don't say I didn't warn you!"

She laid back down on the bed, her back to him.

The ranger slowly lay back down next to his wife. "Dearest," he said softly. "Cast a _zone of truth _if you want, and listen to me. I won't lie to you. Yes, a part of me is excited about this. What we could gain. Not just in treasure, but in the gratitude of a king! Do you know what that could be worth to us. To our son?"

Elrohir didn't really expect any of this to sway his wife, or even to soften her mood. She surprised him however, by rolling over to face him. She said nothing, but she looked sad... almost vulnerable. He took her hand again and kissed it softly. "I'll confess to you, Talass. I am scared, but we'll get through this together." He risked a smile. "Do you remember our wedding vows, Talass? 'One is now stronger than two'?"

Talass surprised him again by hugging him fiercely. He could hear her voice, straining to hold back tears. "The fossergrim... he wouldn't say who, even though I asked. I begged, and pleaded... he said... if we went onward..."

Elrohir pulled back just enough to look back into his wife's face again. "What did he say, Talass?"

Despite her best efforts, a single tear rolled down Talass' cheek. She whispered softly to her husband.

"He said... one of us wouldn't be coming back."


	41. Nesco

**8th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
The Cynewine House, Chendl, Furyondy**

The painting was magnificent. Everyone said so.

It dominated the wall of the Cynewine guest bedroom on the second floor of their mansion.

It had been commissioned four years ago, from the very same painter whose portraits of His Royal Majesty, King Belvor IV, graced the walls of many buildings in Chendl.

It perfectly captured the essence of the entire Cynewine family. Sir Alexor and his wife Gella sat primly on their parlor sofa. Behind them stood the seven Cynewine children, all looking sober and serious, yet regal. In the background was hung a massive banner depicting the standard of Furyondy. A portable arbor, entwined with vines and flowers, surrounded the family. By the side of the sofa, an end table held a silver bowl overflowing with fruit. Engraved on the frame were the words every Cynewine child for the past fifty years had grown up with.

**The Family That Protects**

The painting was magnificent. Everyone said so.

Nesco hated it.

The ranger's eyes, green with a touch of hazel, roamed over the canvas, the sorrow and anger that they picked up going directly to her heart and settling there, blowing around in her chest like the cold wind that now blew outside the window.

The children were not lined up strictly by age, but by gender as well; the boys on the left, behind their father, and the girls on the right, behind their mother.

Helgin stood on the far left. In his mid-thirties, he looked absolutely, well... magnificent. His achingly handsome face, his shiny field plate, sword in hand. His round silver shield, emblazoned with a pair of antlers on an azure field. The insignia of the Order of the Hart. The Knights of Furyondy.

Nesco remembered bouncing on his knee (but not her father's) when she was a little girl. His entrancing smile. Sir Helgin Cynewine.

Heir to the Cynewine name. Knight. Officer. Husband. Cavalier. Soldier. Father. Hero.

Dead.

Less than two months after he had paused for this portrait, Helgin's patrol had been ambushed in the Vesve forest by a band of orcs three times their size. It was said that Helgin had died heroically, saving what he could of the men under his command. While Nesco usually took such pronouncements with a grain of salt, this time she had no trouble believing it. That was the kind of person her oldest brother was. Fearless to the end.

She envied him, but most of all, she missed him, and she pitied his widow Leena, and his son Herkin. They were good people, and she never saw them anymore.

Miles stood next to Helgin, armed and armored as he was. Just as the painter had captured Helgin's confident air, so had he also put Mile's nervousness and uncertainty right there on the canvas, despite the fact that both brothers outwardly wore the same expression. If you knew the family, you could see it.

Taller but thinner than his elder sibling, Miles had been knighted only one month after Helgin's death. He was the new Cynewine heir. Miles had confided to Nesco that he didn't think he could live up to the new expectations on him, but he felt he had no choice but to try. And he did, to all reports. His commander in the Order had sent a glowing report of Sir Miles, so much so that he had been selected by King Belvor himself as part of the special task force sent down to the Pomarj three months ago.

None of them had returned.

Neso looked to the right, where her own serene painted image stared off into the distance. She almost snorted. As good as he was with the rest of her family, the painter had missed her inner feelings completely. She was just a few days past her twentieth birthday in the portrait, and very unhappy. Clad in chainmail dyed brown, with brown boots and a green cloak, she had wanted to have her shield (also adorned with the antlers of the Order) and longsword in her hand, but it had been decided that, being a ranger rather than a "proper" knight, she would wield her longbow, an arrow notched as if to fire.

"We're indoors!" she had protested. "What am I supposed to be aiming at? Our servants? Are they even in season yet?"

Her siblings had chuckled, but her parents' faces had gone grim. Nesco had been publicly chided for her flippancy (yet again), and had been browbeaten into posing as instructed. She'd had to restring the damn bow afterwards, from having it stretched out for so long.

Nesco looked down at herself with a grim smile. She was attired today exactly as she was in the painting.

_The longest four years of my life, but you wouldn't know it._

Joseph posed heroically next to Miles. Only seventeen in the painting, he was throwing out his chest, trying to fill out the plate mail armor that he had been fitted for only weeks before. He was obviously trying to be subtle about it, but the painter had nailed him, right down to the intangible air of cockiness in the tilt of his head and the glint in his eyes that belied his forced expression of nobility.

Joseph was not a knight yet, but everyone knew it was inevitable. Sir Alexor knew that Miles was dead, even if Gella could not yet accept it. Sooner or later, Joseph would be the newest Cynewine heir. Nesco felt a little sorry for him. Joseph was by far the most foolhardy of the Cynewine boys, and she could easily see an untimely end for him somewhere down the line. He never treated Nesco with much kindness, being smart enough to recognize her superior fighting skills but not mature enough to acknowledge that to her. The ranger thought that her throat would automatically close up and condemn her to suffocation rather than permit her to speak the words "Sir Joseph".

Bretagne, all of fifteen on canvas, stood next to Nesco. Clad in a silver gown of crushed velvet with matching gloves and jewelry that probably weighed more than her longsword, one hand rested upon the sofa near Gella's head, the other upon her sister's shoulder. Of everyone in the portrait, Bretagne alone came closest to smiling, probably because it was so much in her nature to do so. Nesco almost smiled as she remembered Bretagne constantly giving her small pushes while they were all posing, giggling more and more until their father had roared out an order for silence.

The teenager had obeyed instantly, as she always had, but that hadn't lasted forever.

In fact, it had lasted until just about two years ago, when she had met Plisken, a lowly palace guard. They had fallen in love, and when Bretagne declared their intention to marry, her mother had raised the roof and banished Bretagne from their home. (Not only was Plisken a commoner, but he wasn't even a pure Oeridian; he was (gasp) Baklunish!) Of course, they had gotten married regardless, and now lived in his small shack in the city. All of the other Cynewine children- and even their father- had visited the couple from time to time, but had kept all of this from Gella, who refused to acknowledge her youngest daughter anymore. Nesco grew angry again, thinking how her mother ignored her live daughter to concentrate on her dead son.

Grimdegn stood next to Joseph. He was at least as old now as Bretagne was in the picture, but his painted image was that of a boy, the short sword held in his hand notwithstanding. He had the same hair as Nesco; brown, straight (holding close to the face as it came down, ending just below the ears, and several unruly bangs). His face had an unhappy cast to it. Grimdegn had never wanted to be a warrior, but when you were a Cynewine, what you wanted didn't always count for much.

He was a squire now, serving Sir Juntaros of the Order of The Hart. Sir Juntaros had been a friend of Sir Helgin's. If only he didn't keep sending marriage proposals Nesco's way every time their paths crossed, Nesco would have thought much more highly of him. She prayed to her "pagan god" that Juntaros would do his best to keep Grimdegn safe for as long as she could.

Lencon, young Lencon, stood in the middle of the portrait. A mere eight years of age in the portrait, he gave the appearance of trying to inch closer to Nesco than to Grimdegn. Nesco smiled again. Even at twelve, Lencon was still very much the baby of the family, and Gella had spoiled him something fierce, but fortunately that hadn't gone to his head. He was a page to some knight whose name Nesco couldn't remember. Lencon had covertly written poetry (poetry!) that he had shown to Nesco. The ranger didn't know good poetry from bad, but it had come from the boy's heart.

As far as she was concerned, that made it beautiful.

Nesco sighed and looked out the window, at the wide, scrubbed cobblestone streets below and the canals that flowed straight and clean throughout the capital. Chendl had numerous small parks and from here, at least one could be seen clearly. Her trained eyes spotted a chickadee taking wing from a nearby tree, a black-and-white flash that quickly flew up and away, lost in the sun.

_Sometimes I wish I could do that_, the ranger thought. _Birds never have to worry about forgetting how to fly, or if they're going to do their parents proud, or if..._

A quiet but distinct throat-clearing came from behind her. Nesco smiled grimly, knowing that her "alone time" was now over. She turned to see, as expected, Jeffers the butler. The elderly gentleman looked at Nesco, his expression the same blank face that it always was. He had a perfect air of subservience that hid his intelligent nature.

"Forgive me miliddy", he intoned in his mild accent, "But Comitello has arrived. Your family awitz your presence downstairs."

Nesco nodded. "Thank you, Jeffers. I'll be right down..."

Sir Alexor was chatting amiably with Comitello when Nesco descended the stairs into the parlor. Joseph (the only Cynewine child other than Nesco currently home), was wandering around, fully suited up and trying to look relevant to the situation at hand. Gella was fanning herself on the sofa. Despite the fireplace roaring, it was chilly in the room, but Nesco's mother just seemed to like fanning herself, so everyone had long since stopped questioning her about it..

Comitello looked up and smiled broadly when he saw Nesco. Like Sir Juntaros, he often flirted with Nesco, but that never bothered the ranger. Both of them knew it amounted to nothing than verbal theatrics, as Comitello was happily married. Or at least married.

He was the youngest child of a minor aristocratic family, who had managed to secure a palace position of liason, which sounded much more dignified than "forty year-old messenger boy". Yet Comitello seemed perfectly content, even happy, with his lot in life. For that alone, Nesco envied him. A knock sounded at the front door, and Jeffers glided past her, down the hallway towards the entrance foyer.

"Nesco Cynewine! Always an honor and a pleasure!" Comitello beamed, taking Nesco's hands in his. He avoided his usual risque remarks in deference to Gella, who eyed him with the thinnest of polite veneers draped over a cold disdain.

"Well... you're here, so I guess this means they're ready for me at the palace?" the ranger inquired, unable to repress the nervousness she felt. Comitello's eyes showed his concern, and his caring. He nodded slowly.

"You don't have to rush out the door this minute, my dear. They're expecting you sometime within the next few hours. I just came early," he finished with an embarrassed smile. He made a show of finding a serving girl and getting a glass of wine from her as Sir Alexor gave his daughter a look that she couldn't quite read.

Jeffers returned to the parlor, a green traveling cloak slung over one arm. "The honorable Sir Damoscene", he announced in a loud voice. "Rinjer and Knight of the Hart!" The butler then moved off as a handsome man clad in studded leather armor entered and bowed to all present.

Nesco was surprised. She hadn't expected to see her tutor again so quickly. She had only finished training up with him about two weeks ago, and thought he had left shortly afterwards to join a border patrol. She moved forward quickly to greet him, then restrained herself so her parents could be the first. As always, protocol had to be maintained, no matter how pointless it might be. She was happy to see the same thought reflected in the elder ranger's eyes, and an unseen smile passed between them.

Sir Alexor moved briskly up and clasped his fellow knight's hand briskly. "An unexpected pleasure, Sir Damoscene! You are always welcome here."

Both Nesco and Damoscene understood his full meaning. Lady Gella, while approving of Damoscene's stature, ethnicity and status, had never forgiven him for "luring" (as she put it) her eldest daughter away from the worship of Heironeous, and not even to another proper Oeridian god, but to a diety that many felt was long overdue to fall into obscurity... Zeus.

Damoscene's hazel eyes gleamed under his long, graying hair. "Thank you, Sir Alexor. A courtesy I am sure I do not deserve." He took the hand of Lady Gella, who had slowly risen up off the couch to greet her newest guest. "Lady Cynewine. As always, I am honored."

Gella's voice was carefully neutral. "Sir Damoscene, may I ask two questions of you?"

The ranger-knight bowed again, slightly. "But of course, my good Lady."

"You are, and have always been, my daughter Nesco's primary teacher. Do you consider her skilled enough to be added to this expedition to the Pomarj?"

Nesco clenched her fists, but remained silent. Damoscene's voice was steady. He did not take his eyes off Gella's. "As you know, it was I who added her name to the list of candidates to be considered by the king. She is indeed ready, Lady Cynewine. I would stake my life on that assessment."

Lady Gella's face momentarily lost some of its hardness. "And will you be one of those giving her her last-minute instructions... or 'briefings', or whatever term you use for it?"

The Ranger Lord assumed a wary posture. He shook his head. "No, my good Lady. I am newly-arrived back in Chendl, and must head out again soon. I am needed in the Vesve for a time. I know not what latest information may have been gathered, but His Majesty's advisors are the finest to be found anywhere. They have my full confidence that they will prepare Nesco for her journey to the absolute best of their abilities."

The Cynewine matriarch licked her lips, and continued softly. "If you could please instruct the advisors to give Nesco all the information that may be needed, so that she is able to find out what may have become of her brother, Sir Miles..."

Unable to stop herself, Nesco cut in before Damoscene could reply. "Mother- Miles is dead! If he wasn't, we would have heard something by now!"

Gella whirled on Nesco, her carefully groomed eyebrows furrowed in anger. "Indeed! And how exactly are you so certain of this, daughter? Did your god _Zeus_ tell you this?"

Nesco literally trembled with rage. Her mother was insulting not only her, but Sir Damoscene as well. "No mother, he did not. Pray tell, did Heironeous stop by while I was upstairs, to tell you otherwise? I'm sorry I missed him!"

"ENOUGH!" yelled Sir Alexor, moving between the two women and firmly, but gently pushing them apart. "There will be no blasphemy in this house!" His eyes blazed at both of them, then softened to offer contrition to Sir Damoscene, who offered a brief nod to indicate he had received the unspoken message.

Lady Gella leaned forward as far as she could, pressing against her husband's hand. Her features bore sadness, but her gray eyes carried a cold fury. "You think me deluded, my daughter?" she hissed. "You think me desperately clinging to false hopes?"

Nesco said nothing.

"One question for you then Nesco, if I may," her mother continued. "If Sir Miles, heir to the House of Cynewine, perished along with all his allies in their quest, what makes you think you will not meet the same fate?"

Having apparently seen the shocked expression on Nesco's face that she was hoping for, Gella whirled away and left the parlor, ascending the stairs out of sight. An uncomfortable silence descended. Sir Alexor was the first to break it.

"Forgive us, Sir Damoscene. As you can well imagine, my wife is still grief-stricken over-"

The ranger-knight raised his hand. "I understand perfectly, good Sir Alexor. Neither apology nor explanation is needed." His eyes shot over to Nesco, who really didn't want to concede this point, but nodded, yielding to her guest.

"Excuse me, Sir Damoscene?" Joseph, who knew from experience to stay at a safe distance from the storm all this while, now moved in for his official greeting. Damoscene smiled and offered his hand, which was accepted.

"A pleasure as always, young Joseph."

Nesco hid her smile better than Joseph hid his momentary scowl at the word "young". For once though, he chose to take the high road, and bowed low. "Thank you, Sir Damoscene. I was wondering if I might be so bold as to ask a question of my own?"

"The afternoon meal will be served in the dining room in five minutes", came a loud voice from behind.

Sir Alexor turned to the butler. "Thank you, Jeffers. We shall be along shortly."

Jeffers pivoted and strode briskly off down the hallway towards the interior of the mansion. Alexor turned back to his son, frowning, but said nothing. The Ranger Lord seemed to have no preconceived notions about what was to come, so he merely stated, "But of course."

Joseph cleared his throat. "I realize of course Sir Damoscene, that this was not your decision, but I must humbly request if you could possibly get those at the palace to reconsider their decision about this mission. With all due respect to my sister..."

_Since when?_ Nesco thought. She said nothing however, knowing the inevitable outcome of this.

"I firmly believe that I am the most qualified to accompany, if not lead, this latest expedition. Surely it must be obvious that-"

"Those at the palace?" his father interrupted, glaring now at Joseph. "Your sister was picked for this mission by King Belvor himself! Are you questioning his judgment?" Sir Alexor's harsh quiery caused his son to step back a pace and rapidly lose confidence.

"Err... no, of course not," he stammered. "I merely meant to suggest... that His Majesty's advisors may not have been given _all_ of the information needed to make the best-"

"Joseph, get ready for lunch." Alexor's tone carried finality with it.

Joseph opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He finally closed it and moved off sulkily. "Yes, father."

As he passed by, Sir Alexor's hand shot out behind him and grabbed Joseph by his armor's shoulderplate. The young man paused.

"Where are you going?" his father asked in a level voice.

The younger Cynewine vacillated between confusion and indignation. "You told me to get ready for-"

"Are there orcs on the High Streets of Chendl today?" Alexor growled at his son. Nesco again hid her smile.

Joseph looked only confused now. "What? Er... of course not, father."

"Then remove that armor at once! It is for battle, not for strutting! Come to the table when you are properly dressed!"

Joseph took a deep breath to calm himself, shot a vicious glare at Nesco, and half-walked, half-stomped off through the rear door of the parlor.

Nesco felt a hand on her right shoulder. "A moment if I may," Sir Damoscene said softly. Nesco turned to her father, who nodded and headed off. Comitello bowed to the two rangers.

"An honor as always, good Sir Damoscene," he intoned, then eyed Nesco with a familiar smile. "I'll save a good seat for you at the table, my Lady" he said, then strolled off after Alexor.

"Would you care to join us for lunch, Sir Damoscene?" asked Nesco, hopeful and doubtful at the same time.

The ranger-knight shook his head and smiled sadly. "I would truly like to Nesco, but I must leave. I only stopped by to wish you well."

Nesco detected, or at least thought she did, very real concern in her teacher's voice. "Am I ready for this?" she asked in a quiet voice, looking straight into the older man's eyes.

Damoscene was, as Nesco well knew, not a man given to shaping truths to fit the mood of the moment. "I have done my best to teach you Nesco, as you have done your best to learn," he said with a slight sigh. "As to whether that will be sufficient, only the test of the moment itself shall tell."

Nesco was silent. Sir Damoscene offered a small smile. "You have made me proud, Nesco. I have confidence in you. To be sure, there is more I wish I could have taught you, but that was due to time constraints. No one's fault," he added, looking away at the fireplace.

Nesco tried to return his smile, but it was difficult. "I wish I knew more about the people I will be traveling with", she stated wistfully. "This group from Willip. They all know each other, while I know nothing about any of them."

The Ranger Lord raised an eyebrow. "You know one of them." he said, the smile still intact.

His student glanced at him curiously.

"At least from my ramblings. One of the rangers is Argo Bigfellow. The one I told you about?"

"Oh!" Nesco said, remembering back. "The one whose training delayed my own?" Sir Damoscene smiled guiltily.

"The same. Remember, he too is a Zeus worshipper. You cannot help but to find common ground with him, and besides- he is married, so there will be no annoying flirtations to contend with!"

Nesco gave him a light chuckle. "That never stopped Comitello!" Her expression then turned serious again. "Damoscene, tell me- is this Argo better, more skilled, than I am?"

The ranger-knight didn't hesitate. "Yes. And if he is to believed, so is the other ranger, Elrohir."

Nesco's eyes fell to the floor, but she sensed her instructor staring at her. Her conditioning made the ranger raise her eyes to meet his.

"As am I", he shrugged. "Does that make you uncomfortable? It never has before."

Cynewine considered. "No. I just..." she tried to find the words. "I want to be an asset on this journey, not a burden."

"You will be no burden, Nesco," Sir Damoscene said quietly, his face serious again. His eyes flickered down the hall. "You had best take lunch and then get over to the palace. You'll probably be leaving for the Pomarj tomorrow, the day after at the latest."

Nesco raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Are the others here already?"

"I have received word that they are but a few hours away at this point."

She frowned. "I'd hoped to be able to speak with them before we all appear before King Belvor", she said, then looked back at her teacher. "They must have made good time getting here."

Now it was Damoscene's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Isn't that one of the things rangers are supposed to do?" he asked, his smile returning.

Nesco shook her head, embarrassed. "Of course. Well", she said, a lump starting to swell in her throat as she saw Jeffers return with the Ranger Lord's cloak, "I suppose I shall see you..."

Sir Damoscene laid his hand upon Nesco's shoulder and squeezed. "I will see you as soon as possible after your return, Lady Cynewine" he said simply, then leaned in close to his pupil.

"Don't defer when you don't want to, don't be afraid to speak up, and show them how it's done."

He took his cloak from the butler and strode off down the hall.

Nesco stood for a while, her eyes blinking rapidly. She then glanced over at Jeffers, who stood impassively nearby.

"Are you ready, miliddy?" he inquired.

Nesco felt weak. "For lunch, or for the adventure of a lifetime, Jeffers?"

The butler shrugged. "Why not both, miliddy?"

The ranger considered, then smiled. She still felt weak and unsteady, but ...

"Why not indeed?" she asked, heading towards the dining room, the servant in tow. "I have to succeed at this, Jeffers", she said over her shoulder. "Can you imagine my embarrassment at having to be rescued by Joseph?"

The corner's of Jeffer's mouth twitched, just for a moment.

"I saw that."


	42. Sir Menn

**9th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Tadoa sighed as he walked around the inn towards the stables.

The sun had not yet risen, although the stars low in the east were waning as the horizon began to brighten. The great moon Luna hung in the western sky, nearly full, while the Handmaiden, Celene, was directly overhead, about half-full.

The young elf paid attention to none of this. He kept his gaze firmly downward.

All things considered, Tad had been holding up pretty well until the start of Coldeven. He had made pains to impress the Sir Dorbin party with both his knowledge of the Flanaess and his ability to handle matters pertaining to running an inn. As much as possible, he made sure he was front and center when needed, and perhaps even when he wasn't. The child had gone out of his way to appear indifferent around Wescene, but when he saw her together with Sitdale, he would always make haste to go elsewhere, before the ache in his chest could intensify. At least Dorbin and Torlina were discreet about their relationship, he thought.

Now however, Dorbin and his friends seemed to be running the Brass Dragon just fine. Tad helped out as always, but his advice was requested less and less often. He had spent more time with the horses (thankful that Elrohir and Aslan had decided to leave them behind). They of course, were completely nonjudgmental, but in the past week the elf had begun to feel like even they were just tolerating his presence, and he had begun to sulk in solitude more and more often. He had not played with any of the dogs in almost a week, either.

Tadoa had begun to choose chores that would allow him to work alone: washing dishes after hours, cleaning the cabins and rooms, and working in the stables in the early morning hours. As he had done for the past week, he strode quickly and quietly to the back of the enclosure. Hanging on the rear wall was a stick jammed into a crack in the stone that had _continual light_ cast upon it. Several thick cloths were draped over it. Tad removed one of the cloths, and a light about equal to a candle illuminated the interior of the stables. More than enough light for him to work by.

"Tad?"

The elf spun around. He had just grabbed a pitchfork, and had it pointed in the direction of the voice even as he recognized it.

It was Perlial. Tad lowered the pitchfork and moved over slowly to the horses. They were both awake, which was unusual this early in the morning. The child could see something different in the horse's eyes. An expression of... well, he wasn't sure exactly what the corresponding emotion would be on a human face.

White Lightning shared the same identical expression as her lifelong friend. "I'm sorry, Tad. We didn't mean to frighten you," she spoke in her unique, husky voice. "Something has happened to Perlial, something disturbing, and we're not sure what it was. Perhaps you might know."

The elf nodded slowly, his attention fully focused now. "Of course. What was it?"

White Lightning looked over to Perlial, who moved her head closer to Tadoa's. The horse's large brown eyes seemed to be trying to supplement what she was trying to say, but the elf couldn't decipher that. All he had to go on were her words.

"I was right here. I had closed my eyes, and was going to sleep, just like every other night... and then suddenly... somehow... I wasn't here anymore."

Tad frowned, trying to imagine this... and then an awful thought struck him. "Was it Nodyath? Did he teleport you away, using his Talent?"

Perlial shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know what that would be like, but Aslan has always said that I am too large for him to move." The steed gave her mane a small shake. "He laughs and says I am too fat." She then eyed Tadoa again. "Would not Nodyath also be so limited?"

The child considered. "You're probably right. I'm sorry, please continue."

The mare continued. "It was dark. It may have been a cave, but I am not sure. It has been many years since I was in one. There was stone under my hooves. It was rough, and it hurt. I could hear water dripping, but could not see it. There was a faint light off in the distance. I walked towards it. There was fear in my heart, but I do not know why..."

Perlial fell silent. Her breathing had accelerated, and she was staring off into the distance now. Tadoa put his hand on her neck, but the horse seemed not to notice. After a few moments, she continued.

"Suddenly... again, I know not how... I was in a swamp. There was fog all around. I could see only a length or so ahead of me. I could hear Aslan. He was shouting for me. I began to run... my hooves stuck in the mud, but I pulled them free and kept galloping. His voice became fainter, even though I ran towards it, or thought I did. I could hear beating wings above me... flies and wasps stung my back, but I did not care...I had to find Aslan... I had to find him!"

Tad was concerned. Perlial seemed to be becoming more and more agitated. As her voice slowly rose in pitch, more "horse-like" sounds began to intrude on it; she became harder to understand. The child glanced over at White Lightning, who was staring at Perlial in rapt fascination. He wondered if he should tell Perlial to stop her narrative while he went and got one of the Sir Dorbin party, but the steed kept on.

"Then, I heard Aslan again. He was close ? , but I heard his voice twice! He seemed to be arguing with himself. Then, there were the sounds of a battle. Swords ringing off shields, and ? ! There was a scream! I slowed down, but the ? in my heart kept rising. Then, a ? figure came slowly towards me out of the mist. I saw... I saw... ? "

Without warning, Perlial reared up on her hind legs and screamed, a purely horse-like sound of animal terror. Her hooves kicked against the wooden wall of her stall, smashing two holes in them. White Lightning did not rear, but also reacted in terror, her eyes rolling white in panic. The pegasi and other horses also awoke and added their cries to the din. Tad rushed about frantically, trying his best to calm the animals. Somehow, amongst the din, the elf heard another horse whinny in fear, but this one came from outside the stables, perhaps only ten yards away.

"Whoa, boy! Calm down, good fella! There's nothing to fear here! I'll find out what's going on."

The child frowned. It was a human's voice, not familiar. There were only a few guests currently at the Brass Dragon, and he was pretty sure it wasn't any of them. Tad heard the distinctive sound of an armored individual dismounting, and then the man appeared in the archway of the stables.

He was of average height and weight for a human, and in his late twenties, the elf guessed. He had a thick mane of cherry-blond hair and a somewhat lighter mustache, but no beard, only stubble. He was clearly a warrior of some kind, clad in plate mail with a metal shield strapped to his back. He squinted, his hazel eyes trying to make out details inside. "Hello? Maam? Is anyone in here? Do you need help?"

Tadoa removed the remaining cloths from the _continual light_ stick. Although he hadn't expected it to, the sudden eruption of light seemed to abate the equine storm within the stables, at least to the point where the elf could get a handle on it. The man blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear his vision. By the time he had, Tadoa was again stroking Perlial's neck and speaking to her softly. Both she and White Lightning seemed to be back to normal, although neither spoke. Their heads hung down low, their eyes shut tight.

The man seemed a bit taken aback. "I'm sorry, young master elf," he stated, smiling in confusion. "I thought I heard a woman... she sounded upset, and then I heard the horses start-"

Tad moved forward, smiling. "There are no women here, good sir, as you can plainly see. I was talking to the horses, and accidentally startled one, who set off the rest. Do you seek lodging? We have no private rooms available I'm afraid, but there is a floor available in the common room. I can tend to your horse, and then check you in, if you'd like."

The man stared hard at the elf. Tadoa knew his attempt to distract him was obvious, but hoped that his childlike appearance would keep him from asking too many questions, at least until the elf could get some help, if needed. Slowly, the human nodded, but his expression clearly indicated that he was not buying Tadoa's story. The man took a deep breath, and Tad suddenly realized he looked bone-tired, as if he had been riding for a long time. The man walked back to his horse, and slowly brought the animal inside by the reins, which he handed to the child.

"Thank you, my young friend" he said with a weary half-smile. "That sounds like a fine offer indeed." The man stretched his back, groaning as his muscles protested. He began to remove the shield from his back. "A floor indoors sounds much better than my recent sleeping fare. An extra silver piece if you could rustle up a pillow for me," he added. "Can you tell me, my lad; this road... does it lead to Willip?"

Tad nodded as he finished putting the man's horse in a stall and removing its gear. "About ten leagues away. If you leave tomorrow morning, you should have no trouble..."

He stopped. It was the man's shield. He couldn't stop staring at it.

The human glanced down at the shield he now held in his hands. On it was a stylized black silhouette of a man, with indentations marking the arms, legs and neck. The silhouette of a sword floated by the figure's right arm. The background consisted of seven horizontal stripes. The colors of the rainbow, from red on top to indigo below. The man looked back up at Tadoa, and a smug smile came onto his face.

"You've not seen this device before, my young friend. I can assure you of that. I come from a land so far away, you could not possibly-"

The elf looked up, into the man's eyes. "You're Sir Menn, aren't you?"

The shield fell from the human's hands, clattering to the ground below. His eyes grew wide, and he actually stepped back several paces. "How..." he whispered. "How did you..."

Now it was Tadoa who smiled smugly. He bent down and picked up the shield. "This is the device of the Kingdom of Rolos," he said, never taking his eyes off the human's face. "On Aarde. I remember it." The child smiled as his elven ears detected the approach of another person. He could guess who this one was. "You're looking for Sir Dorbin and his friends, aren't you?"

Sir Menn's eyes hardened, and Tadoa suddenly realized he might have carried this a little too far.

"You are no child," the knight said in a low, even voice. "What are you? Wizard? Fiend? Why this deception?" His right hand was now positioned by the hilt of his sword.

Tadoa held up his hands in a gesture of friendship. "What you see is what I am, good Sir Menn. I can explain everything. Sir Dorbin is-"

And at that moment, the afore-mentioned knight appeared behind Sir Menn, who had his back to him. "Tad?" he said. "We heard the horses. Is there a problem?"

Sir Menn's eyes returned to their dinner plate dimensions. He spun around and ran about one foot before colliding head-on with Sir Dorbin. Both knights crashed to the ground in a heap, clutching their heads.

"-right here", finished Tadoa. Both men helped each other up, all the while grinning and shouting out so many different things at once that the elf couldn't follow it all. While Perlial, White Lightning and the pegasi remained quiet, the other horses again voiced their displeasure at the racket.

"All right, you two! Take it outside!" the child ordered. The two humans moved out of sight, but the net volume of their voices still increased as the other eight members of Dorbin's party came running over.

Tad laid Sir Menn's shield against the wall, then went back over to the horses. "Perlial," he said softly. There was no response.

"Perlial!"

The mare's eyes blinked open. She stared at Tad without expression.

The elf chewed his lip and continued. "Perlial, I think you had what humans call a dream. You didn't actually go anywhere. What you saw was all in your mind."

Slowly, the mare raised her head. "They speak of them often", she said quietly, her eyes now looking outside. "I have never had one before. Why would I now, and what does it portend?"

Tad exhaled heavily. "I know little of dreams, Perlial. When they have calmed down outside, I shall talk to them about it. Will that be all right for you?

The steed nodded. White Lightning walked over to the child and nudged him. "You are a good friend to us, Tad. Thank you."

"I am frightened, Tad."

It was spoken so low, even Tad had trouble hearing it. He whispered to Perlial. "Do not fear. I promise you, we will find out what this means, but take heart. Even humans say most of their dreams are meaningless." He gave the horse his best smile, then headed outside…

The general tumult outside had gone down a few notches. Sir Dorbin was apparently telling his friend on how they had come to Oerth.

"…we were able to divine that Fee Hal was still alive, so we activated the device and came after him. At least this way, we figured that we would all be…"

Sir Dorbin stopped. Sir Menn was glaring at him, his arms crossed.

"What?"

The new arrival's face held an expression that was half-scorn, half-smile. "You _could_ have left me a note or something, you know…"

Tad whistled innocently. Sir Dorbin glanced back at him with an expression similar to Menn's. He then turned back to his friend. "Sorry."

"May I speak with you for a moment, Sir Dorbin?"

The knight frowned, glancing back at Sir Menn, but then realized that Tadoa wouldn't be pulling him away from this reunion if he didn't think it important. He walked over to the elf. "Yes, Tad?"

The child began walking back towards the stables, Dorbin following. "I'm not sure what's going on, Sir Dorbin" he said. "If I had to guess, I'd say that Nodyath is using his helm to give Perlial bad dreams."

Dorbin frowned. "Why would he want to do that?"

Tadoa shrugged. Suddenly, it was he who felt tired, although he had just gotten up recently. "I don't know, but Perlial is scared, and frankly, she's not the only one."

He glanced up at Sir Dorbin's face. The knight took Tad's hand in his own, and the two of them walked into the stables.


	43. Before The King

**9th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

Aslan stood as still as possible.

The waiting room the party occupied was only a short corridor, about ten feet wide and thirty feet long. It had little in the way of ornamentation, but the floors, walls and ceilings were all made of white marble, streaked with red veins. After standing at attention here for ten minutes, even Aslan's patience was beginning to wear thin, but they could do nothing but wait until they were called for.

Aslan could hear shuffling and muttering from behind him. The paladin shifted his gaze to the right, so he could see Elrohir. The ranger, who lacked Aslan's stoicism, gave his friend a grimace, but then turned his gaze forward as well, staring hard at the large, bronzed double doors in front of them.

Beyond those doors was the throne room of Belvor IV, the king of Furyondy.

Aslan returned his gaze front and center, as well, quietly studying the thinning silver hair on the back of Sir Hallien's head. The knight turned around, eyed the rest of the party, and then flashed a steely look at Aslan, who didn't need his counterpart's _helm of telepathy_ to decipher it. Sir Hallien obviously didn't want any breaches of protocol from anyone he was bringing before his Royal Majesty. Aslan gave him a reassuring smile, but the knight turned back to the front without a response.

The paladin felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around. Argo, standing in place directly behind him, gave Aslan a grin that he knew would set the paladin's teeth on edge.

"So what do you think, Aslan?" the ranger whispered loudly. "Shall I sing for the king as part of my vow of fealty? Perhaps a little ditty from the Great Kingdom?"

Aslan knew he was just being baited, but he couldn't help himself from responding. "As much as seeing you stretched out on the rack would please me Argo, could you put your inner adolescent on the shelf for now? We've all been told how to act and what to do. Let's just toe the line this one time, all right?"

Argo put on a serious face, but Aslan wasn't buying it for a moment. "Of course, Aslan. No need to rat me out to the king in that secret code of yours."

Aslan frowned. "What secret code?"

"You know, that secret code all you paladins have. Oh, wait," Bigfellow said, slapping his forehead, "That's Thieve's Cant, isn't it? I don't know how I keep getting those two confused. Do you think I should ask Belvor about that?"

Aslan rolled his eyes, partially suppressed a growl and turned back to the front. Argo looked over to his right, where his wife stood, grinning from ear to ear at him.

"Now _that's_ how you do it, my love."

Standing behind Caroline, Zantac smiled as well. He didn't know about the others, but he was petrified, and was grateful for anything to distract him, even for a moment. He had never expected in his life to actually meet King Belvor, and it was going to happen any minute now. The mage clenched and unclenched his fists again, then glanced over to his left. Cygnus didn't look nervous, but he didn't look at all happy to be here. The tall wizard eyed Zantac sourly, then turned around to look at Talass, who was standing right behind him.

"I swear Talass, if we all get out of this in one piece, we're going to have one hell of a meeting back at the Brass Dragon. I've just about had enough."

Talass nodded silently in assent, but said nothing. She thought it was strange that she and Cygnus, who had butted heads on several occasions since the start of the year, were now allied in their desire to stay retired.

_If we all get out of this in one piece_, she thought. The cleric swallowed hard. Her husband had told Talass it was her decision about whether to tell the others about her omen. She had debated with herself long and hard, and prayed for guidance. In the end, she had decided that the dream had not been specific enough to logically influence anyone's decision, so she had kept silent. Talass looked over to her right, where Tojo stood, immobile and expressionless as always.

The priestess frowned. Of all of them, only the samurai had never sworn an oath of loyalty to Furyondy or its king. He had long ago explained that his allegiance was always to his daimyo, or Nipponese Lord. The fact that said Lord was on another world meant nothing to the samurai. What Tojo would say when the time came for him to make his vow of fealty, no one knew. Elrohir had told her that he or someone else in the party would speak to Tojo about it, but she had forgotten to ask him whether that had been done or not. She had a strong suspicion that it had not, but it was too late to bring up the subject now. She could only hope it would turn out well.

With a groan, the bronze doors began to open inwards. After a final brief glance backwards, Sir Hallien began to move forward, slowly and deliberately. The party followed in step, as best in possible...

The throne room was impressive. There was simply no other adjective that worked as well. No one in the party had ever seen anything like it, although admittingly they had not met all that many kings. Elrohir, Aslan, Cygnus and Tojo had met the king of Celtia back on Aarde, but his throne room paled in comparison to this.

It was a good forty feet wide, and continued straight on for at least twice that distance forward. Then, the room ended in a kind of scalloped hemisphere. The walls were constructed as the same marble as the floor up to a height of twenty feet. For the twenty feet above that, they were made of a whitewashed stone of some kind. Massive pillars carved to resemble former kings of the realm, their exaggerated crowns supporting the ceiling above, were arranged in a double row down the length of the room's rectangular portion. The marble walls were covered with a series of square frescoes, each one perhaps three feet square. They depicted a wide variety of people, vistas, monsters and battles. No two seemed to be identical. The overall effect was almost dizzying. The upper walls were overlaid with an intricate golden latticework design that drew the viewer's attention forward towards the throne.

As they continued their slow march forward towards that seat, Cygnus caught Zantac's eye, and saw there confirmation of what he had seen- a very faint blue glow, almost like mast lightning, that flickered here and there along the walls. So much magic had been worked into this room that the spell interactions were visible to those who could see them.

Elrohir and Argo took special note of the chainmail-clad warriors who stood on either side of the throne room. They were members of the King's Household Regiment, the personal elite guard of the royal family. These fighters eyed the party walking by with little facial expression but their readiness for sudden action, if needed, was evident in the way in which they regarded the new arrivals

The royal throne itself looked to be made of gold, although Aslan guessed it was probably an overlay over a stone chair. The numerous gems inlaid into the throne looked to be very real though, and very valuable. Six stacked, pink marble circular slabs formed a staircase leading to the royal seat, which sat up at a height of perhaps five feet.

Upon the throne, King Belvor steadily eyed the nine individuals who approached him.

Elrohir, like most of his companions, had already seen portraits of their adopted monarch, and knew some general details about him. His age (about 40), his marital status (recent widower), the name of his teenaged son (Thrommel). While painters were well known for "enhancing the reality" of their subjects, in this case the reality, if anything, overwhelmed the image. Belvor looked fit, vigorous and handsome to a fault, but what the party noticed foremost was that the king appeared much more forceful in person than the pictures and anecdotes had painted him. The Elrohir party were considered very charismatic people in their own right, but Belvor seemed to throw off waves of personal presence. Some of that might come from some kind of magic item, or possibly even the room itself, thought Elrohir, but the effect was still all too real.

Belvor wore robes of royal purple, with red and blue highlights. His right hand clutched what at first Aslan took to be a scepter, but soon realized was a thin mace of some kind. His left hand lay upon a crystal orb that was inset into the arm of his throne. A golden crown lay upon his short, light brown hair. Both mages and Talass knew, that if they had dared to do so, the king would have radiated magic like a beacon.

Six of the scalloped niches (three on each side) were occupied by individuals. By their appearance, one was a priest of Heironeous, another a mage, and the others warriors of one kind or another. They all stood stiffly at attention. A man in full plate, similar to Hallien's, stepped forward when the party had approached to within five feet of the bottommost marble platform. Sir Hallien instantly stopped, as did the others behind him.

The armored warrior announced in a ringing voice, "All Hail His Most Royal Highness and Pious Majesty, King Belvor IV of Furyondy!" His vocals, strong to begin with, were amplified by the acoustics of the hall. The heatless torches mounted upon the walls flickered at his voice.

Everyone in the throne room (except the Household Regiment) knelt down upon one knee and bowed their heads.

Sir Hallien raised his head. "As your Royal Majesty has requested, the owners of the Brass Dragon Inn."

Belvor nodded acknowledgement as Sir Hallien rose and moved off to one side.

Elrohir felt a lump blocking his throat. He was still staring at the floor, but knew that all eyes were upon him, including those of his sovereign. He took a deep breath and raised his head. The king's hazel eyes were already waiting.

"Your Royal Highness," the ranger began. "I am Elrohir, freeman of Willip. I am your most loyal servant." He bowed his head again, then slowly rose to his feet, turned to his left and walked down past his party to stand behind Tojo, facing forward.

_I hope I did that right_, Elrohir thought furiously. There was no obvious reaction from Belvor or from anyone else, so he assumed his courtly manners were at least acceptable, if not sterling.

Aslan was next. "Your Royal Highness, I am Aslan, freeman of Willip and paladin of Odin. I am your must humble servant. My talents are at your command."

The paladin rose up, turned to the right and walked down to stand next to Elrohir again.

"How can you be so humble and such a showoff at the same time?" Elrohir mumbled out of the side of his mouth. He received an arched eyebrow and a momentary smile in return.

Caroline was rushing through her turn now. "I am Caroline Bigfellow of Aerdy, now your loyal servant." Trembling slightly, she got up and came to stand behind Elrohir again. She shrugged at him with a guilty smile. Her vow had seemed to satisfy everyone present, so Elrohir said nothing. He could sympathize with her nervousness.

Aslan was staring hard at the back of Argo's head as the ranger began his vows. _If you mess this up, Argo..._

Bigfellow's voice was strong and clear as he spoke. "I am Argo Bigfellow Junior of the Lone Heath, your Royal Highness. I am at your command." Argo stood up and started to move to the right- then stopped and turned his head back to look at the king.

Elrohir and Aslan held their breath.

"And if it please your Majesty, we would be honored to have you as our most honored guest at the Brass Dragon anytime you may find your royal personage traveling to Willip! We'll whip up a special meal just for you!"

With a broad smile, Argo strolled back to his place behind Aslan and promptly resumed his solemn expression. "What?" he asked innocently in response to the arrows being fired by the paladin's light blue eyes. Aslan sighed and turned back to the front.

Belvor looked as if he were trying to suppress a smile. He managed the feat as he focused on Zantac.

"Your Royal Highness, I am Zantac of Willip. I too am originally from Aerdy-"

Several pairs of eyebrows shot up behind him. He'd never mentioned that before.

"but my greatest pleasure is only to be your obedient servant. I know I was not among those you originally sent for, but they have taken me in as one of their own. My meager powers are at your disposal." He rose up and came back to stand behind Caroline. Argo, looking back and to his right, gave him a sour look.

"Did you need a special spell to summon up that much fertilizer, Zantac?" he whispered.

Zantac wasn't fazed. "Look who's talking, Mr. Special Meal!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

Argo shrugged. "We always need more money. I'm assuming he's a big tipper."

Aslan spoke softly without turning around. "I'm pretty sure I can cut both your heads off with one swing, gentlemen. I've already decided the loss of my paladinhood would be worth it."

"You're from the Great Kingdom, Zantac?" Caroline whispered, apparently trying to divert Aslan from the fact that her head would be right in the middle of his aforementioned sword swing.

The red-robed mage nodded. "My father moved my family here from Rauxes when I was three."

Cygnus suddenly appeared besides him. "I hope whatever you people are talking about was very important" he hissed. "The king could hardly hear my vow over it!"

The sound of a clearing throat turned their attention to their left. Sir Hallien, standing against the far wall, was glaring at them all, a vein on his forehead starting to pulse. Cygnus looked at him with what he hoped was an empathetic expression.

"I'm not with them."

The knight covered his face with his hand. Cygnus actually felt sorry for Hallien for a moment, before he remembered how much he didn't want to be here in the first place. Annoying the king so that he wouldn't request any kind of a service from them would be a great tactic, Cygnus reasoned, except for the fact that it was hard to take care of the business of running an inn while you were being stuffed inside an iron maiden. _Best to just get this over with_, he thought.

Talass was going through her vows now. "And wherever the path of the Justice Bringer takes me, I am honored to serve you, my liege." She stood up and walked slowly and deliberately to her place in line, her head held high. All eyes now looked to Tojo.

The samurai stood up without speaking.

There were so many sudden indrawn breaths, Talass marveled that the torches didn't go out. _What is he doing?_ she wondered. She cast a quick fierce glance at Elrohir, who could only smile meekly back at his wife. Tojo knew the gist of what he was supposed to say, but had never actually indicated to Elrohir that he would, in fact, say it.

Tojo bowed deeply from the waist, as low as his party had ever seen him go. "Greetings, Bervor-heika" he began.

Cygnus frowned. _I've never heard Tojo use that suffix before_, he thought._ I hope it means "king", and if it doesn't, I really hope Belvor doesn't have a tongues spell going on in here._

For his part, the king certainly seemed curious at this, but his face betrayed no expression otherwise. Tojo continued, indicating his friends with a gesture.

"My friends... serve their roard with honor." He turned back to face the king and bowed again. "I am honored... to serve as they do."

Argo smiled. _Brilliant!_ He caught Tojo's eye as the samurai walked back to take his place in line again, but Tojo's face showed no other reaction.

King Belvor sighed deeply and began.

"I thank you, good people. For your show of fealty, and for responding so quickly to my summons. Baron Chartrain of Willip has spoken to me of you and your great feats of courage; the moral integrity you have shown in times of crises, and perhaps most importantly of all, your resolution to see a task done through to completion."

The smile vanished off of Argos' face. _We're sunk_, he thought glumly.

The king continued. "To the south, in the waters of the Sea of Gearnat and the Wooly Bay, ships with yellow sails plague the lands known as the Wild Coast. Over the past four years, hundreds upon hundreds of people have been carried off by them to the lands of the Pomarj. There, they are sold as slaves to ruthless flesh merchants who then take them all over the Flanaess, never to see their homes, their families, again."

He paused, leaning forward and examining his audience, who said nothing.

"Perhaps you are wondering, 'If these slaver ships do not come up the Selintan into the Nyr Dyv, they are no threat to us. Why concern ourselves with the rabble of the Wild Coast?' I would think no less of you if you had these concerns." Belvor seemed troubled, glancing down at the orb on his throne before looking back at the Elrohir party. "As I have said, these slavers have been operating for at least four years, and it could indeed be said that it was not our concern. However, about four months ago, a delegation from the Wild Coast came here. They stood where you now stand... and they begged me for aid." He sat back on his throne. "It was no idle decision. The risks taken versus the potential gain, the moral realization that we are all brothers versus the cold reality that not everyone who cries out for help receives it. A month after they had departed, I had made my decision... and sent down a team of seven men to the Pomarj, to the humanoid city of Highport, where these 'Slave Lords' are said to process their incoming cargo." The king hesitated. "We never heard from them after they had reached the city."

The party was silent, absorbing this. Belvor spoke again, his voice softer, and sadder.

"Their deaths were my responsibility. It was not the first, nor the last time my subjects have given their lives for me, and it must be stated that their failure in _no way _resulted from any lack of skill or valor on their part!" Here the king turned briefly to his left.

The party followed his gaze. Belvor was looking at one of the people standing in a niche, a young woman in her mid-twenties or so. She had the same tanned skin tone as the king, an Oeridian who had spent most of his or her life outdoors. She had short brown hair and green eyes which dropped quickly to the floor, uncomfortable with her monarch's attention. Elrohir wondered if she were related to the king in some way, perhaps a distant cousin or something. She wore chainmail dyed brown, and carried a longsword and longbow. Elrohir wasn't sure, but when the woman raised her eyes again, he was pretty sure that she was focusing much of her attention on him and Argo. A quick unspoken glance with his fellow ranger confirmed that his suspicion was not a flight of fancy. But why...

"She's a ranger" Argo whispered in his team leader's ear.

King Belvor had resumed speaking. "I believe now that I erred in placing too much stock in loyalty. These men were all Knights of Furyondy, brave and steadfast to the last, and yet... it seems like the situation in Highport may require a group with more, shall we say, _eclectic_ abilities and temperaments?"

The party, still uncertain of whether they could speak at this point, chose not to.

"This then is the task that I place before you. Travel to Highport, locate wherever in that city is being used by the Slave Lords, and do whatever is in your power to put this horrific enterprise to an end." Belvor read the faces of those beneath him, then turned to his right, where he indicated the priest of Heironeous. "My High Priest, Garaeth Heldenster."

Heldenster stepped forward. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was only a few inches taller than Aslan, but like the paladin, his strength came from his presence, not shining good looks. The priest wore silver chainmail trimmed with gold, and carried an enormous battleaxe strapped to his back. "In his foresight" the cleric pronounced, "our liege has convinced the Noble Council to give their full backing to your mission. I assure you, this was no small feat." He looked at the party, who stared back at him, awaiting his explanation. The cleric permitted himself a grim smile after a quick glance at his king.

"What this means to you is that all services that may be required for you by the Valorous Temple here in Chendl shall be provided to you free of any charge. This includes healing of any kind, removal of curses... even the raising of the dead, the Invincible One willing, of course."

Elrohir's jaw dropped open. _Free healing? Free ressurection? How many times in the past could we have used that? _He turned to look at his allies, some of whom seemed to share his excitement. Others did not. Talass leaned in close to her husband.

"Didn't save the last party, did it?" she whispered to him, her blue eyes cold.

An uncommon surge of energy seemed to go through Elrohir's frame. He stared his wife down. "They didn't have Aslan, did they?" he whispered back, while indicating the paladin. Talass glanced briefly at Aslan before returning her gaze to Elrohir.

"As long as he isn't the one who dies."

"With his healing?" he retorted, but she had already turned away, looking oddly enough, at Cygnus.

"Of course," King Belvor resumed, "Such support would not come without at least one representative of the Crown being aboard this expedition, and to me this does seem proper and just." He turned again to the woman standing in the niche, and beckoned her forward.

Slowly, almost shyly, she approached the group. "May I introduce Nesco Cynewine," the king exclaimed. "A ranger in service to the Knights of the Hart, and one of my loyal warriors!"

The young woman nodded meekly, bowed low, and then addressed them all, while looking directly at Argo. "Greetings to you all. My teacher, Sir Damoscene, has told me some about you. I hope to learn more, so I may be of the greatest service to you."

_Ahh_, thought Argo. _This is the one he was talking about._ He glanced back at Caroline, who didn't seem to appreciate Nesco's interest in Argo, but said nothing.

The man in plate mail who had first introduced the king stepped forward again. "I am Sir Davos Rahldent" he stated. "A room has been prepared for you where we can go over your final strategy. Let us be going, his Royal Majesty permitting."

The party glanced back at the king, who slowly stood up, and walked down to stand directly in front of them. "I wish you the greatest success," he said, moving to look intently at each face in turn. "Know that you shall have the gratitude of those whose lives you can return to normal... and of myself."

For a moment, His Most Pious Majesty, King Belvor IV of Furyondy, seemed like just another man. "Blessings upon the Valorous" he said quietly.

The moment passed. King Belvor turned and strode back up to his waiting throne.

Sir Rahldent led the way out via a side door. Garaeth Heldenster and the as-yet-unnamed mage motioned the party through then followed behind. Nesco was last.

_I can't fail these people._ The thought ran continuously through her mind. _I can't._


	44. Final Preparations

**9th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

Aslan tapped his finger on the map which was sprawled out on the table before them. He glanced up from his chair at Sir Rahldent, who was standing across the table from him.

"How accurate is this map?"

The knight bristled. "His Majesty's cartographers are the best in the Flanaess," he said, somewhat annoyed. "Years of effort went into this map, and you will find none better, anywhere. The features are true are depicted, and the scale accurate as shown. What more could one want?"

"That accurate?" Argo chimed in, placing his finger down on the Sea of Gaernat. "Is there really a sea serpent here that's..." and here the ranger consulted the map's scale depicted in the lower right corner, "... twenty miles long?"

"Argo," the paladin raised his hand to try to squelch any potential arguments. "Good Sir Rahldent", he looked at the knight in earnest. "I have never been to the Pomarj. Using my Talent to teleport to an unknown location is potentially quite dangerous. At least as much so as attempting the equivalent by spell, if what my arcane colleagues tell me is true," he added, with a glance at Cygnus and Zantac.

Sir Rahldent glanced at the two magic-users, then over at the Court Mage, Karzalin. The Master Elementalist (as he had been so introduced) looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, and was a picture-book representation of a wizard, right down to his long gray beard and pointed hat. He moved ponderously though, as if he were wearing heavy armor instead of gray robes. His eyes were auburn, perhaps even a shade more red than Argo's, and he did not hesitate to stare directly into the eyes of whoever he was talking to, at an uncomfortably close range. To date, this had been only the two mages, and his conversation seemed strictly limited to arcane matters; the selection of spells and so forth. Both wizards, while impressed at the obvious power they could tell this man possessed, were disquieted by an almost palpable heat that emanated from the man.

Karzalin nodded slowly at Rahldent. "He is correct" he said in a thin, hoarse voice.

The knight took a deep breath and returned his attention to Aslan. "It will serve your needs." He pointed at the city of Highport, situated on the northern coast of the Pomarj peninsula. "The lands near the city are fairly flat, but the coastline has many small coves that you could use as your base camp." He shrugged. "There may well be old farmhouses and such nearer the city, if you would dare lairing there."

Aslan leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard. "That will probably depend on exactly where our initial transport lands us."

"Are we decided then, that we're going to utilize your Talent, Aslan, as opposed to going down on horse?" asked Talass.

"I'd be happy to put it to a vote if you'd like, Talass," the paladin replied, "but I think it's the best way to go, despite the risks. It would take us a long time to ride down there, and we're just as likely as not to encounter troubles that might sap our resources before we really need them."

"I'll go along with that," Zantac added. "I've think I've ridden horseback more these past three weeks than the rest of my life, and I've got permanent sores in places I dare not mention."

"Better get used to it, Zantac," put in Elrohir. "We may not ride as often as we used to, but we need to keep the option open at any time. Our good friend here is not always available."

"I know, I know," the wizard replied. "I just prefer riding a steed I can talk to, I guess."

Karzalin raised an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

"What will be your cover?" asked Sir Rahldent. By way of reply, Aslan looked over to Elrohir, who was seated to his left.

The ranger ran his hand through his hair. "A mercenary band, looking for work. It seems like the most plausible idea."

The knight eyed the party leader. "Do you speak orcish, or goblin?"

"No," Elrohir admitted, then looked across to Aslan's right. "But Argo does." Rahldent glanced over at Bigfellow, who gave him his pained smile.

"My good friend here praises me too highly. I know a few phrases in orc. Enough to get by, but don't ask me to debate any orcish philosophers."

"It won't be philosophers you'll be dealing with, I can assure you," Davos replied grimly. "Enter the city by daylight. You'll meet more humans, and less humanoids that way."

Argo nodded. Gaereth Heldenster, who had been standing off to one side, walked over to the paladin. "Are you familiar with the place you will transport to when you need our services, good Aslan?"

The paladin nodded. "Yes. And thank you again, Your Grace. I devoutly hope we will not have need of them."

The High Priest nodded in return. "As do I. Well, then, if you will excuse me, I leave you all with my heartfelt prayers for your swift and safe return."

The others said their goodbyes as Heldenster paused by the open doorway. "Praised be Heironeous, Archpaladin" he intoned, and then left, squeezing past another servant boy who had come in to add more sundry items to the party's backpacks, which were currently lined up on the table next to the map. Cygnus and Tojo were comparing their inventory against the list of items they had requested. Cygnus looked up at Elrohir and gave him a satisfied nod. As far as supplies were concerned, they were all set.

"I suppose you're as ready as you'll ever be," stated Karzalin hoarsely, and then walked out as well, without another word.

"Sociable type, isn't he?" commented Caroline.

Sir Rahldent shrugged. "He's been that way as long as I can remember. Some say the study of magic does that to a man's mind," he said, before looking over at Cygnus and Zantac with a guilty start. The latter merely nodded sagely, however.

"I've heard the same," he said with a disarming smile, resulting in the first thing approaching a smile they had yet to see appear on Davos' face.

"So," Elrohir asked. "What's our schedule, Aslan?"

The paladin looked thoughtful. "Well, tell me what you think of this. Tonight, I'll make the first jump with one of you. We'll find a good place to camp, and the next day, I'll start my services as-"

"Pack mule," cut in Argo, grinning. "Don't worry, I'll have plenty of sugar cubes on hand for you, Aslan."

The paladin drummed his fingers on the table. He appeared to be counting to ten in his head. Then he resumed. "As I was saying, I can bring two of you per day back with me to the Pomarj. In four days, we'll all be together again."

"A sound plan Aslan, but who goes with you tonight?" asked Talass.

Aslan again stroked his beard. "A ranger. Finding a suitable shelter and covering our tracks may turn out to be crucial affairs the first night."

Elrohir nodded. "Agreed. Who's it to be then?"

There was silence. Slowly, all heads turned to regard the young woman who was trying hard to flatten herself up against the wall. Aslan stood up and approached her, smiling.

"What say you, Nesco Cynewine?" he asked, with a slight bow. "Will you be my-"

He stopped, looking concerned. Nesco, who was trying and failing to keep a cold sweat off of her forehead, looked back at him in wonder. The paladin turned back to eye his party, then returned his gaze to Nesco, looking somewhat sheepish now.

"Forgive me, Nesco," he began. "There's nothing witty I can say that Argo here won't pervert into something dreadful."

"Too late," Bigfellow countered, a wicked grin firmly in place on his face. It quickly proved contagious to Elrohir, Cygnus and Zantac, although the others remained unmoved. For some reason though, the sight of those smiles helped ease Nesco's nerves somewhat, and she smiled, first back at Argo, and then at the paladin.

"When do we leave?" she asked...

It was a little more than an hour later. Everyone had partaken of a last meal prepared here at the palace, but despite the quality and quantity of the food placed before them, no one had done more than pick at their food. Little had been spoken. Everyone was deep into their own private thoughts. Now, they were again assembled in the planning chamber.

Nesco fingered the shield she held in her hand. This was an older shield of hers, her present one festooned with the symbol of the Order of The Hart being a poor choice for a jaunt to the Pomarj. This one had been a gift to her from Sir Damoscene. It bore the image of a white eagle in flight. She glanced up. They were all watching her, expectantly.

She smiled, a little embarrassed. "I'm ready. I've never... teleported, though. I don't know what it's like."

Aslan gave her a comforting, if brief smile. "It doesn't hurt at all. A momentary disorientation until you get used to it, that's all. Place your hand on my shoulder."

Tentatively, Nesco did so.

"Hey. Lovebirds!" came Argo's voice from behind.

Aslan gave an exasperated sigh and whirled his head around, but Argo cut him off before he could speak.

"Be careful, you two."

Aslan hesitated, then nodded slowly. A thin smile crossed his face.

"We will be."

And they were gone.


	45. Aslan and Nesco

**9th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
About 6 miles east of Highport, The Pomarj**

Aslan was impressed.

Nesco had been all business immediately upon their arrival. She had started scouting out their surroundings, and returned after twenty minutes or so, saying they were only about half a mile south of the coast. The ranger then revealed that she had seen a coastal road running east-west along a ridge that paralleled the beach below. Hiding out of sight as a mixed party of humans and orcs came by heading westwards, she had overheard enough to discern that their present position was about five miles east of the city.

Cynewine had then turned her attention towards finding a suitable place to camp. The current terrain was mostly tall grassland and scrubs. There were numerous small patches of fairly dense woodland around, ranging in size from five to a hundred fifty acres. They had started trekking northwards. Aslan had suggested several copses as possible candidates, but Nesco had merely shook her head and motioned him further on.

They had gone about a mile, moving slowly because Nesco was hiding their tracks as much as possible. Soon, she had picked out one particular patch of woods. It seemed the same as any other to the paladin, but Aslan had long ago learned to trust Elrohir's and Argo's expertise in these areas, so he afforded the same courtesy to Nesco. The ranger soon pointed out a rather large thicket, obscured by a tree that had partially fallen by its south side. Pulling out a hatchet from her backpack, Nesco had quickly hollowed out the interior. She then skinned the bark from another fallen tree nearby, and lined the interior of the thicket with the bark strips. This gave the shelter added warmth and security, but was not visible from outside unless one wandered very close.

While Aslan did what he could to make their habitat semi-comfortable, Nesco had gone out again. She soon came back, lugging a dead deer over her shoulders. "I know we have rations, but I don't like to take anything for granted," she had said. Soon, she had the animal skinned and gutted, laying outside some distance away in a small depression covered by brush. While Aslan built a fire and cooked the deer meat that Nesco gave him, Cynewine finished chopping up her prey and burying the bones. By the time the task was done, dinner was ready, and both of them chose to sit and dine on the fresh kill and save their dried meats, nuts and hardtack for another day.

"The heart is my favorite part," Nesco said, licking her lips and wiping off her fingers with some leaves piled nearby.

Aslan did not reply. For some inexplicable reason, Nesco's comment had made him think of back home. The Brass Dragon. Tadoa. White Lightning. Perlial.

He shrugged off those thoughts. "You've gotten us off to a great start, Lady Cynewine," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

The ranger shrugged, but did not smile. "Nesco, please. And I'm sure either Argo or Elrohir would have done better. The tales I've heard of your skills are very impressive."

Aslan swallowed the piece of meat he had been working on and grunted. "Don't believe all you hear, Nesco. We're more experienced then some, less so than others, and luckier than most."

Nesco took a pull from her waterskin, and eyed the crackling fire, avoiding the paladin's eyes. She seemed uncomfortable about something, but Aslan couldn't tell what.

"If I might pry, Nesco. Did you volunteer for this mission, or were you assigned?"

The ranger met his gaze and held it, for possibly the first time since they had met. "I volunteered to be considered for it. My brother Sir Miles had been assigned to the previous expedition..." she trailed off, then looked up at the paladin sharply. "I harbor no foolish hopes. I know that Miles is dead. At best, he might have been captured and sold into slavery. Even if that were the case, our chances of finding him are next to none. I'm here to serve my liege only. I'm just lucky that I can do it in a fashion that I enjoy."

There was a brief silence. "I heard some tales as well, back at the palace," Aslan said. "About your family. A noble one, highly-regarded." It was a statement, but the paladin finished with a mild questioning note.

Nesco frowned. Aslan had thought getting to Nesco to open up might make the young woman more comfortable, but this seemed to be a topic she was not comfortable with. However, she did reply, after a few moments. "We're something of an upstart family in a city of old blood," she said with a grim expression. "Some fifty years ago, my grandfather saved the life of King Belvor III, by capturing a would-be assassin moments before he was prepared to attack. The king knighted my grandfather on the spot, and bestowed upon him the new surname of Cynewine. It's Old Oeridian for 'Protector', or so I've been told." Nesco took a half-hearted bite of venison, and swallowed. "I won't speak for my family, but the best thing it did for me was to increase my chances of joining the Order of the Hart."

"The Knights of Furyondy?" asked Aslan. "From what I've heard of them, they value skill and valor above all, and care little for bloodlines."

Nesco nodded. "That's mostly true, but don't be fooled. Having the right parents does help, but I don't lose any sleep over that. They never would have picked me to work with them if I couldn't pull my weight. They're good people," she said, her voice growing softer now, her green eyes more distant. "Good people..."

"Helps to have good friends, doesn't it?" asked Aslan quietly, with just a touch of a smile.

Nesco returned his gaze, and despite herself, his hint of a smile was soon reflected in her face. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it does." She decided to take a more active role in the conversation. "And what about you, Aslan? If I may pry, and please be assured I mean no slight to Elrohir, why aren't you the leader of your party?"

Aslan frowned. "Why would I be?"

The ranger seemed a little taken aback at this response. "Well," she began. "You are a paladin, after all..."

"Ah," Aslan nodded in satisfaction, then eyed Nesco again. "Tell me Nesco, do you know any other paladins aside from King Belvor?"

She made a sour face. "I'd hardly say I _know_ his Majesty. I see him once, perhaps twice a year, on the average. I know of some other paladins in the Order, but not as friends."

Aslan pointed at Nesco. "What I said before goes double for paladins. Don't believe all the tales. We're all too fallible, and we don't have the market cornered on leadership." He took a swig of water. "The situation with Elrohir is... somewhat complex. Years ago, we were both more or less co-leaders, but... something happened. I had... a personal crises."

Nesco was silent. Aslan slowly began to remove his gauntlets, then burrowed in his backpack for a change of traveler's clothing. His voice, very quiet, was almost lost as he made more noise than Nesco was sure was necessary.

"I... fell from grace... for a while. I had to... sort things out... decide if I wanted to continue following my calling... In the end, I decided I did, although I had to give up a part of my past to do so." He looked back at Nesco, with that small smile again. "I served no king at the time, so I rechristened myself 'Aslan' and let Elrohir assume the sole leadership role. And as far as I'm concerned, he's flourished in it." Aslan was starting to remove his plate mail now. "When people first look at Elrohir, they notice how handsome and impressive he is. Then, they begin to think that his mind isn't as well-developed as the rest of him. Don't be fooled," the paladin continued. "Elrohir can get flustered sometimes, but he's never failed to come through in the clutch. I'd follow him right into Hell itself, and in fact, have done so."

Nesco looked up sharply. She had noticed how Aslan had steered the conversation away from himself (perhaps so Nesco wouldn't ask him what his former name had been), but that last comment was too ripe to ignore. "I do hope you're going to follow through on that remark and tell me the story," she said. "To do otherwise would not be very-"

"Paladin-like?" he responded, his smile growing larger. "You'd be surprised with what we can get away, Lady Cynewine. Fear not," he continued, standing up now, his clothing in hand. "I'll tell you the tale, but not tonight. I need to mindrest, and sleep is the best way to do that. If you will excuse me for a moment," he added, heading outside now.

Nesco had a bit more to eat and drink, then cleaned up and tended the fire. She glanced up at the smokehole she had chopped in the roof. A fully dark night would have been best for hiding the column of smoke, but both moons occasionally popped through breaks in the cloud cover above. She'd just have to be extra-vigilant, she reasoned. Soon, Aslan came back, and laid down on his bedroll.

"Tell me Nesco," he inquired. "Who rules the Pomarj? I know little of this area."

"No one does for long," the ranger replied. "Fifty-some years ago, the orcs, goblins and such who were driven out of the Lortmils in the Hateful Wars descended upon the peninsula. Highport was the first major city to fall. After Mad King Olaric and his army were destroyed by the humanoids, the rest of the cities and towns fell soon after. As to who rules now; orcs, humans, who can say? Authority belongs to a strong sword-arm here."

Aslan seemed to consider this, then rolled over on his side, pulling his blanket over him. "Wake me when it's my turn for watch, Nesco." His voice came muffled from underneath.

In fact, Nesco was planning to stay up for at least eight hours and let Aslan have all the sleep he needed, but she simply said, "I will."

There was silence for almost a minute, and then she heard Aslan's voice again. "I've been told that I snore, Nesco. If that is indeed the case, please rouse me from a distance if possible, and in any rate, not by clamping your hand over my mouth and pinching my nostrils shut."

The ranger's eyes grew wide. "Has that ever actually happened to you?"

There was no response for a moment, and then Aslan pulled the blanket back and rolled over to face Nesco. The ranger jumped up in shock, a scream lodged in her throat.

Aslan looked like a ghoul. His decayed flesh, purple with decay, stretched tight over his bones, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a horrible yellow light. Long, blood-red fingernails erupted from shriveled hands. The lips peeled away from his gums, revealing sharp teeth and an undead smile.

Just as Nesco drew her sword, it all went away. Aslan was himself again. Breathing hard, Nesco just kept staring at him. Aslan gave her a wide, although totally human smile, rolled over away from her again, and pulled the blanket back over him. His voice softly drifted back to her.

"Only once."


	46. Welcome To Highport

_Author's Note: Many readers will recognize this as the beginning of the "A" series of modules, "The SlaveLords." I wanted to make sure that I was not claiming credit for anything I did not create. And now, back to the show..._

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

The walls of Highport slowly grew larger as the party approached. They looked to be about thirty feet high, but were partially collapsed in some sections. The section they were approaching must have once been the East Gate of the city, but the gate itself had long been pulled down. Now, a collection of shacks and tents were scattered haphazardly in front of the open space in the walls.

"I wonder how far we'll get before total chaos breaks out," groused Talass.

"There's worse things in life than chaos, Talass," Caroline said, trying to lift the cleric's spirits with a weak smile.

Talass merely looked more irritable than ever. "Tell that to your children," she muttered. Caroline, hurt, fell silent.

Even from this distance, with a light eastward wind at their backs, a mixture of unpleasant odors could be detected. Garbage was strewn about haphazardly, and swarms of flies indicated the location of piles of feces. The party members all glanced at each other.

"You never forget those smells," Elrohir said, trying not to sound too grim. "Part of being an adventurer- excuse me, a mercenary" he added, with a wan smile.

Cygnus, in front of him, turned around with a bitter look. "At least you can hold your nose if you want."

Both he and Zantac currently had silken ropes fashioned around their necks, the other ends being held by Elrohir and Argo, respectively. The rangers were carrying the mages' quarterstaffs, as well.

It had been decided at the last moment that the magic-users would be slaves that the others had captured and were looking to sell. It was believed that it would help them find these 'Slave Lords' faster. The wizards had been dubious, but went along with the plan in the end, although not without serious misgivings. Their hands were bound together in front of them in silken knots. Argo had assured them that the knots would fall off with a simple tug, but there had been no time to test them beforehand, and now here they were.

About to step in it again.

"Still glad you're not back at the Guild, Zantac?" Cygnus glared at his fellow mage, but there was no reply. Zantac was staring straight ahead, a look somewhere between horror and disgust on his face. "Great Boccob," he whispered. "That's a... _gnoll_."

And indeed, a hyena-like head that had been peering at the approaching party from within the shadows inside an open doorway, now emerged into the early morning sunshine. It raised its hand to shield its ice-blue eyes against the sunglare, mumbling something in its own tongue. The furry creature was easily Argo's size, if not taller. A large battleaxe was strapped across its back. It used the spikes on the small metal shield it carried to dig under its worn and stained leather armor, apparently scratching an itchy spot.

It then began to lope towards the party.

"I've never met the gnoll I didn't kill right off," said Elrohir quietly.

"Well, you have now," hissed Aslan sharply. He took a quick glance at the rest of the party. "Keep your wits about you, and your tempers _down_," he finished, with as sharp a glare as he could manage at Argo, who studiously avoided the paladin's gaze. There was no time for further discussion or warnings. The gnoll (a male, all three rangers noted) pulled up in front of them.

It was all Cygnus and Zantac, the front-line members, could do not to gag. There were brown streaks on the gnoll's light gray fur where he had apparently wiped excrement off, and his breath was foul with the stench of carrion. Only about five feet away, the creature eyed the two wizards, his mouth open slightly. Bits of who-knows-what were lodged in the gnoll's teeth. He then turned his attention to Aslan, who stood between Elrohir and Argo.

"New slaves," he muttered. His voice was rough, but his Common surprisingly passable. What was probably a gnoll's smile appeared on his face. "Looking to sell fast?"

"Looking to sell _high_," Argo cut in. Aslan had been about to reply, but was privately grateful that Argo had decided to take the lead here. The paladin could lie when he needed to, but he always found it distasteful, and he didn't know how sharp this particular gnoll was. Conning people was Argo's forte, so he decided to let the ranger run with it.

"Where'd you get 'em?" the humanoid inquired.

"We took a job from the pirate, Scurvy John" the ranger replied. "He let us take these two in lieu of our agreed fee. Said we could fetch a better price for them if we went to Highport. That true?"

Whatever the expression was on the gnoll's face was, it vanished, replaced by what it probably thought was a sly look. "Maybe," he growled. He then leaned in again close to the two wizards and sniffed. Neither mage could hold in their expressions of disgust, but that only seemed to please the creature. He looked back again at Argo. "Braver than most," he said. "I don't smell the fear on them."

_He's got to be kidding_, Zantac was thinking._ I'm about to throw up, soil my robes and pass out, and he CAN'T SMELL FEAR on me? His nose must be shot from living in a pile of his own-_

"Which means what, exactly?" Argo asked, letting just the right amount of impatience to creep into his voice and posture.

The gnoll shrugged. "Gotta be broken first. Cost the buyer more, so he pay you less" he replied with a leer. "I'll buy 'em from you now. We're... _down_ two from last night." That horrid smile appeared again, the tongue lapping over the creature's fangs. "Don't matter to us how brave they are."

Even Cygnus was starting to lose his nerve by now. _Why is Argo keeping us here?_ he thought furiously._ We're not going to find the damn Slave Lords from this gnoll! _The mage shuddered again. He now knew way more than he wanted to about this creature's recent meal. Then he heard Argo's voice again from behind him.

"How much?"

Eight faces (two of them panic-stricken) turned to face Bigfellow, who remained nonplussed, gazing evenly at the gnoll. The humanoid glanced down, fingering a worn, fur-lined belt pouch. He then looked up again at Argo. "Three gold each."

"Er... kind sir?" Zantac spoke up in a strangled whisper. "I don't remember you saying anything about-"

Argo snarled and yanked on the rope, jerking Zantac up against him. "Shut your trap!" he spat at the wizard, shaking him fiercely. "Or I'll give you to him free, just to be rid of your whiny voice!" He then poked the mage with his quarterstaff to move him back away from him. The ranger then looked back at the gnoll, but the snarl remained on his face.

"Don't try to fleece me, furball. These two are magic-users. I can get ten times that price from a buyer who knows what he's doing! You think I came all this way for six gold? Offer me sixty, and we'll talk- otherwise, I'll see you around!" Argo shifted his position so that his shadow no longer fell upon the gnoll's face. The creature squinted from the sunlight and growled, but made no move to stop them as the party moved on through the opening in the city walls.

"What in the name of the Abyss was _that_ all about?" hissed Zantac, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Elrohir answered for him. "His friends were watching us from that building. We had to make it look good."

Argo nodded. "We don't want the dogfaces spreading rumors behind us about mercs acting strangely." He then looked directly at Zantac. "Sorry."

"No problem, Bigfellow," replied the wizard with a bitter smile, while tryiing to stretch out the sore muscles in his neck. "In fact, when we get home to the Brass Dragon, I'll buy you a drink, just to show you there's no hard feelings."

"If we make it home with no losses Zantac," Argo said grimly, facing forward again, "I'll actually drink it..."

Inside the walls, the city of Highport seemed not all that different from other cities the party had been in, although a bit seedier than most. The dirt trail that was the coast road continued on into the city as a major street, and the party stayed on it for now, looking all around them keenly.

There were a few buildings in ruins, but most still seemed to be in use. Many looked as though they had been converted from their original purpose. The inhabitants going in and out of them, and walking down the street were primarily human or half-orcish, although the party spotted an occasional full-blooded orc making a dash from one building to another. What at first sounded like two puppies was revealed to be a pair of kobold children, chasing each other around the ruins of a stone water trough outside an inn. A fat human ran past, trying to bat away a stirge that persisted in hovering about his head.

Elrohir paused and pointed at the inn. "We might get more information in there." Nesco however, shook her head.

"Take too long, and you couldn't bring the slaves inside." Cygnus and Zantac looked at each and grimaced at the designation. "She's right," said Aslan. "We shouldn't split up unless we have to."

The party continued walking westwards for a few more minutes. They were approaching an area where all the buildings had been torn or burnt down, and was now little more than an open field strewn with tents, where the lowest of Highport's residents semed to be concentrated. To their right was some kind of rundown temple complex.

"We need to find a buyer," Argo said.

"Keep in mind Argo, they probably act as the middlemen here," Elrohir responded. "I'm sure the Slave Lords just don't let anybody come to their office."

His fellow ranger nodded. "I don't doubt it, my friend, but I think it's our best place to start." Tojo tapped Argo on his left shoulder, but Bigfellow did not turn around. "I see them, Tojo."

The others looked. Off to their left, about a hundred feet away, a large mass of people was slowly southwest, away from the party.

Fifty or so of them were clearly slaves. Their hands were manacled, and they were connected to each other by chained collars around their necks. Most wore rags or little better, tatters of their former clothing. Almost all were human, although a few were half-orcs. They shuffled together forlornly, taking their only comfort in each other's presence.

Two lines of ten men each were herding them along; one ahead, the other to the rear. Half of these guards held crossbows in hand, the others wielded swords of one kind or another.

Argo handed Zantac's rope and staff to a somewhat started Aslan. "Here. Beat him to a pulp if he starts getting uppity. I want to ask a few questions." With that, the ranger strode off at a fast walk towards the slaves and their guards.

"Argo! Wait!" called out Aslan, but Bigfellow kept going.

"Damn it," the paladin whispered softly, under his breath. He caught Elrohir's gaze, and on an unspoken understanding, began to move the party in that direction.

They could see Argo talking with one of the slave's rear guard, a half-orc. At one point he pointed back towards them, and seemed a little taken aback that they were approaching. He completed his conversation however, and sprinted back to the others, who had closed about half the distance.

"They're fresh off the boat, being taken to the stockade," the ranger reported. "All official selling of slaves takes place there, at auction. I tried a few oblique lines of questionings about the Slave Lords, but came up empty."

Talass crossed her arms across her chest, staring around grimly at their surroundings. "Perhaps we could try-"

A scream split the air, coming from the mass of slaves. The party whirled.

It was difficult to see through the intervening guards and the mass of slaves, but they could discern one of the slaves, a middle-aged woman, laying on the ground, twitching horribly. One of the guards from the far line stood over her, holding a bloody sword. The next slave in line (who was in fact, one of the two "end" slaves) was forced to stand hunched over, close to her body due to the chains connecting their necks. A rough-hewn human man of about forty years, he was crying and screaming at the top of his lungs at the guard, who didn't look like he was willing to take the abuse. He raised his sword again...

The party saw something small _zing_ through the air from their location, narrowly missing everyone else, to strike the guard in the side of his helm. With a cry of pain, he whirled around to face where the missile had come from, just in time for another one to strike him solidly in his forehead. He took a wobbly step forward, and then fell silently forward in the dust.

Everyone turned. Argo Bigfellow Junior, sling in his hand, looked at all of his friends.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, giving them his famous pained smile for what he thought might well be the last time. "I couldn't stand by and let-"

"It's all right, Argo," said Aslan softly. He then shrugged with a sad smile of his own. "I think we all knew this'd happen, sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but the Fates said otherwise."

Argo laid his right hand on the paladin's shoulder while putting his sling back on his belt with his left. "You're all right, Aslan. I don't care what anybody's said about you."

The paladin gave him a thin smile. "Anybody?"

Bigfellow shrugged. "All right, me."

All ten of the slaves' rear guard were advancing on them now in two lines, the crossbowmen falling in line behind the sword-wielders. The half-orc whom Argo had been talking to just a few minutes prior, two men on either side of him, shouted out as they advanced.

"You stupid sellsword! How _dare_ you interfere with other people's business! You'll pay for that with your lives!"

Aslan and Elrohir dropped their ropes. The wizards were able to loose their bonds as promised, and silently took their quarterstaffs back in hand. Elrohir stepped forward, drawing his bow and notching an arrow. "Like it or not people, retirement is now officially over," he stated loudly. "The game begins again!"

"You stupid, flea-brained son of a mongrel!" the half-orc shouted back, raising his own sword. _"This is no game!"_

"Oh, no!" Argo yelled back, drawing Harve. The red glow washed over the party.

"THEN WHY AM I HAVING SO MUCH FUN?" the ranger screamed, and charged the line. A second later, Tojo's battlecry cut through the air as the samurai drew his katana and likewise charged, Caroline right behind him. Aslan gave Talass a helpless look as he drew back his bow and fired. Nesco looked around in amazement, shrugged, drew her sword and charged as well. With a final glare at her husband, and a sympathetic glance at Cygnus, the priestess of Forseti drew her war hammer and joined in the charge as the two wizards prepared their spells.

The half-orc's eyes grew wide at the fury of the approaching humans. He took a faltering step backwards as an arrow whizzed by his head, bumped into a crossbowman, looked back at the oncoming charge, hesitated, and then bolted through the rear line, hell-bent for safety. After a moment, the men on either side of him did likewise.

Forming an arrow wedge (but pointed in the wrong direction), all ten slave guards lost their morale and ran for their lives, right into the mass of slaves. Most of the latter got out of their way, or at least tried to, but the man who had been screaming before looped his chain around the neck of one of the forward guards and pulled tightly, setting off another melee at the far end of the mass of slaves.

Many people on the street ran for cover, but some others drew weapons and began to advance into the fray. Screams of all kinds rent the streets. Arrows and bolts filled the air as the blood began to spill.

Chaos had, obligingly, arrived on schedule.


	47. Battle In The Streets

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, the Pomarj**

_Maybe retirement wasn't so bad after all..._

The thought flashed through Elrohir's head as he ducked, letting the slaver's blade flash over it.

Rather than counterattacking immediately, the ranger backed up a few steps, so that he now had a building wall to his rear. There were so many combatants around; he hadn't had the opportunity to get back-to-back with any of his party before they were on him. He'd taken two down with his bow before drawing his sword and shield. They were coming so fast now that Elrohir wasn't even bothering to keep count anymore, or what an individual opponent might look like- only what he needed to know to kill them.

The slaver snarled and followed the ranger, thrusting his sword in what he hoped was an unexpected angle.

It wasn't. Elrohir took the blow on his shield and pushed away hard to the left, moving the slaver's sword along with it. It was only for a moment, but it was long enough for his torso to be exposed to Gokasillion's gleaming blade, which swiftly sunk into his stomach and protruded out his lower back before being withdrawn just as quickly. The man looked down in stupefaction at the gaping wound, then up at Elrohir.

"You know," the ranger said, "It's considered common courtesy to fall down when you're dead."

He smashed his metal shield into the slaver's face, causing the man to stagger back a few steps and then, apparently, to remember his manners.

A movement out of the corner of his left eye was all the warning Elrohir had as an orc, who had silently slunk around the side of the building, suddenly charged the last remaining twenty feet, leading with a dagger aimed straight at the ranger's throat. The ranger was able to move just enough so that the blow, while painful, was not serious. Elrohir swung Gokasillion around in an arc, but his position was not optimum and the humanoid had plenty of time to avoid the blade. He moved directly in front of Elrohir and slammed him back against the wall. The back of Elrohir's helm struck stone, the echoes of the impact filling his ears. The orc was right in his face now, his pig-like snout inches from the ranger's nose. The orc's left hand kept Elrohir's head pressed against the wall while his right one moved the dagger in again, seeking a chink in his plate mail to penetrate. 

"Poor human," the orc sneered. "Can't use pretty sword now, can it?"

"Let's find out," replied the poor human.

Elrohir thrust out his right arm over the orc's left shoulder, let Gokasillion's hilt rotate in his hand until the sword was pointing straight down, and then let the blade slide down behind the orc's left shoulder blade. The creature smiled at the human's useless attack, then frowned as he felt the blade slide in underneath his weapon's belt and catch.

The ranger smiled, dropped his shield so he could grab Gokasillion's pommel with both hands, rotated the sword ninety degrees and pulled forward on it like a lever. The blade cut through the orc's rear armor, shoulder blade, left lung and other now-superfluous organs before coming out the front. The creature slowly slid to the ground as Elrohir bent down to retrieve his shield.

"I hope you were taking notes", he said to the dead orc as he sidled along the building wall to the right.

The ranger flinched as a crossbow bolt exploded into the wall a few inches from his head, sending small splinters of stone flying. He looked for the source of the missile fire, but saw nothing. A fair number of slavers, guards and what-not had used ranged weapons at the start of the melee, but unfortunately had managed to hit only the backs of their charging compatriots if that, so the arrows and bolts had pretty much tapered off after that. 

_Not completely though, _Elrohir thought ruefully. He again scanned his line of vision, then saw the crossbowman about two hundred feet away as the man pointed his weapon at him again. A small black speck grew instantly into a shaft that clipped the top of Elrohir's wall, about five feet to the right and ten feet above his current position. The ranger debated drawing his bow again, but he could see the man's companion draw his sword and start running in his direction. Utilizing the next few free seconds to take a deep breath and prepare for his next fight, Elrohir looked around, checking out how his allies were doing. His wife was closest, about thirty feet away and off a little to the right. She was standing over a dead slaver, battling an orc of her own. Elrohir almost shouted out "Dearest!", but realized at the last moment how odd such an expression might sound in the heat of battle, so he settled for the conventional.

"Talass!" he yelled. "Do you need a hand?"

"Oh, not at all!" she shouted back. "I was just remembering how much I _didn't _miss this!" She winced as the orc's blade cut across her chainmail, then retaliated with a war hammer swing that caught the humanoid on the right side of its head. He went down, stunned, and Talass finished him off without a pause. She stood up again, breathing heavily, then whirled around as a half-orc charged her from behind. The cleric waited until he was almost on top of her, then thrust out her holy symbol at her attacker.

"STOP!"

The half-orc froze in place, every muscle momentarily locked. Talass lined up her war hammer. Elrohir was glad for the distraction of his own charging opponent, as he was able to miss the sight of the half-orc's face turning into a mass of blood-soaked gristle from Talass' strike.

Now it was Talass' turn to look around, while taking a breather. Her husband now had another attacker, but it didn't look like anything he couldn't handle. About thirty feet further on, Argo and his wife were fighting back-to-back, each engaged with two attackers. Thinking safety in numbers, Talass began to move towards them, but got only halfway before a guard or a mercenary or whatever-he-was lunged at her, sword upraised. She dodged his blow, then yelled over to Argo.

"And exactly _how_ are we supposed to take on the _whole city _again?"

Bigfellow actually managed his pained smile while not missing a beat in combat. "I'm working on that, my good lady!"

"Work faster!" Caroline yelled, then cried out in pain as a hand axe, one of two wielded by one of her attackers, cut into her left side, drawing blood.

Her husband's eyes whipped around. "Love?" he shouted, not at all concerned about the incongruousness of his address. "Are you all right?"

By way of reply, Caroline snarled and swung her sword, yelling, "You'll pay for that!" The axe wielder's companion, a tall, ruddy-faced youth, had smiled with distracted glee when his ally's strike had hit home. Now he gasped, realizing only after Caroline's sword had struck home that he had been the target of the attack, if not the prediction. His eyes rolled up in his head as the blood gushed forth from the gash in his neck, and he toppled backwards to the dusty ground. His companion looked at him for a moment, then again eyed Caroline, who was now gazing at him with a tight, sinister smile.

"Whoops," she said. _"I missed."_

She swung her sword again, but he blocked the blow and their battle continued.

Argo, apparently satisfied that his wife was okay for the moment, turned his attention back to his assailants. "Say something formidable, Harve!" he yelled as he feinted with his longsword, then came up to gouge one opponent through his chain link shirt. He grimaced but stayed up.

"Er... DIE!" the sword shouted.

It wasn't a very big speech, but it was enough to throw both of Argo's opponents' attacks off-stride. Enough for the ranger to exploit, as a quick thrust took out the fighter in the chain shirt.

"That's it?" yelled Argo. "Die? That's the best you could come up with? You getting rusty on me, Harve?"

"HEY" the sword shouted back. "You know I don't like that word!"

"Sorry," Bigfellow said, hearty grin in place even as he parried his remaining attacker's latest strike. "I just meant to ask if your razor-sharp wit had gone dull, that's all!"

"Everybody's a jester," the sword lamented. "I should have stuck with Dak. At least he was always too grumpy to try and make bad puns. Besides, I'm a sword! What do you expect me to say? Live? Laugh? Cry? Pee? I was made for one purpose Bigfellow, and it wasn't for slicing bread!"

"You could try it," the ranger grunted, as his latest swing bounced off his opponent's shield. "Your armor-slicing skills today certainly don't seem to be... cutting it."

"AARGH! Snap me in half, somebody! May the gods save me from would-be bards!"

"You may get that chance yet, Harve," Argo said, his voice uncharacteristically solemn.

Ten fighters were moving quickly towards them from the far side of the open area. Behind them, Argo could see that the slaves that they had earlier intervened to save had been rounded up and were being hustled away from the combat. The approaching warriors all wore blue sashes across their armor, and the same grim, determined expressions on their faces. _Elite troops, _the ranger thought sourly. He redoubled his attacks on his assailant, but the man just would not drop.

As the men reached a distance of about thirty feet from the Bigfellows, half of them suddenly dropped to the ground. The other half stopped and bent down over their fallen comrades.

"Hey!" One of them shouted. They've fallen-"

That was as far as he got before the remaining five quickly crumpled to the ground next to their unconscious brethren. Two yells of triumph came from a ways off, almost eighty feet away to the right. Cygnus and Zantac waved to their companions, and gave them a thumbs-up.

"Gotta love the classics!" Zantac yelled.

"Nesco looks like she's in trouble," Cygnus muttered, pointing at their newest ally.

"Better be sure," Zantac replied. "Every spell you use now is-"

"I know!" Cygnus snapped, "but she and Aslan have been our shields long enough. Time to earn our keep." He moved his hand slightly, so that it was now pointed at one of the two guards who were flanking the ranger, and muttered some arcane syllables...

Only fifteen feet away, Nesco was indeed not feeling so great. Early in the battle, she had decided that she would protect the mages, and had begun backing towards them when an attacker she hadn't noticed had stabbed her from behind with a short sword. Her armor had taken most of the impact, but there had been some penetration, and it was starting to hurt fairly bad now. Worse, although she'd taken quite a few slavers out early on, she hadn't been able to seriously hurt either of her two most recent foes for some time now.

Suddenly, the man with the short sword cried out in agony as several short streaks of white light tore into him from behind. The man toppled over as Nesco turned her full attention to her remaining attacker, while muttering a silent prayer of thanks to Cygnus. She had decided early on that pride would take a distant second place to survival here.

_But not if it puts others at risk, _she thought as she momentarily locked gazes with Aslan, who was fighting three attackers of his own about ten feet away. She marveled at how fast and fluid the paladin was in battle. It was at odds with his overall appearance, and even though he might not have killed as many of the enemy thus far as some of the others had, Aslan was clearly no slouch on the battlefield, even without using his Talent. Aslan's shield seemed to move of its own accord, blocking blows coming from foes he wasn't even looking at. Nesco didn't know if it was magic, faith or just plain skill, but she was impressed.

Aslan could see the answer in Nesco's eyes to his questioning gaze. She still didn't want him to heal her, although he was a bit pressed right now to determine her actual condition.

As usual, the paladin was fighting defensively, trying to intercept attackers before they reached the two mages, while keeping an eye out for anyone who might need emergency healing. Of course, the drawback to this particular strategy was that he himself was starting to accumulate attackers faster than he was dropping them. He had already been hit several times, although not seriously. If this trend continued however, he might be in need of healing himself.

Aslan took a deep breath and switched tactics, launching a furious attack on one of his foes. The half-orc dropped his sword (mainly because the arm holding it had just been severed) and ran off, screaming in pain. The other two, humans, continued to press their attack. Aslan was pretty sure he could take them, but he'd have to keep up this level of offense, which necessitated taking his attention off his friends for a few moments. He-

The paladin sniffed, frowning. Even in the heat of battle, he could smell the stink. He turned left, facing eastwards.

Six, maybe seven gnolls were running towards him. No, not him. Towards Cygnus and Zantac. The humanoids were waving an assortment of flails, axes and swords. They were coming. Coming fast. The wizards had seen (or smelled) this newest threat, and were pointing at them, no doubt readying spells. This was just driving home to Aslan how untenable their overall situation was. Their enemies just kept coming. Sooner or later, they were going to be overwhelmed. It was only a matter of time.

"Hold it!" Zantac yelled to Cygnus just before the latter was about to start incanting. The red-robed wizard pointed towards the approaching gnolls, and Cygnus followed his finger, squinting. Then, he saw him.

With a bloodcurdling battle cry, Tojo tore into the gnolls from behind, having apparently snuck around the building Elrohir was backed up against. A canine head went flying, followed by another. The remaining creatures closed in upon the samurai, and he was lost to view.

"TOJO!" yelled Aslan. He whirled back to face the two wizards. "Cygnus, Zantac! You're on your own!" And with that, the paladin disappeared. His two attackers stood in stunned silence just long enough for Zantac's _magic missiles_ to take them out.

Aslan's sword was already in motion even as he materialized next to the knot of gnolls. As the one he hit dropped, the paladin was relieved to see Tojo's katana erupt from the back of another of the humanoids. When that gnoll fell, Aslan got a look at the samurai. He was covered in blood, most of which was gnoll blood, but not all. The two of them continued to focus their full attacks on their opponents, who continued to attack with an animal ferocity.

Another gnoll dropped, but while lying on the ground managed to slash Tojo up the length of his right leg before being dispatched. The remaining two gnolls fled west, towards the center of the battle, Tojo in somewhat limping pursuit. Aslan would have called him back, but he knew it was useless. That was just the way Tojo was. He could only hope, not for the first time, that the samurai's sense of honor wasn't going to get him killed.

Aslan turned back to the east just in time to see an orc with a large axe charging at him. The paladin managed to catch his attacker's blow on his shield, but he could still feel a shockwave of pain travel up from his hand to his shoulder. It occurred to Aslan that he might be hurting a bit more than he originally thought. With a roar of anger, he counterattacked. The orc parried, but Aslan's blade cut right through the haft of his axe. His opponent stared at the stub in his hand for a moment, then dropped it and ran off. Aslan caught his breath again as he watched the orc run to the temple complex and disappear through a set of double doors. 

"Aslan! Are you all right?"

That was Nesco. She and Elrohir came running up to him, both breathing hard. Nesco looked in fair shape, Elrohir somewhat better. He pointed back the way they had come. "Tojo just ran by, screaming like a banshee. He was chasing a couple of gnolls. We should-"

Aslan held up his hand. "Wait! Wait a minute!"

The two rangers looked at him curiously.

Aslan frowned, trying to think. His gaze turned back to the temple complex, replaying the image of the orc fleeing.

_Those doors! They weren't locked!_

He turned back to the others. "Follow me!" he yelled, then pointed back westwards. "Tell the others!"

As the paladin began to move, the others turned back to yell at the top of their lungs, "THIS WAY! FOLLOW US! THIS WAY!" Then, they too were off, keeping close to Aslan...

Argo and Caroline had just dropped their remaining attackers when they heard a voice nearby.

"Argo! Caroline!"

It was Cygnus. He and Zantac looked exhausted as they hustled over to them, but mostly none the worse for wear.

Zantac pointed eastwards. "I heard Elrohir and Nesco yelling something, but I couldn't make it out, and now I can't see them! Or Aslan!"

Argo looked. Way back east, towards where they had come in, more warriors, at least thirty or forty strong, were massing. He couldn't see his friends either.

Caroline started yelling. "Talass! Come on! We've got to get out of here! What in Hades are you doing?"

Her husband glanced over to where Caroline was shouting. About twenty feet away, Talass was kneeling over her latest downed foe. The man, a guardsman wearing a blue sash, was still alive, although obviously no longer a threat. Talass, holy symbol in hand, seemed to be having a conversation with him, although the ranger couldn't hear any of it from here. The cleric glanced up at Caroline's voice, seemingly annoyed about something, but then rose up to her feet and came over to them. As she did her left arm shot out to point towards the northeast.

'There's an abandoned temple that's been rededicated to Gruumsh, the orc god, over there. We passed by it on the way in. According to him, one of the Slave Lords is in there!"

Caroline looked dubious. "That doesn't make sense. He must have been lying to you."

Talass glared at the younger woman, ice in her eyes.

"Not to me."

The priestess began to move off in that direction. "Let's go," she said.

Caroline looked back at Argo, who shrugged. "Good a plan as any. Besides, Aslan and the others may have gone that way, as well. Let's move!"

"Wait!" Caroline said, looking around. "Where's Tojo?"

Her answer came almost immediately as the samurai staggered back up to them.

Tojo looked a fright. He was entirely covered in blood and gore, and his breath came in ragged gasps. His topknot was gone, apparently sliced clean off his head. He looked around at the others, then addressed Argo, while pointing back to the southwest, where he had come from.

"Our probrems... grow roger... Argo-san."

Bigfellow looked. He didn't like what he saw.

To both south and west, forces were massing. Humans, orcs, half-orcs, goblins, kobolds, hobgoblins, a few gnolls... There were easily two hundred of them, and they were all getting ready for a massive rush. Over their heads could be seen the upper bodies of several larger humanoids. Ogres.

Argo's face went pale. "Double-time, people," he said softly. "Let's move..."

As they came around to the temple complex, they began to move parallel to the wall that surrounded it. A small stone shed was set into the wall, its pair of double doors standing open. Sounds of combat came from within.

"Sounds like our brand of diplomacy," Argo said with a grin. "Let's go!" Weapons at the ready, the sextet entered.

Inside, they found Aslan, Elrohir and Nesco standing over the dead bodies of six orcs. They whirled as the others appeared in the doorway, then relaxed with weary sighs. "Getting tired of the party out there?" asked Elrohir.

Argo motioned the others inside, went to the far side of the small room, took off a wooden beam that was barring the far door and carried it back to the set of double doors in front, which thankfully also had hooks for the beam. "The party is coming here," he said grimly as he barred the door. "It won't take them long to figure out where we've gone, and once they do, this won't give us more than one extra minute. Two, tops."

Talass was kneeling over the dead orcs. "Look at this," she said. "Every one of them has a different holy symbol. Gruumsh, Wee Jas, Procan, Beltar..." She stood up and eyed all the symbols nailed to the walls. "These guys were afraid of something." She walked over to the now unbarred door, opened it a crack and peered out. "Just as I thought," she said, sighing. "The temple graveyard." She gestured again, this time at the various old chisels and stone working tools scattered around the room. "This must have been the room where they made the tombstones and such, and they set it up as a guard post."

Caroline looked nervous. "Guarding against which side?" she asked quietly, indicating both doors.

"Probably both," said Elrohir. His wife nodded in assent.

"Our options are limited, people," said Cygnus soberly, going over to the interior door, opening it wide and slowly moving out. "Let's go."

As the party slowly began to exit, Nesco asked Aslan, who was in front of her. "Do you think there really are..." and she gestured towards the cemetery.

"Undead?" returned the paladin, with a small, grim smile. "I wouldn't be too surprised."

"Come on, Aslan," Argo, just ahead, interjected. "Just because we've never been to a graveyard without being attacked by them doesn't mean it won't happen again."

"You all right, Nesco?" asked Aslan.

The ranger nodded grimly. "Fine," she whispered.

"Glad to hear it," said Zantac, who was bringing up the rear behind her. "Myself, I plan on going utterly mad from terror sometime in the next few minutes..."


	48. The Temple

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Cygnus turned around. Elrohir, only about ten feet behind him on the path, was partially already obscured by the weeds, vines and overhanging vegetation.

"Welcome to the jungle," Cygnus muttered to his team leader.

"I don't suppose you have a spell for this?", the ranger replied.

The wizard considered. "Yes, but I think a _fireball _would cause more problems than it would solve."

Elrohir nodded in sober agreement. "No doubt." He turned back to his wife, who was pushing aside a particulary troublesome branch that seemed determined to prevent her further passage. "I wish Wayne was here with us," he said to her.

Talass, who had been forced to stomp on the branch in order to get past it, looked ahead at her husband, her face flush with irritation. "I wish Wayne was here _instead_ of us," she replied tersely. "Are you sure this path will lead us to the other side?"

Elrohir rolled his eyes, gritted out a "Yes, dearest," and returned his attention to the flora around him. He was using Gokasillion as both light source and machete, and hoped that the sword's rather expansive ego would not consider this labor demeaning. Thus far however, there had been no response at all from his weapon...

The cemetery, while overgrown with weeds, gnarled bushes, and dying trees, had not nearly been so plant-choked until the party began to move through it. Slowly, but inexorably, the plants had begun to both grow in size and animate. It had not been quite so sudden as to be considered an attack, but it was clear a force was at work here which was not well disposed towards the party. In minutes, only a rather feeble, winding path remained through the graveyard. They had seen two doors on the far side of the cemetery wall, and were slowly making their way, single-file, towards one of them while trying to stay on the path as much as possible.

A grunt from behind her made Talass turn her head. Tojo, still favoring his right leg, had apparently swung that foot into a tree root that had suddenly protruded up from the dusty gray soil. She saw the samurai wince with pain, then look up sharply at the cleric as he felt her watching him. Tojo's mouth tightened as Talass marched back up to him. He held up his hand and tried to move around the priestess to forestall her.

"Pain not important, Tarass-san."

"No, but it sure hurts, doesn't it?" Talass grabbed the samurai's right arm and spoke the holy words she knew so well. Tojo seemed about to react, but his face relaxed as the reduction in his agony took effect. Talass immediately released her grip, and grabbed some large leaves off a nearby branch. She then handed them to a somewhat surprised Tojo.

"Here. Wipe the blood off your head."

She moved back in front of him. Her husband was now out of sight. Apparently, he had missed this exchange. Talass shook her head.

"I'm not hurt," she muttered to herself in a false baritone. "I know where I'm going." She allowed herself a small smile.

"Men..."

Argo, keeping a keen eye on his wife up ahead, saw her stop and kneel down beside a small stone marker situated on the side of the narrow path. He walked up to her.

Caroline was brushing off the layers of dust. "It's a child's gravestone," she said softly. "The 12th Day of Gathering, 480 CY. Born and died on the same day."

Argo was silent. His auburn eyes met Caroline's hazel ones as she slowly rose up. He put his hand on her shoulder.

"There are no guarantees, Caroline. You know that." The ranger's voice was low.

She looked at Argo. Her face was neutral, but he could see the sorrow in her eyes.

"No," she whispered. "I guess there aren't."

She turned around and continued down the path. Keeping a distance of about ten feet between them, Argo followed...

Aslan had stopped. He was peering off into the foliage. Nesco caught up to him just as Argo's form vanished out of sight down the path. "What is it, Aslan?" she asked. He looked at her, then gestured.

Nesco followed his hand, but she could only see the dim outline of a small building, maybe thirty feet away, its stone walls almost completely covered with ivy.

"A crypt, I'd assume," she said, then looked at the paladin curiously. "What of it?"

Aslan exhaled slowly. "I'm pretty sure I saw someone duck around the back of it," he said.

He glanced over at Nesco again. "Catch up with the others, Nesco. Let them know. I'll be right back." With that, the paladin slowly moved towards the crypt, sword in hand.

Nesco watched him go, then turned to Zantac, who was treading lightly down the path, as if afraid his footsteps might stir up something horrible. "Zantac," she said to him. "Catch up to the others. Aslan and I are going to check out that crypt." She moved off, following the paladin.

"Say what now?" the mage replied, his eyes growing wide. He stood there, glancing between the empty path ahead and the two figures who were soon swallowed up by the still-growing jungle...

Just as Aslan reached the mausoleum, he turned and saw Nesco. The ranger saw his frown and responded before he could speak.

"I sent Zantac to tell the others. It's... logical to have someone to watch your back"

The paladin considered, then flashed a brief smile at Nesco. "Well," he said. "At least you know what an undead might look like, right?"

"Thanks to a certain prankster paladin, I do now. They take a year off your life just by looking at them."

Aslan frowned again, puzzled. "Not that I know of."

Nesco put her hand over her heart and adopted a look of stark terror, then glared at the paladin. "Says you, buddy." She tried on Argo's pained smile, and saw Aslan grimace, so she figured it must be a pretty good approximation. She began to move, very slowly, clockwise around the building, as silently as she could, as Aslan began to head in the other direction.

The ranger eyed the bas-relief figures adorning the crypt walls. Although not Suloise herself, she could make out through the vines the symbol of Wee Jas, the goddess of death and magic. "Of course," she mumbled to herself. "It couldn't be a temple consecrated to Heironeous, could it?" She gritted her teeth, tightened her grip on her sword, and stepped swiftly around the far wall of the crypt.

The ghoul at the far end of the wall whirled around to face her.

It looked so much like Aslan had, those five nights ago, that Nesco blinked in surprise. Aside from the armor looking different (tattered leather), the purplish skin, the jagged fingernails, the pointed teeth, all were exactly as Aslan had shown her then. The creature made no move to attack, however. It merely gazed at the ranger, an unfathomable expression in its sunken, yellow eyes.

Nesco gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not as funny the second time around, Aslan."

"What isn't?" The paladin's voice came from around the corner. The creature's lips never moved.

"YOW!" Nesco yelped as she managed a backwards-standing broad jump, a maneuver she'd never even dreamed of practicing. Just as she moved, the ghoul snarled and lunged for the ranger, but its hands closed upon empty air. "Aslan!" She yelled, even as her body reflexively readied itself for combat. "It's a-"

"I've got one myself!" The paladin's voice carried over the sounds of combat. "I'll be there as soon as I can!"

"I can take care of mine!" Nesco yelled back, a little annoyed at Aslan's presumption. Backing up slowly, she kept her shield between her and the ghoul as it tried to claw at her. "I was just warning you!"

A horrid screeching sound came from near the crypt. Nesco hoped that was what a ghoul sounded like when it was dying.

Er, dying again, that is, she thought.

"Consider myself warned!" the paladin's voice came back to her. "Don't let it touch you!"

"That wasn't on my agenda, trust me!" Nesco shouted back as she slashed the undead thing across its chest. Most of what was left of its armor fell off, but the creature didn't even seem to notice. It charged the ranger, trying to knock her down and grapple her. It managed to get one hand on her shoulder before she drew her sword across the back side of the ghoul's left leg, cutting it clean to the bone. It stumbled briefly, allowing the ranger to gain some distance. Her shoulder felt stiff where the creature had grabbed it, but she was still able to move.

"Aslan!"

That was Zantac's voice, faint with distance. "I've got one webbed that was attacking me, but I don't think it will hold for long. Could you-"

"I thought you were going to get the others!" The paladin's voice carried his irritation.

"Hey!" The wizard's voice came back. "I was watching your back! Fine thanks I get for it, too! I saved you from having to fight two of them at once!"

"I thought you said it was attacking _you!"_

There was a slight pause.

"Let's not nit-pick here, shall we!"

Nesco almost laughed, in spite of herself. "Aren't we the well-oiled battle machine!" she shouted, cutting a gouge a good six inches deep across and into her ghoul's forehead. Incredibly, it ignored its own brain fluids beginning to seep out of its head, and continued to attack the ranger.

"Same as it ever was!" Aslan's voice rose over the sounds of his personal duel. "Stick around with us long enough Nesco, and you'll see true idiocy and foolhardiness in battle!"

"Someone call?"

That was Argo. Almost immediately, there were the sounds of what Nesco hoped was a ghoul being butchered. She thought she could hear Caroline as well, but she wasn't sure. Her attacker leapt at her again, and almost got past her defenses. She backed up again, but then suddenly hit something- a tree. She couldn't go any further.

The ghoul snarled and made one last rush, its arms reaching out for the ranger. Her opening lasted only a second, but Nesco saw it, and buried her sword right up to the hilt in the undead creature's chest. With a ear-splitting screech, the thing slid off her sword and collapsed to the ground, dead again. By the time she rejoined the others, all nine of them were together again. The other two ghouls had been dispatched.

Talass glared at Aslan, Nesco and Zantac. "Here's a little battlefield strategy tip for you people. If you find yourself fighting undead and you've let your party cleric get out of sight, you're probably an idiot."

She whirled around and headed back up the path. "Let's go, Cygnus. We don't want to keep Hel waiting."

The tall mage's face was not as severe as Talass' had been, but his displeasure was plain to see. Without a word he turned and followed the priestess up the path. Slowly, the others followed, sticking closer together this time.

"Hel?" Nesco asked Aslan quietly.

The paladin's face was grim as he turned around to regard the ranger. "Asgardian god of death. Talass doesn't seem very optimistic about our chances..."

"All clear!"

Talass moved back into the hallway after examining the latest empty, abandoned room. It was the third they'd encountered after entering the hallway beyond the first door in the cemetery wall. The cleric blew dust off her hands while glancing at the others. "The rectory, I'm guessing. Unused for years, and no other exits from it." She pointed towards a T-intersection down the corridor. "There was a door at the end of the left corridor. Let's try there next."

It seemed as good a plan as any. Besides, Talass seemed to be putting her personal feelings on hold for the moment, so no one wanted to do anything that might shatter that. Single-file, the party moved down the 5' wide corridor, curving snake-like around to the left and down about thirty feet to a stout-looking wooden door at the far end. Talass grasped the door handle, took a deep breath, and pulled it open with a yank.

The sound of an alarm horn came instantly from inside. Talass, and Cygnus behind her, could see the room inside was a stable. Not dissimilar to the Brass Dragon's in layout, a row of stalls lined each wall. A large set of double doors (which the Brass Dragon lacked) closed off the stables from the outside at the far end. Piles of hay lined the wall in front of the stalls, with sacks of grain beside them. Behind two of the hay bales were crouched orcs or half-orcs (it was hard to tell at a quick glance). One was in the process of putting his alarm horn back in a pocket of the cloak he wore and grabbing a halberd standing next to him. His companion already had his polearm out and set against any possible charge from these intruders.

Talass uttered an exclamation that Cygnus couldn't make out (Fruz, he was guessing) and charged into the room, but a hairy arm swung into view from the left side of the doorway. The mace it carried clanged solidly onto Talass' helm, denting it. The cleric stumbled forward, off balance. Cygnus entered next and pivoted to the left, ready to attack with his quarterstaff, only to cry out in agony as a short sword stabbed into his lower back from behind.

_I can't believe we were that stupid!_ The thought dissolved into a searing pain as Cygnus swung his quarterstaff back around in reflex, but it merely bounced off his attacker's chainmail. The half-orc grinned and raised his sword to strike again.

Gokasillion's white glow presaged Elrohir's form flying through the doorway and slamming into Cygnus, taking both of them down to the floor, right at Talass' heels. The half-orc's sword thrust and his companion's mace swing both met only empty air. Argo was next, Harve already in motion as the ranger moved between the two half-orcs. The red glow from the sword's blade was somewhat dimmed by the red blood of the now-dying sword wielder, who slowly toppled to the floor. The rest of the party moved towards the doorway, but now it was Argo who was blocking their entrance, and Caroline didn't trust herself to try and shove her husband out of the way without further endangering them both.

Now in the rear, Nesco Cynewine spun around. About twenty feet past the intersection behind them, a door in the hallway opened and orcs began to pour into the corridor. The first one looked straight at Nesco, then clutched his throat, vainly pulling at the arrow that had suddenly appeared in it. He collapsed, but another orc stepped right over him, raised a crossbow at the ranger, and fired back.

"Look out!" yelled Nesco, ducking while simultaneously drawing another arrow from her quiver. The bolt whizzed by her and Zantac before bouncing off Aslan's plate mail.

In the meantime, the two halberd wielding half-orcs attacked. One slashed at Talass, scoring a glancing blow, while the other tried to impale both Elrohir and Cygnus to the floor, but could not penetrate the ranger's plate mail. The half-orc grunted with exertion as he leaned on his weapon, trying to puncture Elrohir's plate mail with brute strength.

It was hard to say who had the more frightening snarl on their face- Talass or her attacker. The priestess of Forseti dodged inside the halberd's reach, grasped her war hammer with both hands and swung upwards, catching the half-orc full on the chin, flipping his head backwards with a dreadful _snap_. He collapsed to the ground as Cygnus struggled under Elrohir's frame.

"Let me up, dammit!" the mage yelled.

"Shut up and keep your head down!" was the response.

The half-orc with the mace swung at Argo again, but scored only a glancing hit. Argo moved around his attacker so his friends could enter the room. He dodged another swing and then thrust home, his own strike fatally accurate.

"So, Bigfellow," Harve mused as the half-orc slid off him to the floor. "Do you need any more witty banter, or do you have things under control here?"

Argo shrugged. "It's okay, Harve. I think he got your point."

"I swear, I can feel myself corroding from your bad-" Argo resheathed the sword, cutting the voice off.

Caroline ran into the room, ducked under the remaining half-orc's halberd thrust, and with a mighty swing, sent his head flying. One of the three horses present neighed in protest as the head bounced off its hindquarters.

Tojo moved into the room, searching for other opponents who might be in hiding. Near the doorway where they came in, a ladder led upwards to the hayloft.

A voice came from up there.

Caroline couldn't understand the words, but she knew the language. It was Nipponese.

Everyone below stared upwards. A Kara-Turan stood among the hay bales and grain sacks above. He was dressed in robes similar to Tojo's, and he held a katana in his hands, pointed right at Tojo. He seemed maybe twenty, and somewhat smaller than Tojo by a few inches. His face held a smirk that Caroline was sure Tojo's face never had. He spoke again, the words spitting from his lips at the samurai.

The others looked at the samurai, who was still covered in drying blood, and flinched.

Tojo was literally trembling with rage, his eyes locked upon the figure above.

Aslan and Zantac continued to move towards the stable entrance. "Nesco! Fall back!" Aslan yelled.

Nesco nocked another arrow and fired while moving backwards. The shaft sped right to its target, and the crossbow-wielding orc dropped like a stone. Two others appeared in the hallway, though. They did not fire, but advanced to the intersection in a crouch in preparation of spreading out. Two additional orcs, wielding swords, crouched behind them for cover.

Just as Cygnus and Elrohir clambered to their feet, Tojo let out a chilling scream and rushed to the ladder, pulling his katana with lightning speed en route. The others moved to stop him, but he whirled around, his right foot already on the first rung. His face was red with anger, a rare and frightening sight.

"Stay back!"

He climbed the ladder as the Kara-Turan smiled and stepped back into the shadows of the hayloft.

"Him and his damn code of honor!" Talass said, looking up in frustration as the samurai vanished from sight up above. "He'll get himself killed!"

Elrohir nodded, feeling helpless. "I know, but what can we do? You know how Tojo is, dearest. If we try to interfere, he might lash out at us."

Talass did not reply. She merely bit her lip and continued looking up.

Without a word, Argo drew his bow, fitted an arrow and pointed it upwards. "If I see that guy again, I'm taking a shot," he said quietly. "If Tojo wants to hack me up for it..." The ranger grimaced and looked at the others. "He can try."

Caroline hesitated a moment, then drew her longbow and did likewise. Elrohir and Aslan followed suit, but theirs were trained down the corridor as they took up positions on either side of the doorway. Nesco backed up into the room as Zantac and Cygnus moved out of the line of fire.

The sounds of combat could be heard from above.

Two crossbow bolts flew into the room, both narrowly missing Nesco, who crouched down and returned fire, as did Elrohir and Aslan. A strangled gasp from outside indicated at least one casualty.

Amid a cloud of flying hay, Tojo reappeared above. He was grappling with someone- but it wasn't the Kara-Turan.

It was a boy, maybe twelve years of age. He was dressed in rags, and held Tojo's shorter sword, the wakazashi, in his right hand. He was attempting to stab the samurai with it, but Tojo held the child in a headlock with his left arm, while he clenched his katana in his right hand. The youth turned frightened eyes, partially hidden by curly blond hair, down below on the others.

"Help me," he gasped, his voice all but choked off by Tojo's grip. The samurai was not holding back, and seemed determined to choke the boy to death.

"He's... gone mad! He... killed my friend! Please... stop him... help me." The hand holding the wakazashi waved feebly. "Help..."

All those below locked eyes. A decision seemed impossible.

_"Tojo! Stop!"_

That was Caroline.

Tojo's response was to bend down, and flip the youth over his shoulder, out into space. Argo and Caroline dove out of the way as the boy landed flat on his back.

Tojo had already leapt off the hayloft. His katana was pointed downwards as the samurai descended with a piercing battle cry.

The boy thrust the short sword upwards, but Tojo landed on his feet next to him and thrust his katana into the child's heart, then resheathed his sword.

_"NO!"_ was torn out of several throats as people started to rush forward, but another crossbow bolt zipped through the room, just missing Argo. The paladin and the other two rangers fired back. The body of a charging, sword wielding orc rolled into the room and lay still.

Talass dropped to her knees beside the boy and pulled out her holy symbol.

"Tarass-san!"

The cleric glanced up at the samurai, venom in her eyes. "How could you-"

"Rook at boy." The samurai was breathing in deep gasps, but his voice was now calm.

Talass, along with the others, looked at the youth and gasped. His body was changing.

As they stared, he began to grow to an adult height. His clothes melded back into his skin, which took on a mottled, translucent quality. The head expanded, with large, octopoid eyes staring sightlessly. All hair disappeared. Soon, a completely alien creature lay dead before them.

Talass slowly got up, looking first at Tojo, and then at the others.

Argo nodded slowly, letting out a deep breath. "Doppelganger."

Aslan, Nesco and Elrohir fired once more, and the cries of orcs went silent. They reslung their bows over their shoulders and joined the others.

Everyone was silent for a minute. Then Aslan spoke up.

"I'm healing everyone, and I don't want to hear any objections."

There were none. Aslan saved Tojo for last. He kept his hand clasped around Tojo's right arm even after he was finished.

Tojo eyed Aslan, his eyes narrowing.

The paladin leaned in close. "He played you like a lute, Tojo."

The samurai said nothing.

Aslan wasn't done. "He used telepathy to find out what would set you off, and you walked right into it! I don't care what it was he said, he lured you out of sight, knowing you wouldn't let the rest of us follow! If he had killed you, we might never have suspected a thing until it was too late!"

Tojo was quiet.

Aslan tightened his grip on the samurai's right arm and shook it.

Tojo's mouth was a thin line. The color was starting to rise in his face again.

"Don't you see?" the paladin continued. "This wasn't a real insult to your honor, Tojo! It was a trick! A ruse!"

Tojo tore his arm free from Aslan's grasp. "Not matter," he said softly.

"Oh, really?" Aslan countered, his features ablaze. "You think about how much we all care about you, Tojo, and how little you must care about us to throw your life away so recklessly!"

Eyes widened. Lungs inhaled sharply.

Tojo's body, in spite of itself, was tensing itself up for combat again. Aslan saw it, then returned his gaze to meet Tojo's. "Do you really want to die that badly, Tojo?" the paladin asked, his voice now more sad than angry. "Is life really _that_ painful to you?"

The samurai's hand, slowly moving towards the hilt of his katana, stopped. He sighed deeply, his violet eyes still locked on Aslan's. "We awe die someday, Asran. To die in defense of honor..." Tojo shook his head, seemingly unable to get his point across. "Cannot choose day of death, onry manner. Since must die, this... best way to die." The samurai leaned in closer to Aslan. They were nearly nose-to-nose now. "If you cannot understand; if you think I put you in danger, you... you ret me know." He looked around at everyone else. "Now."

No one looked away. As much as they wanted to, no one did. Caroline thought his eyes lingered on her for just a moment longer.

Tojo turned his gaze back to Aslan, who stepped back and bowed to the samurai as deeply as his plate mail would permit. "We are honored to be in your company, Yanigasawa Tojo." A slight smile flitted across the paladin's face. "We wish this relationship... to be a very long one."

There was a long pause. Tojo's smile showed in his eyes more than his mouth. He returned the bow. "I serve gradry, with honor." He looked around at his companions, and for just a moment, an almost helpless look appeared on his face. "It onry way I know."

There was a general relaxation all around. Elrohir, Aslan and Cygnus, in particular, knew that was as close to an apology as they were ever going to get out of the samurai, and it was more than enough for them. Nesco moved over to the double doors on the far end of the stable, and checked the bar that was holding them shut.

"Seems sturdy enough, but we should get out of here. I still can't believe hundreds of humanoids aren't flooding through these corridors already. We have to find the temple proper."

The others nodded. Slowly, everyone went back up the corridor...

The orc's bloody face was twisted with rage as he attacked again with his double-headed axe. Despite the weapon's size, he wielded it adroitly, the blades sweeping by in a deadly arc. Elrohir bounced the blow off his shield, but the axe continued on its path. Argo dodged, but the blade cut a shallow gash across Aslan's breastplate before moving on. Tojo avoided the attack with ease, and Nesco caught the end of it on her shield.

He may have been the last orc left standing, and certainly doomed facing five fighters surrounding him, but he wasn't going down without a fight.

"Worthless human!" He snarled at Argo in orcish. Five of you cannot beat me? You are not fit to stomp under my boots!"

"Your words hurt me, orc" replied the ranger as he swung Harve again. Which is just as well, because your fighting skills can't do it."

The orc parried both Harve and Gokasillion with the shaft of his double axe, but the other three swords struck telling blows. It was clear that the humanoid was now mortally wounded, but he still fought on.

"What did he say, Argo?" yelled Aslan.

A wide smile blossomed on Bigfellow's face as he waited for his next opening. "He said he's in love with you Aslan, and wants to be your mate. I asked him what date we could get the temple for your wedding!"

The paladin would have closed his eyes in frustration if the tactical situation had allowed it. He settled for shaking his head. "I have _got_ to learn orcish for myself," he muttered.

"Arways good to increase knowredge, Asran-san," came the voice of Tojo from his right.

Aslan could only spare a sideways glance, but the samurai's face was as inscrutable as ever.

"Sorry, but it's time to kill this romance!" shouted Nesco. The double axe's arc started on her end this time, but as soon as she had twisted out of its path, her sword found the orc's heart. With a last growl that quickly turned into a death gurgle, the orc collapsed, blood spewing from both chest and mouth.

"You know," said Elrohir, wiping the blood off his blade, "I'm really starting to get tired of orcs."

"Bring 'em on," Nesco got out between deep breaths. "Too many orc corpses is never enough."

Argo raised an eyebrow. "I take it you've been fighting them for a long time," he put in. "In the Vesve?"

His fellow ranger nodded, a modest grin on her face now. "Killed my first on my sixteenth birthday."

Bigfellow looked impressed. "Wow. All I got from my father was a pair of new gloves." He smiled at her, then moved off to check on his wife, who had sat out this last battle due to new wounds suffered in the combat immediately preceding this one.

After being healed again by Aslan, Talass and Caroline stretched out their muscles. Both looked tired and dirty, a perfect compliment to the rest of the party. Zantac sidled up to the paladin.

"How much of that juice do you have left?" the mage asked quietly.

Aslan frowned at him. "It's not like I have a scale in my head counting it off, Zantac," he said tersely, then softened his voice a little. "If I don't have to _teleport_ again, we should be okay until nightfall."

"Assuming we can find a safe place to hole up," Zantac added sourly.

Aslan sighed. "Assuming." He turned his attention back to their surroundings.

The party was currently in the main courtyard of the temple. It was littered with the dead bodies of at least eight orcs or half-orcs. They had reached this area by backtracking from the stables to the cemetery, and then taking the second door they had found there. Ahead of them, the main double doors of the temple itself lay at the end of a 10' wide, 30' long corridor. The paladin's eyes met Elrohir's.

"Ready?" he asked with a tired grin. The party leader nodded slowly, too exhausted to even return the smile. He turned to address the others.

"Back in formation, people. Let's hope this is it."

With no little grumbling, everyone moved into their pre-assigned positions. Elrohir and Aslan held the front rank, with Argo and Caroline behind. Talass held the third rank by herself, followed by Cygnus and Zantac. Nesco and Tojo took the rear.

"It?" queried Cygnus. "What exactly is it, Elrohir? What are we looking for? This so-called Slave Lord? Someone to rescue? A safe place to camp? What?"

Elrohir tried to control his temper as he turned around. "How about a secret escape route, Cygnus? I've heard certain Suloise temples often have them. Would that make you happy?"

The wizard folded his arms across his chest. "Anything that would help us survive this would make me happy, Elrohir."

The ranger sighed. "I know, Cygnus. I promise you, I'll do my best. It's always been enough in the past, right?'

A shadow of a smile flitted across the magic-user's face. "Let's not break tradition now, okay?"

Elrohir nodded, returning the momentary grin. "Works for me..."

The sides of the short corridor held alcoves. In each one was a statue, alternating orcs and gargoyles.

"Lovely," Caroline grimaced.

Elrohir and Aslan stopped at the large double doors, then placed their shoulders against them. Elrohir closed his eyes as he prepared to shove forward on Aslan's signal.

_Something tells me this is going to hurt_, he thought.

He was only partially right.

When Aslan said, "Now!" and the two men pushed, three things happened simultaneously.

The doors swung open with surprisingly little resistance.

The two gargoyle statues closest to the doors suddenly flew inwards, hurled by an unseen force. Caroline managed to dodge hers, but the other one slammed into Argo's left shoulder. Neither Aslan nor Elrohir heard Argo's cry of pain. Nor did Argo, or anyone else for that matter.

The third thing that happened was that complete and utter silence descended upon the party, from the second rank onwards.

As the two front-line fighters entered the room, they spread out to allow the rest of their party to enter, not realizing that both Talass and Caroline had stopped to help Argo.

The main chamber of the temple was a large open area, about 50' square, lit by braziers spaced around the perimeter. Directly across from them stood a twenty foot-tall statue of Gruumsh, the orcish god holding a spear in both hands, pointing downward. About ten feet in front of the statue stood three half-orcs, all clad in chainmail and carrying greatswords. To the left of the statue was a large font.

Ten human slaves were chained to the font. They looked as if they might be yelling to the party for help, but no noise came out of their mouths.

Behind the fighters stood a human woman, perhaps thirty years of age. She was tall, almost six feet, and looked very physically fit. She was clad in plate mail, and carried a flail one hand. She was lazily spinning the spiked ball on its chain, almost like a child playing with a toy. Her other hand held a symbol of six arrows bunched together. She appeared to be chanting, but of course there was no sound to it.

_A priestess of Hextor in a temple of Wee Jas that has been rededicated to Gruumsh_, thought the paladin. _Wonderful. It's nice to see all the evil gods getting along so well. Doesn't bode well for us, though._

Despite their lack of missile weapons, the half-orcs made no move to charge. They were clearly acting as bodyguards for the cleric.

Aslan drew his bow, nocked an arrow and let it fly, aiming at one of the half-orcs, hoping to whittle them down first.

Just before the arrow reached its target, it was violently flung upwards and bounced off the ceiling, then fell to the floor. Elrohir's arrow did likewise.

The two looked at each other just as Argo, his face contorted in pain, appeared between them. Caroline was by his side. Elrohir looked puzzled at what might have happened to Argo, but he motioned the two of them forward, indicating his bow and shaking his head. The Bigfellows continued to advance, but they only made it another five feet or so before Caroline Bigfellow suddenly froze up. She looked completely paralyzed.

Aslan glanced over to the priestess of Hextor. She continued to chant silently, but a grim smile was on her face now.

Elrohir made a quick motion for everyone else to move forward, then began to advance. Aslan followed suit.

Talass was right behind them, but then she too froze up, unable to move. Nesco and Tojo moved around her and continued to advance.

Soon, the five fighters were out of the silence field. Sounds immediately flooded in upon their ears. The chanting of the cleric. The shouts (too many to be decipherable) of the slaves, the sound of a roaring wind ahead.

There was no sign of Cygnus or Zantac. Elrohir could only hope that the two wizards had backed out of the spell's radius to plan their strategy. He also hoped they were quick planners.

When the quintet reached a distance of about ten feet from the cleric, she turned her eyes upon Elrohir and yelled out, "DROP!"

"You've got to be kidding-" Elrohir began, then stared in slack-jawed surprise as his hands opened, sending both sword and shield clattering to the floor. In the meantime, the other four had engaged the half-orcs in battle, passing through a thin but powerful wall of wind to do so. Nesco was trying to sidle around the fighter on the right to attack the priestess, but the half-orc did not seem inclined to allow that, even at the risk of leaving himself open to Tojo's attacks.

The priestess was moving fast, Nesco thought. Her movements were fluid, with no wasted motions. She gestured, and suddenly, what looked like a flail composed of shimmering energy appeared in the air between the two women. Suddenly, it moved to attack the ranger, who was barely able to catch the blow on her shield.

Cursing, Elrohir retrieved his sword and shield.

Aslan and his half-orc traded blows, as did Argo and his advesary. Like their last opponent, these opponents were no mere fodder. They handled their weapons with some degree of skill.

Nesco swung at the cleric, but she parried the blow with her own flail. The half-orc next to her feinted, and undercut her shield, cutting into her armor deep enough to draw blood. It was a long cut, but not deep. Grimacing in pain, Nesco got some satisfaction as she watched Tojo's katana deliver a somewhat more severe wound to that same half-orc. He stayed upright and in the fight, however.

Both flails, physical and energy, came at Nesco. She was able to dodge the former, but the latter slammed into the side of her helm. Stars exploded in front of the ranger's eyes, and a dull roar resonated in her ears. She could feel warm blood trickling down the right side of her face. The pain was so intense, she didn't even notice Elrohir appearing at her right side and stabbing at the cleric with Gokasillion. The blade seemed to turn aside at the last moment, just short of landing an effective blow. The priestess barked a short laugh.

Aslan and Argo were wearing down their attackers, giving better than they were getting, but it was an ardous battle of attrition.

Nesco again jabbed at the cleric, but could do no better than a glancing blow. At least her half-orc had now turned his attention back to Tojo. He and the samurai traded vicious-looking wounds from their weapons.

Suddenly, four short white streaks of energy slammed into the priestess' upper body and face. She shrieked and staggered back a step.

Those who could afford to do so glanced back at the entranceway. Standing about five feet back from it were Cygnus and Zantac.

"I think _silence_ is an overrated spell, good lady. How about you!"

She snarled at Cygnus' shouted jibe, but still said nothing. The cleric of Hextor stepped forward again and turned her attention back to Nesco and Elrohir, swinging at the former, while her spiritual weapon attacked Elrohir. Both rangers managed to avoid their incoming flails. Elrohir managed to cut the priestess enough to elicit a yelp of pain from her.

Aslan and Argo continued to wear down their opponents. "Any time now!" came from Harve, but it was unclear whether this was an admonishment to Bigfellow telling him speed things up and finish off his attacker, or a direct command to that same half-orc to just hurry up and die already.

Tojo ducked under his opponent's swing, and delivered a deep slash with his katana. The half-orc managed to stay up, but both he and the samurai knew their battle was about over.

Nesco, about to swing at the cleric again, suddenly stopped.

The slaves had been yelling non-stop since the battle had begun. Their cries of "Save us!", "Look out!", and so forth had not registered as anything more than the obvious, but just now, she thought she had heard something else. Something that sounded an awful lot like...

"He's sneaking up on you!"

There it was again!

Nesco whirled. The slaves were pointing back towards the entranceway.

Moving slowly but silently along the far wall was another half-orc, clad in leather armor and carrying a short sword. Cygnus and Zantac had moved up to take opposite positions by open doors, but had not gone beyond them. The stealthy half-orc was only about fifteen feet away from Cygnus, who was oblivious to his presence.

Nesco debated stepping back and drawing her bow, but as it turned out, she didn't have to.

Caroline Bigfellow had not been able to speak or move, but she had seen the assassin from the beginning, even though he was now out of her line of vision. Suddenly, movement returned to her limbs. She was drawing her bow and readying the arrow even as she pivoted. The shaft flew right into the half-orc's side, and he cried out in pain. Cygnus peered around the entranceway, his eyes growing wide at what he saw. It lasted only a moment though, and then the mage pointed at his would-be killer and spoke an arcane phrase.

With a loud clap of thunder, a _lightning bolt_ arced from the wizard's fingertips and struck the half-orc. He made an admirable efort to dodge, but it was in vain. His body became illuminated, and then it crumpled to the floor. The faint scent of incense in the room did little to hide the stench of burnt flesh.

Zantac, seeing as his aid was not needed in this matter, shrugged, took a quick peek around his corner to make sure there was no one sneaking up from the other direction, then let loose with more _magic missiles_ at the priestess of Hextor. She was now looking neither healthy, nor happy. This time, Nesco's blade struck true, and the cleric staggered back again, this time clutching her stomach in agony. She roared with rage however, and came back again, swinging at Nesco while the energy flail attacked Elrohir. Neither attack was effectual.

Aslan's half-orc took a sword thrust in the gut, while Argo ran Harve into the side of his opponent's neck. Amazingly, both of them remained on their feet. Tojo's half-orc however, went down from a final strike from the samurai.

Caroline moved up, reslinging her bow and drawing her sword. Talass also found her muscles responding at this point, and moved towards Elrohir, intending to attack the cleric from behind.

With a final scream, the priestess focussed both attacks on Elrohir. Both hit, and the ranger nearly doubled over from the pain, but still managed to stab upwards with Gokasillion. The strike again glanced off the cleric's plate mail.

Aslan and Argo both delivered the killing blow to their adversaries.

Caroline moved behind the cleric from the left as Talass did so from the right. Nesco and Tojo attacked from the front.

They would debate for some time afterwards exactly who had struck the mortal blow, but judging from the grisly results, there was a unanimous consensus that it was a clear case of overkill...

The slaves had been released from their chains. Although it was clear that none of them were warriors, they were given weapons from their defeated foes. Aslan healed some of the slaves' injuries, and then some, but not all, of his party's wounds. He said nothing, but it was understood that his psionic strength was running low.

According to the slaves, a trap door in the floor directly beneath the statue's legs to the lower level, where they said the slave pens lay. These slaves themselves had not been down there personally, having been sold to the cleric shortly after their arrival in Highport about a week prior. They did warn the party however, that down below, in addition to the slavers, dwelt the terrible aspis.

"The what?" asked Elrohir.

"The insect men," one of the slaves, a middle-aged man, said quietly.

Elrohir looked at his party members. "Aspis. That ring a bell with any of you?"

Everyone shook their heads. "We probably have information on them in our Guild Library," Zantac offered with a weak smile.

"I don't suppose they deliver?" asked Cygnus wryly. Zantac, embarrassed, could only shrug.

"Let's assume they're ugly, merciless in combat and will try to kill us on sight," put in Argo. The ranger looked around at his friends. "That pretty much fits our generic enemy profile anyway, right?"

Aslan looked grim. "Needlessly flippant as usual Argo, but probably correct." The paladin glanced over at the slaves. "Taking them down there is going to be a tactical nightmare."

"That's why we're not going to do it."

Everyone looked at their team leader. Elrohir took a deep breath and continued.

"Aslan. You, Nesco and I are going below. The rest of you are to stay up here and try to reinforce all the entrances. If we find another way out of here or a safe place to camp out, we'll come back for you. If they start breaking through, come on down, but not until then. Everyone got that?"

They all slowly nodded. Elrohir got down on one knee by the trap door. The ranger glanced straight up. He was directly beneath the point of Gruumsh's spear. He then gazed over at Talass. She was looking back at him, an uncommon look of worry in her eyes.

Elrohir wiped his brow and looked at his hand. Dust, sweat and a little blood were smeared on his gauntlet. He again looked at his wife. "Dearest, I'd like to take this opportunity to officially apologize to you. I don't think we could have avoided this, and I don't think we can ever go back to the way things were before, but you were right. I'd forgotten what a nasty business this can be."

The ranger paused. "I think there's something you should tell the others." Elrohir then glanced over at Zantac, who flipped the catch in the statue's left foot that one of the slaves had told them about, deactivating the spear trap. He then grasped the trap door's pull-ring and opened the door.

As the others began to descend, Talass wearily sat down by the font. The others gathered around her.

"I had a dream," she began.


	49. Aslan The Ogre

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

"You know, there's just one thing I can't understand!" Elrohir shouted out over the sounds of combat.

Aslan, similarly engaged, managed to yell back, "And what is that, Elrohir?"

The ranger ducked under one sword swing and caught another one on his shield. "Orcs are violent, chaotic creatures by nature!"

The paladin parried one sword swing, but grunted as another one cut yet another gash in his plate mail. "So?" He yelled, not feeling in a very conversational mood at the moment.

"So how in the Nine Hells did they ever manage to make an alliance with _these things?" _Elrohir shouted back.

The two swords assailing him were both being wielded by a single being, an aspis. The drone continued to press the attack relentlessly.

"Insect men" seemed, in hindsight, a rather weak description for these beings. They looked like nothing so much as 6' tall boll weevils, each with a long proboscis and compound eyes. Their black exoskeletons seemed as least as hard as plate mail, and each one carried two longswords and two wooden shields, all of apparently orcish make. They made constant chittering and clacking noises as they attacked.

Elrohir glanced over to his left, where Nesco was battling her own aspis drone. She looked over at him and grimaced.

"I think we're going to have to call that one of the Great Unanswerable Questions, Elrohir!" his fellow ranger shouted.

He didn't answer. The drones were pushing all three humans hard now, and there was no more room for idle chatter. This was especially true for Aslan and Nesco, who bore lit torches in their left hands instead of their shields, there being no ambient light down here.

_We need a tactical advantage_, Elrohir thought. _And we need one soon._ He took in another scan of the chamber, hoping to see something he had overlooked before.

They were standing just inside the only entrance of a circular chamber carved out of the earth, about twenty feet in diameter. The three fighters had been dismayed after descending the ladder below the trap door to quickly find themselves in slowly flowing sewage that ranged anywhere from three to five feet deep. After a short encounter with some aspis larvae (which had been more annoying than dangerous), they had noticed four exits rising up out of the sewage. One was a brick and stone passage, the other three being dirt tunnels, only about four feet high. If Elrohir had not noticed what he thought were relatively fresh orc tracks leading into one of the dirt tunnels, they would of course have taken the larger exit.

_Guess that makes this my fault_, the ranger thought somberly. _I literally got us into this._

The unnaturally pale-skinned, naked orc corpse lying by the far wall (which they saw as soon as they entered) was Elrohir's first clue that his tracking skills might not have been quite as infallible as he would have guessed. The second clue was the three drones present (whose tracks he had somehow missed), which attacked on sight, just as Argo had predicted they would.

Elrohir saw nothing that could help them. The orc corpse seemed to indicate that even their erstwhile allies were not immune to the aspis' wrath. It lay stretched out on the packed earthen floor among the white ovoids.

The ranger's eyes narrowed.

There were about twenty of them, about a foot long or so. If they hadn't just seen in the previous room what an aspis larvae looked like, Elrohir would have been at a complete loss as to what the ovoids might be. Now, he had an idea.

In fact, he had more than one idea.

"Aslan! Nesco!" he shouted. "Follow my lead!"

The ranger began to move around his opponent, all the while fighting defensively. The aspis, of course, turned to face him as they battled. His two compatriots did as he did, although they were clearly puzzled. As the drones continued to bear down on them, all three of them were now slowly backing further into the chamber.

"Care to share your strategy with us, Elrohir?" the paladin called out as he managed to puncture his attacker's exoskeleton with his sword. A little dark, viscous fluid came out, but there was no other appreciable effect.

Elrohir shook his head. "They may not be able to speak Common, Aslan, but I'm not so sure they can't understand it! Just stay with me!"

Grimacing, the other two followed suit, backing up slowly. Soon, all three were standing near the white ovoids. If anything, the drones were attacking more fiercely than ever.

Elrohir shot a quick glance with what he hoped was a confident smile at Nesco, and then over at Aslan. "You ever use a child as a shield before in a battle, Aslan?" he asked loudly.

The paladin was taken aback. "What? Of course not, Elrohir!"

A passion flew up in the ranger's deep blue eyes as a fierce smile appeared on his face.

_"Then let me show you how it's done!"_ he yelled. With that, Elrohir bent down, dropped his shield and scooped one of the white ovoids in his left hand. As he had guessed, this was an aspis egg. He now wielded it as he would a shield.

His drone seemed shaken. It continued to attack with its swords, but they were more tentative ventures now. It was clearly unwilling to risk harm to the egg. Seeing this, Elrohir's two allies quickly followed suit.

The change was not dramatic, but it was enough. The humans were now hitting more than before, and being hit less in return. Soon, Aslan's drone went down as a mighty downstrike from the paladin almost cleaved it in two lengthwise. Rather than directly attacking one of the other drones, Aslan scooped up another egg, and then tossed both of them at the drone battling Nesco.

The creature dropped both shields and actually caught both of the eggs, in an admirable display of dexterity. However, it paid for that a split-second later as Nesco's sword lopped off its head. The torso turned around and staggered a few paces back towards the chamber entrance before collapsing. With both Aslan and Nesco assisting, Elrohir's opponent was soon dispatched.

More chittering sounds from down the tunnel alerted the trio. When two more aspis drones entered, they were confronted by a veritable wall of eggs moving at them. It took just under a minute for the reinforcements to share the fate of their fellow drones.

Aslan glanced over at his friends. They were not looking at all well. This victory had not come without further cost. Elrohir, once again trying to clean his sword, jerked around as he felt the touch of Aslan's hand on his shoulder.

"Aslan- don't! We might need that even more, later on."

The paladin shook his head. "This is courtesy of Aslan the Paladin, not Aslan the Psionic. I'm sorry, I wish it could be more, but you're right. I am trying to conserve what little I've got left." He then moved over to Nesco and repeated the process. They were both still wounded afterwards, but that would just have to do for now.

Nesco eyed him curiously. "What about you, Aslan? Aren't you going to lay hands on yourself?"

Aslan only gave the ranger his own version of Argo's famous smile. Nesco's face grew stormy.

"If I had known you were going to use the last of it on me, I never would have let you do it! Why didn't you tell me?"

The paladin shrugged helplessly as he began picking up the ten or so aspis eggs that were still intact. "Well Nesco, if you're going to ask and answer your own questions..."

Nesco Cynewine looked down. Like her companions, she was currently standing in about two feet of sewage. That in itself didn't bother her all that much. Fighting orcs as often as she did, she felt that this particular scent wasn't that much more to contend with.

What did bother her were the small but distinct traces of blood.

It was coming from all the scrapes, scratches and cuts on their lower legs. It moved slowly ahead of them, mixing into the lazy current. Many creatures wouldn't notice it, the ranger knew.

Others might.

Nesco was standing in the 10' wide tunnel with Aslan on her left. Elrohir was covering the rear. The male ranger had his bow out, and was constantly scanning the direction they had just come from, wary of a possible attack.

Just a few minutes prior, the trio had entered another chamber with two more aspis drones. What made the ensuing combat more than the cakewalk they had planned however, were the five giant ants that the aspis apparently liked to keep on hand. These giant vermin (each one the size of Dudraug, Elrohir noted with some amazement) cared not a whit for the aspis eggs the party held, although it was cruelly amusing to watch the drones suffer what seemed to be fits of some kind every time one of their ant allies inadvertently snapped an egg in two with their pincers while trying to attack the humans. In the end though, the fighters had triumphed with only minor additional injuries, although all the aspis eggs had been destroyed. They were now only moving through entrances that were clearly designed for use by humans or humanoids.

The large sewer tunnel they had been following had split into three smaller tunnels. They had taken the middle one for no particular reason, and now found themselves here, about twenty feet from where this tunnel bore sharply to the left.

Cynewine stopped.

After a moment, her compatriots did, as well. They looked at her curiously. "I thought I heard voices coming from up ahead," she said softly, then fell into silence.

The others listened, but couldn't hear anything conclusive. "Are you sure, Nesco?" Elrohir asked. His fellow ranger did not reply.

Nesco seemed to be lost in thought. It lasted only a few moments though, and then her green eyes snapped back into focus. She sheathed her sword and handed her torch to Aslan. "Here."

The paladin furrowed his brow. "What are you going to do?"

Nesco eyed him with a stern expression as she took off her helm and handed it to a perplexed Elrohir. "We need to look at this situation from another angle."

"Er, Nesco-" Elrohir began, then broke off in astonishment as Nesco got down on her hands and knees in the filthy water, and then on her belly. The dark, slimy water closed over the ranger as she flattened herself out as much as possible on the floor. Only part of her head occasionally surfaced when she needed to breathe.

Slowly, she began to inch her way forward, towards the bend in the tunnel. Elrohir and Aslan stayed put, watching.

It only took perhaps half a minute for the ranger to reach the turn, but it seemed an eternity to Nesco's friends, and twice that for the ranger herself. Elrohir and Aslan held their breaths, perhaps in sympathy, as they watched Nesco raise her head just enough to peer down the tunnel. She stayed there for perhaps another thirty seconds, and then slowly began to back up. Once out of sight, she slowly stood up and made her way back to the others.

Nesco looked bad, and smelled worse. Unidentified slime clung to her hands and face, and her brown hair was black and greasy, plastered against her cheeks. She paid no attention to any of this however, as she retrieved her items from the others. "I was right," she said, looking dejected.

"Voices?" asked Elrohir. "Orcs, humans, or both?"

"The tunnel goes about thirty feet before a short but steep flight of steps leads up out of it," Cynewine reported. "I saw four orcs milling about on the steps. At least two had crossbows."

"That doesn't sound too bad," Aslan assessed.

Nesco gave him a mirthless smile. "They had an ogre with them."

"Getting worse," Elrohir added.

Nesco sighed and looked at each of her companions in turn. "I could see the head of at least one more ogre behind them. There's some kind of large chamber there, a guard outpost, maybe. And I heard more orcs than I saw. Lots more. A dozen, maybe more."

The paladin sighed deeply and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Elrohir was looking right at him.

"Too many for us to take, huh?" the ranger asked, in a tone that suggested he knew the answer already.

Aslan nodded wearily in response. "Right now, I'd say yes."

"Maybe not," Nesco said quietly. "I couldn't make out the exact words, but the orcs and ogre were speaking to each other in Common."

Elrohir looked confused. "Is that relevant?"

She nodded back at him. "It might make all the difference in the world, Elrohir."

The other two fighters regarded their companion. "You holding back some kind of secret weapon, Nesco?" Aslan asked with a weak grin. "Now's the time to use it."

Nesco took a few steps towards the paladin. She was face to face with him now. Aslan's nose wrinkled, but he tried not to react out of courtesy.

Her voice was still low. "That depends on you, Aslan."

Aslan's face assumed a stony expression.

Nesco continued. "How low are you willing to go?"

The paladin seemed to be wrestling with an internal debate even as he regarded the ranger. "I hope it's a good plan you've got, Nesco."

Now it was Nesco's turn to smile again. This time, there was just a trace of genuine humor in it.

"Well, you know what they say, Aslan," she told him. "I may have the brains, but you've got the Talent..."

Glarg swung his head around at the noise.

The ogre's black, beady eyes peered out from underneath enormous brows. He knew the four orcs with him were also looking down the sewage tunnel. Like him, they could hear the splashing sounds of someone approaching. Glarg didn't care about the orcs with him, however. If there any was real trouble, only he, Glarg, could handle it. If there were a reward to made here, Glarg would get it. Dimly, he also knew if someone messed up, he, Glarg, would get the bulk of the blame. He held his spear in his right hand, ready to throw, but Glarg was already thinking of how he could make himself look good in Arrn's eyes when he heard a loud voice bellow from around the corner.

"YOU ALL DEAF?"

As Glarg and the others blinked in surprise, another ogre came stomping around the bend in the tunnel. Like Glarg, he was dressed in poorly cured hides. He carried no weapons, but underneath each arm hung a limp figure clad in plate mail. Humans, it looked like to Glarg. A male and a female.

He frowned. There were ogres on the surface, some of whom he didn't know, but there shouldn't be any down here that he didn't know. He tightened his grip on his spear and looked at the four orcs on the steps below him. Their stupid-looking face turned up to look at him. Of course, it was up to Glarg to figure out what to do. It always was.

The new ogre came right up the bottom of the stairs, seemingly oblivious to the weapons pointed at him. He was actually kind of handsome, Glarg thought. Kind of like himself. He decided to take charge, before one of these pigbrains beneath him opened his mouth and ruined everything.

"We hear fine!" Glarg said loudly, brandishing his spear threateningly. "Who you?"

_By the High One, this idea seemed a lot better in the planning stage_, Elrohir thought to himself, struggling to keep his eyes closed and his body limp in Aslan's currently-very-large right hand. This was proving to be a lot harder than he expected. It was incredibly uncomfortable for starters, and secondly the stink from the ogre was overwhelming. Elrohir just wasn't used to all this... talking with orcs, ogres, gnolls and whatnot. He didn't like it. Then again, he thought, he wasn't used to dying either, and he was pretty sure he would like that experience even less, so he concentrated hard on doing nothing and hoped Nesco was doing the same.

"Me Grock!" Aslan replied in an equally loud voice. "I been yelling for you! Why you not hear? I get in big fight down there!" He indicated the direction he had come with a twist of his head. "These humans invade from surface and kill bug men!" If not for me, they be all over you by now!"

Glarg smirked. "You not be very strong Grock, if two puny humans give you so much trouble!"

The orcs under him laughed. One reached out with a hand axe and poked at Nesco's limp form. "They dead?" he asked.

Aslan laughed. "What dead slaves worth?" he asked with a sneer. The orcs appeared to be actually trying to think up an answer for that one, so he cut them off. "Nothing!" he shouted. Why kill humans when me can knock them out and sell them to slavers? Me can make big money off these two!"

The paladin saw the ogre eyeing him now. He didn't like that look.

"You no decide that," Glarg growled at the new arrival. "You give them to Chief Arrn. He take them. Decide what you get, if anything." The ogre puffed out his chest in a show of authority. "I take you to him."

Aslan shrugged. Glarg turned around and headed back into the guard chamber. Carrying his two prisoners, Aslan followed, walking up the short flight of stairs and into a large, dirt-floored chamber. As Nesco had guessed, there were almost two-dozen orcs here, as well as two other ogres. Aslan tried not to meet any of their curious stares, concentrating instead on the wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling overhead.

When he turned his gaze back, Aslan realized that Glarg had stopped. He was explaining the situation to an orc who wore garish robes instead of armor. This orc, who was festooned with what looked like fetishes (a witch doctor, the paladin guessed) of some kind, glared at Aslan with his one eye, and then slowly walked over to him. Sullenly, Glarg followed him.

_Why have we stopped?_ thought both Elrohir and Nesco.

The orc stared hard into Aslan's eyes, as if he were looking for something. Their relative size differences didn't seem to bother him at all.

"You say these two kill bug men?" His voice was low and modulated, rare for an orc. It was unnerving.

"Yes," the paladin mumbled.

"Where?"

Despite himself, Aslan's eyes darted around. _What's he getting at?_ He wondered, and tried a nonchalant ogre shrug. "In bug men tunnels."

There was a brief silence.

"Those tunnels small," the orc witch doctor said. "Entrance to them too small for you."

_Uh, oh,_ thought Nesco. She tensed herself. The ranger was currently hanging with her legs pointing down She knew if Aslan dropped her and Elrohir, that was the signal that their ploy had failed. She hoped she would land on her feet.

_Lie, Aslan,_ Elrohir was praying. _I don't care if you are a paladin. Think up something good, and lie your hairy ogre butt off to him!_

Aslan grimaced. _What would Argo say in a spot like this?_ He wondered, and then chastised himself mentally. _Maybe I'm not the consummate liar Bigfellow is, but you'd be surprised what you can do with the truth._

He glared back at the orc, letting a slight smirk grace his face. "I see humans. Up above, in temple. They go down secret entrance. Me follow."

The witch doctor frowned. "Which secret entrance?" he asked.

"Secret entrance you not know about, it seem," Aslan smiled back.

The orc's one eye stared back, unblinking. After what might have been a short eternity, he turned and pointed at several other orcs, then said something to them in orcish. He began to head back down the stairs Aslan had come from.

_He's going to check on the aspis. Checking out my story_, Aslan thought. _We're not going to have a lot of time to pull this off._

The witch doctor turned around before he disappeared from view. "Glarg!" he called out in Common. "You watch Grock! You watch him close!"

Then he was gone. Glarg glared sourly at Aslan, who stared right back. "How about you watch me while we go to see Chief Arrn?"

Glarg seemed to try to think this over, then decided the mental effort involved wasn't worth the strain. "You follow," he mumbled, heading for a door in the far wall...

They passed through several common rooms, filled mostly with orc females and children. The noise was deafening, but at least these areas were lit by torches on the walls. Humans must come through here fairly regularly, thought Elrohir.

Chief Arrn's room was entered through a large sturdy wooden door, unlocked by one of Arrn's eight orc guards. The two ogres bent low to enter, Aslan banging both of his "prisoners" against the doorframe in the process. He could only silently apologize to them, and hope they understood. His arms burning with pain by now, the paladin looked around the dirt chamber with a tactical eye, thankful that the tumult of the common room outside was barely audible in here.

The walls of the chief's chamber were hung with furs and worn tapestries with crude depictions of elves being tortured by orcs painted upon them. More skins and furs covered the floor. Various personal possessions were strewn here and there haphazardly. Along one wall was a raised platform stretching the length of the room. It was about five feet high and apparently reached via the benches stacked next to it on either end. On the center sat a very large orc. He was clad in bloodstained chainmail and had a large battleaxe strapped to his back. His hair was long and braided. Some braids fell over his face, but bright eyes looked out between the strands, locked first upon Aslan and his cargo, then upon Glarg as the ogre explained the situation to him as he knew it.

An ogre stood on either side of Arrn. Since they stood upon the floor, their heads were just about level with his. With an attitude of superiority, one looked contemptuously at Glarg, and the other at Aslan. Each carried a large spear in one hand, and a giant club in a loop of fabric attached to a belt each one wore. At a gesture from Chief Arrn, one of them dug into a belt pouch and handed several coins to Glarg. The ogre was clearly expecting more, but it was just as clear that Glarg had already outworn his welcome. Mumbling to himself, Glarg left the room. The door was locked behind him by one of the hide-wearing orc bodyguards.

With a not-very-exaggerated sigh, Aslan gently lowered the two humans to the floor in a far corner while looking around. He stretched his arms out while looking at the other ogres and orcs. "Very impressive, Mighty Chief Arrn!" he said, very loudly. "Two ogres and eight mighty orc warriors serving you? They say on the surface that you are the true power here in the Undercity! Indeed, it must be true!"

Elrohir sighed to himself, while still keeping his eyes shut. _Two ogres and nine orcs? That's not much better than what we were originally facing! I have a feeling we're not getting any further than this room without violence, though._

Chief Arrn eyed Aslan with an expression completely devoid of any positive emotion. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice raspy and rough.

Aslan walked over to Arrn, so he stood almost eye-to-eye with the chief. "Me Grock. Me beat these two humans me find fighting bug men. Want to sell to slavers."

The orc's eyes flickered over to the two humans lying in a heap on the floor, then said something in orcish to his minions. Four of them began moving towards the duo.

"You search them well!" Aslan called out again, ignoring Arrn's eyes raking him over.

_Here it comes,_ Elrohir and Nesco thought.

"They maybe have magic items", Aslan said. "Who knows what you find on them?"

He waited until the orcs were bending over his friends.

"Surprise time," he whispered, then grabbed the club out of the belt of the ogre next to him and swung it up and over his head directly at the head of Chief Arrn. Moving a lot faster than the paladin hoped he would, the orc chief exploded into action, rolling away to the right while getting his weapon out, but the club still caught him on his left hip, and there was a satisfying crack on impact. The ogre in front of Aslan actually hurled the weapon at Aslan, but the paladin managed to spin out of the weapon's path, and he heard the cry of the ogre behind him as it was hit.

Two orcs were impaled as they were reaching down for the human's swords. The others drew their weapons, but Nesco and Elrohir had gained just enough time to rise to their feet before the swords started swinging in earnest.

Fortunately, Arrn's bodyguards were not of the same caliber as some of the orcs they had face previously. That was just as well, thought Aslan. He could use his friends' help as soon as they would be able to offer it. He backed away from the ledge, giving him a few extra seconds before Arrn would be able to attack him, and traded club blows with the ogre who had thrown the spear. The other one was pulling that same spear out of his shoulder, dropping his own spear in the process.

With a bloodcurdling scream, Chief Arrn leapt off the platform, his axe already cutting an arc through the air designed to slice through Aslan's flesh as it came down. The paladin tried to dodge, but this body was much more cumbersome than the one he was used to, and the blade cut deep.

The sound of Aslan's scream cut through the shouts and yells of the rangers' combat. Elrohir and Nesco locked eyes.

"Go!" shouted Cynewine. "I'll take them!"

Elrohir put his shield up and slammed into the orc directly in front of him. The humanoid went down, but one of the remaining other three orcs still standing swung his sword at Elrohir's back as he trampled his opponent. His sword, of poor quality, bounced off the back of Elrohir's plate mail.

Both of the ogres were rushing at Aslan though, and would reach him before Elrohir could. The spear wielding one thrust his bloody-tipped weapon directly at the paladin's chest...

But "Grock" wasn't there any more.

A large fly buzzed around as the spear continued on its path, plunging right into the flesh of its original owner, the other ogre, who roared in pain, his own club swing going wild.

_And I thought WE had lousy team tactics_, thought Elrohir as he swung at Arrn, dealing a fairly substantive blow. The orc appeared not to notice it, however.

Nesco had taken the advantage of the easiest opportunity and finished off the orc Elrohir had overran, but the other three were flanking her now, and two of them hit with their weapons. Fresh blood began to slowly seep through the joints of her plate mail.

Arrn's battleaxe swung again. Elrohir put his shield up, and barely managed to deflect the blow. The unarmed ogre bent to pick up his own spear while the other one swung his club at the ranger, and thankfully missed. Changing tactics, Elrohir feinted at Arrn, then slashed at the club wielder as his missed swing presented the ranger with an unprotected right side. Gokasillion sank deep, and Elrohir was barely able to yank the sword out in time. The ogre was screaming in pain, but still standing.

Nesco cut down another orc. One of the remaining two hit, but it was a small wound compared to the one she had just received. It seemed to Nesco as if the room was starting, very slowly, to spin.

Still seemingly in a berserk rage, Arrn attacked again. Once more, Elrohir was just able to avoid the blow. The ranger didn't know how much he had left in him. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and every single cut, gash and broken bone in his body was simultaneously clamoring for attention. _Maybe I'm the one who Talass said wouldn't be coming back_, he thought. On the other hand, he had no idea where Aslan was now and Nesco looked-

A fresh pain suddenly overrode all the others. A spear tip had penetrated his plate mail and several inches into his flesh. Elrohir gritted his teeth, but his scream managed to trickle out regardless. Tears filled his eyes as he realized he was on his last legs.

With a roar to match Arrn's, Elrohir swung, not at the ogre that had just struck him, but the other one. The club fell from the creature's hand as it doubled over in a vain attempt to keep its intestines inside, and the ogre toppled to the floor, dead.

Nesco was trying to compensate for her increasing dizziness. Despite her handicap, her swing went true, and an orc head went flying. She faced her remaining opponent head on, and parried his swinging flail. Cynewine could see over the orc's shoulder Elrohir (now facing her) battling Arrn and the remaining ogre. Her fellow ranger looked as bad as she felt, and Nesco knew their chances were pretty bleak.

Elrohir had shifted to a purely defensive mode. The ranger was trying to catch his breath, but he just couldn't do it. It hurt too much every time he inhaled. He did manage to avoid Arrn's and the ogre's latest attacks, but he knew he wasn't going to last. He was-

"ELROHIR- NOW!"

_What?_

Aslan, back in his normal form, was standing to his right, in front of the closed door. Blood covered most of the lower half of his body, but the paladin's face was a mask of pure, solid, concentration. Elrohir knew that expression.

"Aslan- don't! Save your-"

Elrohir couldn't see the rippling in the air that flowed outward from the paladin, but the effect was immediate. Both orc and ogre started to run. Past Elrohir.

Arrn ran past and out the archway on the far side of the room. Gokasillion swung low, and the ogre went down, yelling in pain both mental and physical.

Nesco's orc had turned slightly at the sound of his chief's scream, the only time he had ever heard Arrn scream from something other than rage. Facing Nesco Cynewine, that proved to be his last action.

Aslan came limping up. As Elrohir thrust his sword through the last ogre's chest, the paladin grabbed one of the spears from the floor and tossed it to the startled ranger. "Here," he said. "Get over by the side of the entrance..."

Chief Arrn stopped running. He hadn't gone far, no more than ten feet or so past the bend in the tunnel outside his chambers. He had no idea what had made him flee, but he knew it could only be foul human magic. Arrn feared nothing. He pivoted on his heel and headed back, roaring at the top of his lungs.

As he rounded the bend, he could see his servants lying dead on the floor within (one with a glowing sword still sticking out of its chest), but that meant nothing to him. They were easily replaced, but first he would finish off these cowardly-

As the orc barbarian passed the archway, one of the ogre's spears suddenly shot out from the left side, aimed at his neck. Quick of reflex, Arrn flung his head back, but he wasn't quite able to check his entire forward momentum, and his neck collided with the shaft. The spear did not budge, apparently because the tip had been grabbed by another of the humans standing on the other side of the opening. Arrn went down on his back, the wind knocked out of him momentarily. When he opened his eyes, it was just in time to see two sword points descending upon him…

The trio slowly moved down the earthen tunnel. It was unclear who was the worst off between them, but it seemed certain that if any one of them were to stop supporting his or her compatriots, all three would collapse.

They were moving slowly. Foremost because of their wounds, but also Elrohir and Nesco were making some (mostly perfunctory) efforts to hide their blood trail. Unless they came to a place where there were actually multiple paths to follow however, they knew this would be a useless effort.

The aftermath of the battle had, at least, some bright moments. From searching Chief Arrn's room, they had discovered some treasure in the form of gems and coins, and then (more importantly) they had discovered, down the tunnel, the quarters of the witch doctor who, thankfully, had not yet returned. There, they had found seven small vials of liquid; three milky white, three gray, and one black. Desperate, Nesco had quaffed the contents of one of the milky white vials, and had been relieved to discover that it was indeed a healing potion of some kind, although its effects could best be described as "light". Elrohir and Aslan had drunk the other two potions, so at least no one was in immediate danger of death.

At least until they ran into anyone else.

Continuing down the corridor, the three came across a small archway in the right wall covered by a hanging skin. Elrohir frowned as he examined it. It was a poor job of curing the hide, typical of orcs, but what animal it had come from eluded the ranger. It was a tawny color, with short fur that felt like it might be waterproof. Whatever animal it came from had four rather short legs, a wedge-shaped head and a stumpy tail, but was at least seven feet tall, judging by this specimen. He had recalled seeing a similar skin in Chief Arrn's chambers, but that one had only been half this one's size.

Nesco, not apparently sharing her fellow ranger's interest in the fur, lifted it up and looked beyond.

It was a storage closet of some kind. Barely five feet square, a shelf ran along the three walls at about waist height. Various items lay on the shelves in jumbled piles. Pieces of clothing mostly, but there were also some armor pieces, wooden tools, bowls and utensils, baskets, and so forth. Other bric-a-brac lay on the floor underneath the shelf, and a few spears, swords and flails were leaning up against the shelf.

Aslan abruptly moved into the small space and motioned for the others to follow him. Somewhat confused, they did, cramming together cheek-to-jowl to do so.

"Cozy," Nesco said with an embarrassed smile.

"And you thought there'd be no fringe benefits to working with us," Aslan replied with a thin smile as he bent down and began moving the material from underneath the shelf to the space around their feet. "Do as I do."

They did, and suddenly it dawned on Nesco what the paladin had in mind. "We're not going to camp here, are we?" she asked, making a concentrated effort to keep her voice down.

Aslan was already clumsily easing his body into the space beneath the shelf on the right-hand side. With no small misgivings (or discomfort), the other two managed the same. The space available was so small, and their plate mail so bulky, that they were barely able to fit, lying on their right sides. Elrohir thought they all looked like silver fish, arranged for sale in a merchant's cart. He looked on with interest as Aslan, grunting from the exertion, pulled out from his belt pouch the three vials of gray liquid, and handed one each to him and Nesco.

Elrohir took the offered vial, but his attention was fixed on the fur that was all that stood between them and discovery. "If someone checks this place out, Aslan, you know they're going to see us."

His friend eyed him somberly as he uncorked his vial. "Very probably, Elrohir," he replied, looking at the tiny flask, "unless this is what I'm hoping it is." With that, he drank the liquid in one gulp.

The two rangers started. "Aslan! Don't drink-"

The paladin vanished.

"Aslan!" Elrohir called out, then flinched as he realized how loud his voice had been.

"Drink your potions- now!" came Aslan's voice from his former position.

Nesco and Elrohir quaffed their vials and disappeared from sight just as heavy footsteps came down the corridor and the hide covering was thrown back.

From their angle, the trio stared up at the witch doctor. Behind him, impossibly tall, stood Glarg the ogre.

The orc's one eye roamed around the closet. Glarg, clutching a spear, leaned in over his shoulder.

"They not here, Rezshk."

The witch doctor sighed and turned his eye upwards to scowl at the ogre. "You need two eyes to see that, Glarg? You more stupid than even I think."

Rezshk turned back to survey the storage niche as Glarg glowered at the witch doctor's back. The orc squatted down, peering into the empty space. "I know I heard something," he whispered.

All three humans held their breath.

From his position, Elrohir could see one of the spears suddenly shift its position, near where the witch doctor's probing hand was. It knocked into the others, sending all of the weapons crashing to the floor. Rezshk jumped up, but collided with Glarg as he tried to move back.

The ogre smiled, and pointed down at the mess on the floor. "Stuff fall off shelves. That make noise." He looked smug. "Even Glarg know that."

Rezshk looked as if he were seriously considering putting a hex on the ogre. "Due to your big feet, no doubt!" he snarled at him, and continued on down the tunnel, elbowing Glarg in the lower stomach as he passed. "Clean that up," came his retreating voice.

Grumbling in his own tongue, Glarg got down on one knee, and began picking up the weapons with his left hand. His first try at propping them up resulted in them all falling down again, so he just cursed again, grabbed everything on the floor and stuffed it on top of the shelves.

Elrohir thought he was going to burst from holding his breath.

Glarg took one last look around, then suddenly stopped. The three humans saw his nose sniffing.

_Oh, no,_ thought Aslan. _He smells us!_

Slowly, the ogre picked up a torn brown vest from the shelf. He held it up to his nose, then tossed it back with a look of disgust. He mumbled something (Nesco didn't understand it, but had a sneaking suspicion it was something along the lines of "humans stink") then left, the hide flapping back into place behind him.

After several seconds, there were three loud exhalations of breath, and then silence.

"Tell me something Aslan," Elrohir said quietly. "How did you know those were potions of _invisibility_?"

"I didn't." Aslan's voice sounded eerie, coming from no visible source. "But aside from healing potions, it'd be the most likely one to have multiple doses on hand for," he explained. "Cygnus told me that once, several years ago." Elrohir grunted a response.

"I don't wish to seem rude," the paladin stated, "but I need to sleep, or at least mindrest. One extra minute might make all the difference. Right now, I've got nothing."

"Get some rest, Aslan," Nesco said. "Elrohir and I will work out the watch."

"Thank you", mumbled Aslan, already starting to enter a state which would have been relaxation if he had not been in agony, an uncomfortable position, and fully armored. "I'm sorry for being so weak..." his voice trailed off.

The two rangers waited. Soon, they could hear labored breathing, and even some light snoring. Elrohir smiled invisibly to himself, and wondered if Nesco was doing the same.

"How can he say that?" wondered Nesco out loud.

"What do you mean" asked Elrohir.

"What Aslan said. 'Sorry for being so weak'. He saved our lives back there. He's one of the noblest, strongest people I've ever met."

Elrohir wasn't sure how exactly to explain this.

"I agree completely Nesco, but Aslan can't take- or at least he says he can't take, physical pain."

Nesco hesitated. "What?"

"It's because of his Talent. Even before he heard his calling, Aslan could heal himself, so he always did. He never had to go through a long convalescence, or deal with the aftermath of a serious injury. He could always just... heal himself."

He couldn't see it, but Elrohir was certain Nesco was shaking her head in disbelief. "I don't know, Elrohir. He seems to bear pain as well as any fighter I've ever met."

The ranger nodded reflexively, even though Nesco couldn't see it. "I agree with you, Nesco. Aslan is an example of the best we can be. I try to follow his lead. And if he sometimes has self-doubts, well..." and here Elrohir's voice dropped so low, Cynewine could barely hear it. "I can relate to that."

There was some more silence.

"Elrohir?" came Nesco's voice, softly.

"Yes, Nesco?"

His fellow ranger's voice had an odd, almost childish lilt to it. "Will you tell me the story of when you and Aslan traveled to Hell?"

Elrohir smiled to himself. "Not now, Nesco. We should stop talking, really. We don't want to be overheard. Get some rest. I'll take first watch."

Nesco's disappointment was a palpable thing, but she knew not to press the point. Elrohir was right. "I don't think I can sleep, Elrohir. I'll take first watch."

Elrohir grimaced as he tried to shift his position and received a fresh stab of pain for his trouble. "I don't think I can sleep either, Nesco. What say we share the watch?"

There was a heavy sigh, and Nesco's voice drifted back lazily to him. "All right. I'll just think about how wonderful this will be when it's all over."

"Sounds good", Elrohir said quietly. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts began to drift. His wife. His son. All his good friends, including the two with him, and those hundreds of miles away.

He hoped they would be all right.


	50. Safety Is A Mirage

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Tadoa stared at his palm, his face disquieted.

The front of the elf's right hand was squished black with the remains of a horsefly he had just flattened against the stone walls of the inn. It had buzzed around the child's head as he exited the building, and he had reacted without thought, turning the insect to a gooey paste with one well-placed swat.

Tad continued to stare at his hand. His lower lip began to tremble.

This was wrong.

He had no particular love of flies, but it had done nothing wrong. It was just doing what flies do... living. Tadoa was no stranger to death, and had no objections to it in the natural order of things. This horsefly, though... it had died for no valid reason at all. In fact, the reason it had died would sound absolutely ludicrous if Tad had dared voice it aloud.

The fly had been murdered as a result of a case of mistaken identity.

It was that simple. It _could_ have been Nodyath, so Tadoa had killed it. Plain and simple.

And wrong.

So much seemed to be wrong nowadays, the young elf thought, leaning his head against the cold stone. Although Perlial had experienced no more dreams (or whatever they had been), there was a restless spirit on the wind that even Tad, who was less spiritual than most of his kind, could sense. Sir Dorbin and his party were wonderful people, but Tad was still feeling nervous... edgy... uncomfortable. He often longed for the return of Elrohir and the others, but some deep part of him was telling him that even their return would not quiet his troubled heart.

"Sometimes it helps to talk."

Tadoa spun around. Aiclesis was standing about ten feet away, leaning against the inn on the far side of the doorway. The wind was trying to whip his forest green cloak around, but the rogue had pinned most of it between his body and the wall, so it could only flap on the lower end.

The child eyed him without speaking.

Aiclesis shrugged. "And sometimes it doesn't."

Tad gave his fellow elf a cynical grin. A human grin. "Why speak Common, Aiclesis?" He asked in elvish. "It's just the two of us here, isn't it?"

The thief's eyes flickered uncomfortably for a moment. "I'm sorry, Tadoa," he replied somewhat haltingly, in Common. "You have a bit of an accent that sometimes I have trouble with. I'm not used to the Rolex dialect, I guess."

Tad frowned. _What?_ He had never heard that before. Was this-

Then it hit him. Shame wrapped itself around his whole body, pushing his face inexorably downwards to stare at the ground.

_It's not an accent. I've lived on Aarde too long for that._

This was the first time another elf had told him (in one fashion or another) that he, Tadoa, didn't speak elvish very well.

It wasn't surprising, if he could force himself to think about it. His whole life had been rushed, just as if he had been half-human, or even fully human. He just hadn't had the time to learn all the subtleties and nuances. Not only of the elven language, but of their culture and society, as well. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he brushed them away angrily. When he looked up again, the expression on Aiclesis' face made it plain that he knew Tadoa had figured out the truth.

"I'm sorry, Tadoa," he said quietly. "I came out here to make you feel better, not worse."

The child took a deep breath, trying to collect himself. "It's all right Aiclesis, but I really don't think there's any way you could make me feel better."

Aiclesis' forest green eyes bore into his. "There might be."

The older elf's body language told Tadoa he was serious about something. "What is it?" asked Tad, his curiosity engaged, at least a little.

"Fee Hal and Sitdale recently returned from Willip."

Tad nodded. Members of the Dorbin party were always heading out to the city on some errand or another. He hardly kept track anymore.

Aiclesis continued. "Lancoastes is ready. Our departure from Oerth is no longer dependant upon magic, or cost. Only one task keeps us here."

"Nodyath." Tad almost whispered the word.

The rogue nodded. "Yes. Personally, I disagree with Dorbin on this one, but we always stick together, so there you go." The older elf spoke almost wistfully, as if he could see his home world in his mind's eye. He then turned back to Tad. "We've talked this over amongst ourselves, and all are in agreement. When this unpleasant business is concluded, and we return to Aarde..." Aiclesis' voice trailed off, his eyes dropping downwards.

Tadoa frowned. He couldn't see where this was leading. "Yes?" he asked.

Aiclesis looked up again. "Would you like to come with us?"

The child was stunned. "Go back... with you?" He was truly whispering now.

"Yes," the thief replied softly. "I know little about your life, young Tadoa, only what little tidbits we have gleaned from Elrohir. But even those have told us that you have born more sorrow in your few years than any elf or human should have to."

Tad looked at his fellow elf. He said nothing.

"I come from Ty Lern. These woods lie within the human Kingdom of Rolos in Gravoland. I know that is halfway around the world from your home- your Aarde home, in the Wildwood of Tristoland. Yet I know many in my tribe who would take you into their homes, and hearts, with open arms, if that was what you sought."

Tadoa was still silent.

Aiclesis walked over to him, the wind whipping his cloak around now. He gazed directly into Tad's light green eyes. The child returned the stare.

"I... I do not think I wish to leave my friends, Aiclesis. And I know that they would not go. They stay here on Oerth willingly."

"And you?" the rogue asked quietly.

Tad had to look away. A maelstrom of thought and feelings swirled around in his mind, and in his heart. After a few moments, they quieted down, and clarity again showed its face. He faced Aiclesis again.

"The Brass Dragon is my home, good Aiclesis, as much as any place on the Three Worlds can be. I will consider your kind offer, but as of now, I think I will stay."

The thief clasped Tad's hands in his, and smiled. "The offer remains open until we leave," he said, starting to head back towards the door of the inn.

Tad looked down at his right hand. Something looked wrong about it, and it wasn't the fly-stain. It was... it was...

His gold ring! It was gone!

Tadoa looked up just in time to see the ring sailing through the air at his face. He caught it just in time. Aiclesis was smiling at him.

"Just keeping in practice," he said in the elvish tongue, with an elvish smile.

And he was gone, back inside the inn.

Tadoa smiled, put the ring back on his finger, and headed out into the open...

The elf figured he would check on the two cabins. Only he, and none of the Sir Dorbin party, carried copies of the keys to the two private houses, and Tad felt important about that. He was heading towards the Bigfellow cabin first when he heard a bark, and looked around.

It was Mirage. The wardog was sitting about twenty yards away. His tail was wagging, and it seemed plain that he was itching to play with the child. A pang of guilt went through Tad. Since that odd business with Perlial five nights earlier, he'd avoided the animals even more than usual. That restless feeling seemed to be worse around them, for some reason he couldn't articulate.

There was no trace of that feeling now though, as he walked slowly over to the dog, undoing the clasp on his old cloak. Mirage however, picked up something in his mouth- it looked like a piece of leather, possibly part of an old bridle, and tossed it into the air, then looked again at Tadoa in a friendly manner and barked.

Tad redid his clasp and picked up the chewed piece of leather. "Fetch and seek, eh?" he asked the wardog with a smile. "Hope you didn't steal this from anyone in the stables!" he said with a laugh.

Mirage barked again. His paws, restless, danced around on the ground.

"Go get it, boy!" Tad yelled and flung the leather as far as he could. As Mirage dashed after it, the elf sprinted in the opposite direction.

Tad headed towards Aslan's house, the closer of the two to him. He'd hide behind that for a while, and see how long it took for Mirage to find him. If he still held the bridle piece in his mouth when he did, Tad would give him an extra treat for his concentration. A quick backwards glance showed him the wardog almost upon the leather, and then he was lost to sight as Tadoa backed along the far wall of Aslan's cabin. The child grinned. This felt good. He hadn't played since-

His foot stepped in something warm. Warm, and slightly sticky.

The child glanced down. A pool of some liquid extended out to just about his position. He turned around. The liquid came from-

Tadoa's eyes grew wide. His mouth fell open slightly, and steam escaped from it in short, hard bursts. There was no warmth to it, however. There was no warmth to anything.

Mirage lay about ten feet in front of him, a dark shape against the sunset's fading light.

The wardog was dead. From the looks of it, he had been stabbed just behind the back of his head by a blade pointing straight down. Blood continued to slowly ooze out from the wound. The ground was still hard from the recent cold snap, and the dark red-turning-brown liquid pooled an inch deep around the body before slowly following a slight depression in the earth towards where Tad was standing. Slowly, trembling, the elf walked over to Mirage, and bent down over him. The dog's brown eyes were open, sightless. His tongue protruded out of his mouth even more than normal.

Something was clamoring for attention in the child's brain. The blood-

_Still oozing?_

This had happened recently. Maybe five to ten minutes ago, at most.

Tadoa abruptly straightened up and whirled back around.

Mirage was sitting about fifty feet away, perhaps thirty-five feet from the edge of the cabin. The wardog was still sitting, looking directly at Tad. His tail was not wagging anymore, though. The piece of leather lay at the dog's side, but he was paying no attention to it. He was looking only at Tad.

And his look was no longer friendly.

Tad knew he was now no longer in sight of anyone who might be coming in or out of the Brass Dragon.

_I wonder how long he waited for this moment?_

By sheer force of will, Tad began to force his hand towards the hilt of his sword.

Mirage exploded into action, charging straight at Tadoa. He bared his teeth, and a horrible gleam was in his eyes. Tad knew, even as his sword started to clear the scabbard for a swing that he knew would not be in time, even as he cursed himself for all the bad decisions he had ever made in his life, even as the creature that he knew was not Mirage leapt for his throat with his fangs glistening, that he should have been looking out for much more than just flies...


	51. Slave Pits Of The Undercity

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Aslan awoke with a start.

Pain and fatigue instantly reacquainted themselves with his body. He had doubts he was going to be able to move out of the space he was wedged into in less than a hour. The paladin shook his head, trying to clear it. He had had a terrible nightmare, but it was fast fading away from his mind, and there was no time now to try and recall it. He glanced over at Elrohir and Nesco. Both rangers looked asleep, but Aslan couldn't fault them for that. He knew what terrible shape they were both in. Being invisible had helped protect them-

_Wait a minute. Invisible?_

All three of them were visible again. Aslan didn't know if the potions had worn off or what, but the truth was (if he dared indulge himself in a pun) plain to see. As he looked on, Elrohir's eyes snapped open and he bumped his head against the shelf above him. His muffled curse/exclamation awoke Nesco, who looked around at the others guiltily.

Aslan was starting to uncork his body from its "resting" position. He spoke quickly, to avoid any needless conversations on whom might have fallen asleep first, or why. "The potions must have worn off," he whispered. "Try to be as quiet as possible, people. Let me know when you're ready to move out."

Elrohir looked as if he wanted to say something, then decided to drop it. The three of them managed to return to a standing position with a minimum of groaning. Elrohir slid Gokasillion up just an inch or so, giving just a bit more light for them to see by.

"How long do you think it's been, Aslan?" Nesco asked.

Aslan concentrated, trying to sense the power within himself. His resulting expression, barely visible in the dim light, was not encouraging.

"Not long," the paladin said. "A couple of hours, at most. I still don't have much yet, I'm afraid. It wasn't a very restful sleep. I could heal us a bit more if you'd like. I might have enough for one _teleport_ or _psionic blast_, but I'm not even certain about that, and that would probably wipe me out again."

"Depends," Elrohir said, his face just inches away from those of his companions in the cramped space. "We came down here to find another way out. We haven't done so yet, and this space isn't big enough for all of us to rest up in, even assuming that it's safe enough, which I doubt. So the question is, do we go on?"

"We didn't come here to fail," Nesco said grimly. Her eyes flickered over to Aslan's. "Heal us, Aslan, but you make _damn_ sure you leave an equal amount for yourself. And that's logic talking, not sentiment. You may well wind up being our only ticket out of here."

"Thanks", Aslan replied, placing each hand on a ranger's shoulder. "Er, I think..."

The trio moved down the corridor. Luckily for them, this section was also lit with torches in wall sconces. It seemed somewhat cleaner and straighter, with wooden crossbeams every ten feet or so now.

Aslan had used up most of his remaining Talent on healing the three of them, but it wasn't nearly enough. They were all still little more than the walking wounded. At Elrohir's insistence, he had saved what he thought was just enough for one more _polymorph_. The ranger told him to use it to flee back to the others if he and Nesco were killed. Aslan had nodded, but in fact had no attention of doing so.

The corridor continued for about thirty feet and then turned to the left. Even from here, the fighters could hear voices coming from beyond. The language was Common, but they couldn't make out the words.

The three looked at each other.

"One more time, my friends" Aslan said with a deep sigh. "One last time."

And his features began to change.

"Aslan!" "No!" came two rebukes, but it was too late. Elrohir and Nesco gaped at the figure that now stood before them.

Elrohir's voice went cold. "If this fails Aslan; if he's actually around that corner, we're dead. We're all dead. You know that?"

Aslan turned around and started to walk down the corridor. No longer (effectively) clad in plate mail, he did not make the clanking noises his partners still did.

"That's right Elrohir", the paladin said over his shoulder. "But then, that's usually what happens when you don't retire from this life, isn't it?"

Elrohir was silent. Nesco looked from one figure to the other. Aslan gave her a smile (which looked rather hideous in his new form), then jogged around the bend...

"That one. Definitely that one. The male."

Mugrik followed Finn's finger. The human noble was pointing at the cage closest to them. That particular 10' by 10' cell held two slaves. The one Finn had indicated was a strapping young man of perhaps thirty years. He had an impressive amount of body hair (for a human anyway, thought Mugrik), but his heavily muscular physique was still plain to see. His body bore a number of scars, but all looked old and would probably not detract from his final selling place. Cold gray eyes stared out at them above a thick, bushy black beard and mustache. He had his arms crossed and his feet planted apart; the very picture of defiance.

Mugrik smiled to himself. The orc knew that attitude would not last long. He made one final check mark on the sheet of parchment he carried. That was it. They had checked out all fourteen cells, and the twenty-seven slaves within them. Finn had selected fifteen to take on his journey. The aristocrat was now fiddling with some odd-looking contraption Mugrik had never seen before.

It looked like a small wooden frame, about eight inches to a side. Three parallel wooden dowels spanned the frame, and on the dowels were small circular pieces of wood, which Finn now flicked back and forth with rapid movements of his delicate, bony fingers. The noble noticed the orc staring at it, and smiled condescendingly at him.

"This, my curious friend, is an abacus. It's a calculating device, and it's just calculated that I shall make a handsome profit indeed from this trip." Finn glanced down at the abacus in his hand. "It's from Kara-Tur. The battle commander of the stockade is originally from there. He sold it to me on my last visit.."

Mugrik was only half-listening. He was bristling at the way the human had managed to make the word _curious_ sound like the word _stupid_. Mugrik prided himself on his degree of sophistication. His grasp of Common was better than any other orc he knew, except perhaps for the very-recently deceased Chief Arrn. It was the main reason that Arrn had appointed Mugrik as the chief liaison to the various flesh traders who brought the selected slaves from here to the stockade, a journey of some days inland. The other four orcs with Mugrik were mere lackeys, useful only for slave handling. As he sourly eyed the foppish aristocrat, Mugrik thought how easy it would be to just chop him into pieces, and toss them into a stew pot. At least as a meal, Finn might provide the good taste that he was always claiming to have.

Easy to do, except for his bodyguards. Mugrik glanced at the two humans accompanying Finn. They looked dangerous.

"Well then," Finn mused. Having put away his abacus, he was now cleaning under his long fingernails with the slender dagger he was carrying, and nodding towards the door at the end of the room that they were standing by. "If you would be so kind as to prep the slaves, I'll be waiting for-"

At that moment Rezshk rounded the corner at the far end of the room.

All three humans and five orcs standing in the corridor between the two rows of cells stared at the approaching witch doctor.

Rezshk looked terrible. He had clearly been wounded several times, his yellow and red robes stained with blood. The orc was trying to run, but looked so fatigued that he could barely manage to stay on his feet. Mugrik knew this was bad news, although he could have sworn, only for a second, that he had seen a look of... relief on the witch doctor's face as he came stumbling up to them. Just happy to be still be alive, he guessed...

_Thank you, Great Watcher_, Aslan thought as he lumbered up the corridor. _Thank all the Hosts of Asgard that I'm not here already- er, I mean that HE's not here- oh, you know what I mean, Odin!_

His ragged appearance was no trick. Aslan was so tired he couldn't have run if he tried, and his wounds were all too real, no matter what physical form he might be in. There was no time to think about that now, he thought. There was only time for some more of his patented paladin manipulation of the truth.

"Humans!" He burst out. "Two humans who come in with ogre before! They attacking all! Me badly hurt! They coming this way!" He pointed back down the corridor he had just come from, while trying to size up the opposition here.

The orcs were a question mark. Most were no trouble, but some had fighting skills equal to any human, and in the party's weakened state, that could be very bad news for Aslan and his friends. The fool with the dagger was no problem, but the other two with him...

The woman was short, barely clearing five feet, but she looked as sturdy and as powerfully built as any dwarf. With her pale skin and long, straight, platinum blonde hair, she looked mostly, if not pure, Suloise. Aslan guessed her to be about Talass' age. Underneath a white fur wrap, she wore a suit of chainmail. A longsword awaited action, its scabbard attached to her weapons belt.

The magic-user was clearly Baklunish, with golden-tan skin and dark brown eyes. In stark contrast to his fellow bodyguard, he wore the robes of a desert traveler, and a turban covered his head. The mage carried no visible weapons, but his face expression carried the same grim expression that the Suloise woman's did.

Finn's face went pale with fear, and he backed up against the door behind him. "What?" he exclaimed, his eyes leaping between Aslan and Mugrik. "What? How can this be? You two told me that had been handled! You told me this place was secured!" He cast a covetous glance down at Mugrik's belt, and made a grasp for a keyring that was loosely hanging on his belt, but the orc swatted his hand away with a snarl.

"Only I handle keys!" he growled at the noble.

Aslan, cursing himself for not noticing the keyring earlier, assumed what he hoped was his position of authority. "Chief Arrn dead, so I command orcs now!" He pointed at Mugrik. You and others- go and help others kill humans! I prepare spells to help!"

He saw Mugrik hesitate. _Guess Arrn never bothered to pick a successor Chief_, he thought. Aslan concentrated on trying to stare the orc down... quickly.

"Unlock this door, you savage!" Finn, shaking, was pointing at Mugrik. "I'm not paid to do your fighting for you!"

That seemed to clinch it. Mugrik shot a vile look at the aristocrat, then motioned to the other four orcs to follow him. As he passed Aslan on his way back down the corridor, he muttered something in orcish to him. The paladin couldn't understand it of course, but it was a pretty safe assumption that it didn't bode well for poor ol' Rezshk.

The five orcs, weapons drawn, rounded the bend in the corridor and charged straight on into death...

The sounds of combat and orcish screams carried clearly back into the slave chamber. Aslan concentrated on moving subtly into the exact position he wanted to be in. _Always look for a tactical advantage, no matter how slim it might be._ Both he and Elrohir lived by that creed. Aslan hoped he wasn't about to die by it, as well.

The corridor between the twin rows of cells was about ten feet wide. The door to who-knows-where was on the right half of the far wall, as one gauged the room coming into it from the corridor. Finn was currently trying to pick the lock on the door with his dagger, which was badly shaking, along with the hand holding it.

"Anya! Zanthar!" He called over his shoulder. "Stand ready!"

The two looked at each other, and a silent smirk passed between them. Aslan guessed they were used to the fop's idiocy, and stayed with him only for coin. Anya was standing about five feet in front of Finn, with the mage Zanthar covering the left side of the corridor.

_This is going to be tricky_, Aslan thought. _Very tricky_. He began mumbling gibberish and waving his arms, as if casting a spell. The paladin was now standing right next to Finn, facing Zanthar. The cell to his right contained a powerful-looking, bearded man who was eyeing them all, as if he hoped an opportunity to escape would present itself. He noticed Aslan staring at him and glared back.

Aslan tried to wink at him, but forgot he only had one eye currently, so it came out as more of a odd blink instead. There was no reaction from the man. Aslan could only hope he'd understand and be able to react quickly enough when the moment came. There wasn't going to be a second chance for this.

Elrohir and Nesco came around the corner. Like Aslan, they were too exhausted to run, but they were nonetheless moving as fast as they could.

Anya did not draw her sword, but with blinding speed produced a hand axe from somewhere and flung it straight at Nesco's face. It scraped along the left side of her helm hard enough to draw a cry of pain from the ranger, but she kept on coming.

Aslan made his move. He reached out, grabbed Zanthar from behind and shoved him against the bars of the nearby cage.

"NOW! GRAB HIM!" Aslan screamed.

The slave reacted instantly, grabbing Zanthar's right arm and pinning it behind his back. The magic-user yelled in pain and tried to reach into his spell component pouch with his left hand. Finn was standing in total shock, but Anya was already drawing her sword. The two rangers were coming up, but they couldn't move fast enough.

Anya swung at "Rezshk", but was startled as her swing, which was intended to decapitate the 6 1/2' tall witch doctor, sailed over the head of a stocky, bearded human male a full foot shorter instead. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, wearing plate mail and carrying a longsword and shield. The man looked at her and wagged his eyebrows up and down.

"You just can't trust anyone these days, can you?" he said.

He swung his own sword at her, but she parried.

Meanwhile, Zanthar had not yet been able to cast a spell, but the slave hadn't been able to grab the mage's left arm, either. The prisoner was yelling for assistance from his cell's other occupant, a teenaged girl with a blackened and infected foot, but she merely cowered in the far corner of the cell and covered her head with her arms.

Aslan grimaced in pain as Anya's sword avoided his shield and slid along his side, the blade passing through one of the many gashes already present in his plate mail. The edge of the sword felt like fire as it sliced open his skin. The wound was long, but at least it wasn't deep. He slashed back, but merely put a rip in her fur wrap. She was good, Aslan thought.

Maybe too good.

Zanthar, still struggling, shot a look of pure hatred at the still cowering Finn. _"Spawn of camel droppings!"_ he yelled at him. "Get over here and help me- NOW!"

Apparently shaken out of his stupor by the command, Finn moved in. He raised his dagger to stab at the hand holding the wizard's right arm fast...

Zanthar's shouted warning came too late. The nobleman never saw Gokasillion slide into his left side. The blade passed through lung, heart and lung before being drawn back out. With a whimper that turned into a groan that turned into silence, Finn collapsed to the floor a dead heap, his abacus sliding out of his clothing and bouncing along the floor several feet before coming to a halt against the far cell.

Nesco joined Aslan in his battle against Anya. They were flanking her now, but she had yet to take a serious blow, and seemed to show no sign of wavering, let alone surrendering.

Zanthar watched as Elrohir turned to regard him, then turn his back on the mage as he joined his companions in their battle against Anya. With a mighty effort, the Baklunish wizard twisted until his right arm came out of his robe, leaving the slave holding uselessly onto the sleeve.

"AH, HA!" he yelled, pointing his arm at the stunned prisoner and preparing to incant.

A cold white light appeared in front of Zanthar as Gokasillion's point erupted from his left shoulder blade, and then withdrew.

"AH, HA, yourself!" Elrohir shouted back.

Zanthar squinted his eyes briefly shut, every nerve ending in his torso afire. The ranger's move had been a feint to deceive him. He whirled back on Elrohir however, and with sheer determination, finally managed to cast his first spell.

Elrohir felt a wave of magical energy wash over him, but it was gone before he even fully realized what it was. There was no immediate effect as far as he could see, but he saw a giant frown appear on Zanthar's face, so that made him happy.

Anya continued to battle her two attackers. Unhurt, Aslan and Nesco would have at least given even money on their odds of defeating her, but that was not the case here.

Zanthar backed up down the corridor and incanted again. What looked like a glowing green arrow sped out from his fingertips and disappeared into Elrohir's chest. The ranger cried out in agony as he felt acid burns starting in his chest. He moved up and stabbed at the mage. Zanthar cried out as he felt the agony of a sword strike starting in his chest, but the wound was not deep enough to be mortal.

_We need some help here_, Nesco thought frantically as she barely avoided a lethal swing of Anya's sword.

Suddenly a dagger came flying between her and Elrohir and sliced into Anya's neck before falling out.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesco could see the prisoner smiling. He had apparently grabbed Finn's dagger when the aristocrat had fallen. The wound was not a critical one.

But it was a distracting one.

The Suloise fighter cried out for the first time as both Nesco and Aslan's swords found their mark. Anya's white furs were soon dyed a dark red.

A bubble of blood burst on Zanthar's lips as he sneered at Elrohir. "That spell will eat you alive as long as I concentrate on it, no matter where I might be!"

And with that he turned to run.

"Thanks for the information", Elrohir whispered.

Zanthar had almost made it to the bend in the corridor when an arrow struck him right in the back of his head. The wizard's momentum carried his corpse into the earthen wall of the corridor before it crashed back to the floor.

Elrohir turned to rejoin the battle with his friends, but his vision suddenly grew blurry. He had to drop his bow and grab hold of the cell bars to keep himself upright. Most of the slaves had been yelling nonstop since the battle started, and the noise was getting overwhelming.

Anya was now seriously wounded, but Aslan and Nesco were both back down to where they had been before their last healing.

"Let us out! Let us out!" The slaves were continuing to shout. Elrohir swore if they didn't shut up, he was going to... to...

The ranger's head abruptly snapped back up.

"Aslan! Nesco!" He shouted. "Play it safe! Just hold her off! I'll be right back!"

"YOU'LL BE _WHAT?" _yelled Aslan in disbelief, but Elrohir had already vanished around the bend in the corridor.

The paladin found himself wishing that Argo was here, as much for his wisecracks as for his sword-arm. He hadn't realized until now how much Bigfellow's constant banter actually contributed to his ability to keep his spirits up in battle.

_I'll never be able to tell him that though_, Aslan thought sadly. _I'd never hear the end of it._

He and Nesco grimaced at each other as they continued to try and fend off Anya's seemingly never-ending attacks.

"Surrender or die!" yelled the paladin.

Anya said nothing. She merely shook her head and then continued her assault.

Elrohir came staggering back. In his hand he held the ring of keys.

"Over here!" came a voice from his right.

The very first cell on his right contained only one occupant- a human male, perhaps in his late twenties. He looked lean and strong.

"I can fight!" he yelled.

At a quick glance he was by far the best choice, thought Elrohir, so after some initial fumbling he was able to unlock the door. The man rushed out and tore down the corridor, towards the battle. Elrohir continued to unlock cell doors.

Anya's sword slammed into Nesco's shield, which looked to be just on the verge of cracking apart. Suddenly, a figure clad in little more than a loincloth appeared besides her and bent down to the ground. A familiar voice came up to meet her ears.

"Nesco Cynewine! Always a pleasure, especially now!"

The ranger's eyes widened. Anya thrust her sword down at the man's exposed back, but Nesco slammed her sword away with her own. He was standing up again, holding the bloody dagger, a cocky smile in his brown eyes.

"Sir Enkos! I can't believe it!"

"The shock is all mine, Lady Cynewine!" The man feinted at Anya with the dagger, but was unable to land a telling blow. "Thank the gods you're here! I knew His Majesty wouldn't abandon us!"

"Friend of yours?" Aslan shouted out, dodging yet another attack.

Nesco smiled. "Sir Enkos was on the last expedition here!" She then frowned, and turned toward him as much as was prudent under the circumstances. "Sir Enkos- my brother, Miles. Is he still alive?"

The knight's expression turned serious. "He was taken away to the stockade some weeks ago, Nesco. Sir Murtano, the others... dead, as far as I know."

A roaring noise interrupted their conversation. A mass of freed slaves, some wielding weapons taken from the dead orcs, swarmed over Anya, pulling her down to the floor. Aslan and the others turned away. _I can't fault them_, the paladin thought soberly, _but I wish she had surrendered..._

The slave chamber was a mass of people, all milling around and talking simultaneously.

Elrohir was examining a map they had found in one of Finn's pockets. He looked up at Aslan, who was making his way through the crowd of people, headed towards the door.

"The slaves in these pens are destined to go to this stockade, Aslan. A journey of several days, at least. There may be more Slave Lords there."

The paladin nodded grimly, but said nothing. They had pocketed a rather rich haul of gems and coins from the bodies of their opponents, but it meant nothing to him.

Right now he would trade them all for a solid hour of uninterrupted sleep.

Nesco handed one of the orc swords to Sir Enkos.

He looked at her and gave her a bitter smile. "Thank you Nesco, but with this shoulder injury, it'd be hard for me to lift that. I'll stick with this dagger for now."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Nesco hadn't noticed the large, black-purple bruise on Enkos' right shoulder before. _How could I have missed that?_ She thought. She felt stupid, but didn't say anything. She handed the sword instead to the fighter, Sarkos by name, who had earlier grappled with Zanthar. He accepted it gratefully. He and Sir Enkos seemed to be the only two warriors in a crowd of nearly thirty, however. Some of the slaves could only limp along, and Aslan was again depleted of his psionic strength.

"We've got nothing left but momentum, people!" The paladin shouted out as he unlocked the door to reveal a corridor leading onwards. "We keep going!"

As the crowd began slowly to file through the door, Enkos grabbed Nesco by the arm. "Lady Cynewine", he said, his expression deadly seriously now, "there is something important I must tell you!"

Nesco looked at him with concern. "What is it, Sir Enkos?"

The knight looked around him, then back at Nesco. "I cannot say it here, Lady Cynewine", he said, leaning in close to her. "There are dangers here you are not yet aware of. I must tell you privately! Can we go off somewhere where we will not be overheard? It will take but a moment!"

At that moment, Sarkos' cellmate, the teenaged girl with the bad foot, fell down on the floor near the two fighters. She began crying.

"We do not have time now, my good Sir Enkos", Nesco replied, as she helped the girl to her feet and put an arm around her to keep her up. "I promise you, as soon as is possible, I will speak with you alone on this matter. Will that suffice?"

Sir Enkos bit his lip. "Of course, Lady Cynewine", he said. "As you wish..."

This particular corridor was only five feet wide, so the crowd of people was stretched thin. Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco were out in front. They had recruited Sarkos and Sir Enkos to act as rear guard, and they seemed to be doing at least a passable job at keeping the horde under control. Several carried torches, as this section of corridor had no torch sconces. Elrohir wielded Gokasillion.

"Aslan?" Elrohir inquired as they began walking.

"Yes, Elrohir?"

"Since desperate actions are pretty much all we've got left, would you mind if I took that last vial you have?"

The paladin regarded his friend, and then shrugged. "Why not?" he said, as he retrieved the tiny flask of black liquid and handed it to the ranger, who downed it quickly, then made a face.

Aslan and Nesco peered intently at their companion. Elrohir looked thoughtful, then looked at them and shrugged, a guilty smile on his face.

"Tastes like ale gone bad. I don't feel anything, though."

Just then, the corridor ended. Stone steps leading downwards stretched about 30' long before them. At the bottom was a small landing, at the far end of which was a door.

Elrohir looked back at his companions. "Have the others stay back until we know what's on the other side of that door." This was swiftly communicated down the line.

"All right. Look sharp, my friends", said Aslan as the three of them began their descent. "We don't want any more surprises."

The stairs dropped out from under them.

Tumbling down what had abruptly become a slide, the trio landed on a stone circular platform about twenty feet in diameter. Slowly, feeling the last vestiges of strength in their bodies announcing their imminent departure, the three fighters rose unsteadily to their feet and looked around them.

A moat of sewage, about seven feet wide and of unknown depth, surrounded the platform. Beyond that a narrow ledge, perhaps only three feet wide, marked the perimeter of this large circular chamber. Torches on wall sconces illuminated the entire room. Three arched stone bridges (each the same width as the ledge) were spaced equidistantly around, spanning the moat.

Ten orcs stood around the ledge. Two stood at the edge of each bridge, while four where spaced between them. All carried short swords at their sides, and had crossbows out and pointed at the party.

A door was set into the ledge at its rightmost point as the trio looked forward. Directly across from them, a large alcove, perhaps twenty-foot square, was set back from the ledge, spoiling the perfect symmetry of the chamber. In this alcove were a table, two chairs and a number of boxes and crates. Behind the table a ladder set into the back wall of the alcove led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling.

A man sat at the table, looking at the three fighters.

He was not very remarkable looking, being perhaps a few years shy of thirty. His face, clean-shaven and a bit chubby under slicked-back black hair, seemed to show an almost childish glee that was barely restrained. He weighed perhaps a few pounds more than the ideal for the leather armor that he wore, yet even his smallest movements belied an easy grace. A longsword was stowed in a scabbard on his hip, but he made no move to draw it.

Moving all around the alcove were five very large animals. Elrohir immediately recognized the tawny fur, the wedge-shaped heads, the short legs, and stumpy tails. They were weasels. Very large weasels.

They were not however, seven feet long.

The smallest was at least ten.

They milled around the seated man like gigantic kittens, one going so far as to lay its head upon the table. The man smiled and obligingly stroked the animal's fur. The weasel scrinched its eyes closed in pleasure.

Aslan looked up as a loud grinding noise signaled the return of the stairs/slide into the ceiling above. The paladin then looked back at the seated man with a grim expression.

"You must be one of the Slave Lords?"

The man looked up from petting the weasel and eyed Aslan and the others again. He slowly looked up and raised his arms upwards, as if stretching in a yawn, but showed no inclination to answer Aslan's question. When he did speak, his voice was a little high-pitched, but soft in tone.

"And you must be..."

His eyes snapped back to regard the party. His right arm came down fast.

_"Dead."_

All five giant weasels jumped the moat and attacked.


	52. Prisoner

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
An unknown inn room**

The wardog slammed into Tadoa at full speed, knocking the short sword out of the child's hand. The animal's teeth closed on the elf's throat, holding it fast but not yet puncturing the skin. Tad toppled backwards...

And landed, not on the ground, but on a bed (although it wasn't all that much softer). Tadoa felt a crushing pressure on his chest as Mirage was instantly replaced by a human clad in full plate mail. The room was still spinning from his fall, there were people (At least two; one sounded like Aslan) yelling, and Tad's dagger was being removed from its sheath. When the young elf finally got his bearings back and realized that he was in what looked like an inn room, that same dagger was being pressed against his neck, discouraging any movement whatsoever.

The man who was now bent over the bed and wielding the dagger looked to be about forty years old. He had a mutton-chop beard, rather dirty-looking, curly gray hair and light brown eyes that radiated an attitude of disgust. He wore black leather armor. Tadoa recognized him instantly from Thorin's description. Nodyath's ally.

Aslan's counterpart was straightening himself up now, while catching his breath. He turned to regard the child, his cold, light blue eyes locked onto Tad's. Most of his face was hidden behind his great helm, but his voice carried a cruel smile along with it.

"You liked that dog, didn't you?"

Tad said nothing. He still couldn't believe that Aslan's voice, which he knew so well, could ever utter such hateful words.

Nodyath drew his longsword from his sheath. Mirage's blood was still on it. The fighter looked at his weapon, then back at the elf.

"You like all your animal companions. The dogs, the pegasi... those horses. I know you do. You've spent enough time with them."

He resheathed his weapon, not taking his eyes off Tad.

"When I'm done here, I'm going to go back there and kill them. Every last one of them."

Tadoa closed in eyes in pain. He tried to stop the tears, but they still trickled out. When he opened them again, the man with the dagger was grinning evilly at him. Nodyath's eyes seemed to bore into his.

"Pain", the psionic said softly. "That's good. You still know only the barest taste of the pain I've suffered, but you'll know more... soon enough."

The young elf found his anger. "Since you're so good at reading minds", he hissed softly at Nodyath, "you should have no trouble at all understanding this."

Tad began hurling every elvish curse he could think of at Nodyath. Many of them had no direct translation in Common. The curly-haired man's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.

Nodyath remained impassive for a few moments, then made the barest gesture to his ally. The dagger pressed down, ever so slightly and across at an angle, drawing a thin line of blood. Tad gasped and went silent.

The fighter from Rolex continued to stare at the youth.

_So much for not being sadistic, you monster_, thought the elf. _I guessed you lied to Cygnus about that too, just like you lied about everything else!_

Nodyath's eyes went wide, and he reached down over the bed. The dagger was withdrawn as Nodyath's gauntleted hand closed around the child's neck.

"Your fate is your own doing, elf!" He spat. "If Cygnus had given me that scroll, none of this would have happened!" The armored fingers caressed the elf's pale skin, in a gentle manner that seemed subtly perverse to Tadoa. "Apparently, attempted assassination is morally acceptable to you, as long as it's _your_ side doing the killing!"

The man with the mutton-chop beard chuckled slightly. "That's always the way it is, isn't it?"

Nodyath's gaze darted momentarily over to his companion, then refocused on Tad. His fingers, no longer gentle, tightened their grip.

"I'll admit, that bastard Cygnus got me so enraged, I almost made a fatal error." Nodyath relaxed his fingers just enough to let his captive breathe. "After I healed myself from that explosion, I teleported right back to your inn in a fury." He made a small, self-depreciating chuckle. "Of course, after that my Talent was nearly depleted. I had to assume fly-form and go to sleep right there, and wait until morning."

Tadoa's eyes went wide with shock.

_THE ROCK!_ His mind screamed to itself. _THE ROCK! IT WORKED! IT WORKED! NODYATH WAS RIGHT THERE! HE WAS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF US THE WHOLE TIME, AND WE NEVER KNEW IT_!

He saw Nodyath look at him sharply.

_By Corellon! If he reads my mind, he'll know about The Rock! He'll know-_

Tadoa tried to cut off all rational thought and instead filled his mind with an image of Nodyath being burned to death by Cygnus' _explosive runes_. He let the hate and disappointment that Nodyath had survived flood into his heart. Anger, rage, grief...

The child didn't know if Nodyath was fooled, or hadn't tried to read his mind at all, but after several seconds, the suspiciousness faded from the psionic's eyes, and he resumed his former demeanor.

"Then, when I woke up, there were about twenty of you there. Too many even for me to take on. Of course by then, I'd cooled down enough to realize that all I had to do was wait for the right moment. Then that warlord rode up, and then the dragon..." The intensity of Nodyath's voice dropped another notch. "I assumed that would be the end of you people. By the time I realized differently, I had... other concerns." Those eyes bore in on the elf again. "I needed money. Lots of it, mostly to replace what you _denied_ me". A snarl crept back into his voice, and Tad shivered in his grasp, his manufactured anger completely evaporated.

Nodyath smiled. His voice was now very soft.

"And I'm going to make a lot of money off you, my fellow... _Rolexian?_ Is that the term?" Tadoa could only see a portion of Nodyath's smile behind his _helm of telepathy_, but it made him go cold. He doubted Aslan could have smiled like that if he tried.

The door to the room opened partially. A woman's face peered in. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with black hair, cut short, and blue eyes. She looked at Tadoa, and caught her breath.

The elf stared at her. He had never seen this human before, but he knew instantly who it was. _Talat! That's got to be Talat!_

The cleric looked over at Nodyath. She said nothing, but the fighter grew irritated.

"Shut the door, woman! You want us to be discovered? There's nothing here that concerns you!"

Talat's eyes dropped momentarily. "There's no reason to hurt him needlessly. It's bad enough what's going to happen to him once _they_ get their hands on him..."

The worst feeling of fear Tadoa had ever experienced in his entire life flooded into his young body. He could feel some part of him trying to keep himself from slipping into shock. He didn't even know whom Talat was referring to.

But if it could frighten a priestess of Hextor...

Nodyath's voice was level as he gazed at her. "I'm not the one who's going to hurt him."

Talat's face grew stern. The same fire that Tad had seen in Talass' eyes now flashed in her sister's. "Don't hide behind semantics, Nodyath." She looked back over to the elf, and her eyes grew sad, almost moist. "He's only a child", she whispered, then gazed at Nodyath again. The psionic looked as if he wanted to avoid her eyes, but couldn't.

"A child," Talat repeated. "Remember, Nodyath? _A child?"_

Nodyath looked at Tadoa. The elven boy stared back into those light blue eyes.

For a moment that he never wanted to end, he saw Aslan in those eyes.

The moment ended. Nodyath looked back at Talat.

_"Not my child,"_ he sneered at her and got up. The man in leather armor quickly moved the dagger back near Tad's throat, but all thoughts of resistance had long fled the elf's mind. Nodyath left the room, pulling the door behind them as he left. Tadoa caught a final glimpse of Talat's face looking at him before it was gone. He was alone in the room with Nodyath's "friend".

Tadoa tried to keep his voice from shaking, but it was a lost cause.

"Who are you?" he asked the human.

The man leered back at him, apparently annoyed at the question.

"Ask your friend, Thorin." Without taking his eyes off the elf, his left hand began fumbling with his belt. It stopped momentarily at what looked to the child like a spell component pouch. The curly-haired man followed Tad's eyes for a second, then darted back. If anything, his leer grew even uglier.

"Nodyath says you Rolex elves are the same as the ones here. _Sleep_ spells don't work on you."

The man's hand moved on, to a second pouch that he lifted off his belt. As he raised it higher, Tadoa could see that it was in fact not a belt pouch at all, but a sap.

"All the more fun for me."

The sap descended. Again, Tad's reflexes failed him, but this time he knew only darkness.


	53. A Weasel of a Man

_Author's Note: I have been wondering if I am posting too much, too quickly. My main intent in putting this story here is to generate comments, be they favorable or otherwise. Since the full story (87+ chapters to date) is still up at the WotC site, the only reason to post here is if people want to read it. Please let me know; the reviews pretty much seem to have stopped. Again, I'm not looking for an unearned pat on the back, only an honest critique. To those who are following along, thank you again._

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Despite their injuries, the three fighters drew their weapons and stepped forward to meet their attackers head-on. Three of the dire weasels received gaping sword wounds as soon as their front paws touched the platform surface. They continued to attack however, alongside their uninjured kin. Elrohir managed to avoid the jaws of the creature attacking him. Aslan had two weasel opponents, but for now was also able to keep away from their sharp teeth.

Nesco also was attacked by two of the large animals. The one she had wounded grabbed her shield in its mouth, and with a tremendous twist, tore it out of the ranger's hands. It cracked in two, both halves falling to the platform floor. The other one managed to get behind her and sank its teeth into the back of her neck. She gasped out in pain, but worse than that was the fact that the creature was now pushing down on her back, trying to force her slowly down to the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrohir saw the Slave Lord slowly rise from behind the table and walk around it to the side. He still made no move to draw his weapon, but his gaze was fixed firmly on the battle unfolding before him. His smile began to slowly turn into a frown as he watched the blood spurt out of his beloved attack animals.

Elrohir swung again, and the dire weasel he had wounded earlier dropped at his feet, dead. Aslan likewise killed his injured opponent, while his other attacker continued to try to find a vulnerable area to bite down on.

Nesco killed her wounded weasel, but then heard a horrible sucking sound, followed by a tremendous pulling on the back of her neck.

The other weasel was sucking her blood out. The ranger tried to attack the creature pushing her down, without success.

Suddenly, just as she swore she couldn't take any more, Nesco felt the sucking stop. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the weasel's head slowly release its grip on her neck and roll down off her back, landing beside its headless corpse. Elrohir and Aslan had, together, slain the beast.

It wasn't over, though. The remaining weasels again attacked Aslan and Nesco, and this time it was the paladin who cried out in pain as his attacker bit through the armor on his right arm and fastened its teeth on his flesh. Elrohir moved to assist, but Nesco suddenly pointed behind them, her eyes wide.

"Look!" She cried.

Elrohir spun around just in time to see the Slave Lord, sword now in hand, put a small vial to his lips.

A vial of gray liquid.

"Damn it!" Elrohir yelled as the man smiled at them and vanished. Without stopping to think, the ranger began to charge over the nearest bridge connecting the platform to the ledge.

All ten orcs fired their readied crossbows. In his enraged state, Elrohir took no notice of those bolts that bounced off of him, merely assuming that his plate mail had done the job that it had been designed to do.

It was only when he reached the other side, and about to attack the two orcs who were blocking his path, did he spare a glance and noticed all of the orcs staring at him in wonder while reloading their weapons. Every bolt had bounced off him without him feeling so much as a prick.

_Got to have Cygnus and Zantac brew up some of that black stuff_, the ranger thought while swinging at one of the orcs, whose attempt to parry with a crossbow did not save his life.

Meanwhile, both Aslan and Nesco attacked the dire weasel that was clamped onto the paladin's arm, slicing the creature in two. The remaining weasel however, sensing the fresh blood still trickling down the back of Nesco's neck, grabbed hold of the ranger there, forcing a short scream from her throat. She buckled, and went down on her knees.

Elrohir cut the other orc down, but two more stepped over the bodies of their fallen brethren and attacked, although not successfully. _Fine by me_, The ranger thought. _As long as they stay in front of me, our invisible friend can't-_

"You fools!" cried out the voice of the Slave Lord to his orc minions. "Two of you- come at him from behind! The rest of you, finish off the two on the platform! They may not have the same protection as he does!"

Elrohir gritted his teeth. _Rats_, he thought.

Two orcs ran across another bridge, then skirted along the edge of the platform on their way towards the bridge where Elrohir was battling. Meanwhile, four crossbow bolts sped towards the battling duo. One caught Aslan on his left thigh, the projectile punching right through his plate mail and into the flesh underneath. The paladin gasped out in pain. He tried to remain standing, but his left leg gave out and he went down on his knees, and then toppled over onto his left side.

Two bolts narrowly missed Nesco, but the fourth struck the dire weasel in the back of the head. A growling noise came from the animal, but it did not release its grip on Cynewine's neck.

Gokasillion cut through the air again, and an orc went down, feebly attempting to stop the flow of blood from its throat. The ranger whirled and stabbed one of the oncoming orcs through the heart. The humanoid dropped to the bridge and rolled off into the sewage moat. Elrohir managed to parry the other charging orc's attack, but the remaining orc's blade cut down through the ranger's plate mail into his right shoulder. Elrohir cried out in pain. He could feel his grip on Gokasillion's hilt starting to loosen. He had almost nothing left...

Despite her best efforts, Nesco slumped forward, face down onto the platform. The weasel went with her; it's body almost completely covering her now at it drew yet more blood out of her body. Darkness danced at the edge of the ranger's vision. Unconsciousness, a beckoning gift. A release from pain. So hard to refuse...

Tears of pain forced themselves out of Aslan's eyes. He couldn't keep fighting. It wasn't a matter of bravery, or determination, or skill, or resolution. The paladin's body was simply being cut, shot or bitten to pieces. He wasn't used to this level of pain. His eyes closed of their own volition, and he heard the woosh of crossbow bolts- he couldn't tell how many, fly by him. None hit him- or perhaps they did, and he couldn't tell anymore. All the sounds of battle seemed to be receding away. No one could fault him, he reasoned. He had fought to the bitter end, and at least could, as Tojo had said, die with honor. A better fate awaited him in the next life anyway; he knew that. There was no shame in this. He heard a final groan that he knew was the sound of someone dying, and he knew it was his own.

Or was it? Just to be sure, he opened one eye...

Nesco was lying on her stomach about five feet from him. Her eyes were closed, and the last dire weasel (which seemed to have taken another errant crossbow bolt, although not a lethal one) was still covering her like a blanket. Its suckling at the back of Nesco's neck somehow reminding Aslan of a young animal weaning at its mother's teats. Nesco was still conscious however (if only barely), and was holding her sword behind her at an odd angle, blindly sawing back and forth at the weasel's neck. Blood was coming down the blade, but Aslan knew between the two of them, Nesco was going to die first, her blood replenishing the weasel's own. As odd as the thought (his last one, possibly) seemed to the paladin, he had to admire the creature's toughness. It relentlessly continued on, the bolts sticking out of its fur not even penetrating its skin. Even at the brink of death, this creature had-

_Not even penetrated?_

Aslan opened his other eye...

A pebble of strength.

That was all Nesco had left, and in her mind's eye (she was too tired to keep her real ones open), she could see it cracking, as if the heel of a giant was pressing down upon it. Guilt, determination, loyalty, all of that had already fled her body, riding along with her blood like a boat upon a crimson tide. She was just about to let the tide take her away when there came a loud screech from very close by. The weight of the large animal on her was momentarily lifted, and then came back down on her even harder as the weasel rose up in a spasm of death agonies, then crashed back down on top of her.

Nesco was annoyed. Someone had interrupted her peaceful dying, and prevented her pebble from being smashed. Even worse, now she could feel someone's hot breath on her face. She frowned. Was there another dire weasel? Had she lost count?

She opened her eyes, only to stare directly into Aslan's light blue ones, less than six inches away. He was absolutely drenched in blood, as if he had struck the last weasel to death with his sword, and it had spouted its blood, along with Nesco's, all over him. _Maybe he did_, Nesco thought from somewhere far away. _Wish I had that kind of energy._

Aslan was scootching even closer to her, pulling the dead weasel over the two of them. She continued to stare blankly into his eyes.

The thought occurred to Nesco that they were now close enough to kiss.

Aslan smiled weakly at her.

"Cozy", he mumbled, so softly Nesco could barely hear him.

Nesco was far too weak to cry. If she could have though, she would have.

"Aslan", she whispered.

"Nesco", the paladin replied in his own whisper. "Take a few deep breaths, and then do exactly as I tell you..."

_Do not submit. You shall not leave me of your own accord._

Elrohir's grip tightened again on his sword's hilt, but it was not his doing.

"Gokasillion?"

The sword's powerful voice flooded into his mind, quenching the fires of his injuries. The wounds remained, but the pain was lessened somewhat.

_Triumph or die, Elrohir of Aarde._

"You'd make a lousy healer, Gokasillion". Elrohir smiled grimly, then let the two of them, sword and human, act as one.

The orc barely had time to notice his right arm dropping to the floor before he was suddenly flying across the chamber. As the orc's perception faded, he noticed his own headless body still standing on the bridge below, slowly beginning to topple over.

The four orcs still wielding crossbows had come together in a tight knot, watching with grim smiles as the two humans on the platform fell. They had then turned their attention to the lone human on the bridge, who was faring much better than his companions. Orcs were dropping left and right. Only one remained, frantically parrying attacks that seemed to be coming faster and faster now from the human's glowing sword.

"His protection has worn off by now!" Their leader's disembodied voice came to them. "Shoot him! Kill him!"

As they raised their weapons to fire, one of the orcs saw, out of the corner of his eye, the surviving weasel slowly rise up and began to head across the bridge towards the four of them. That didn't bother him. The weasels were all well trained never to attack orcs. It just seemed that the creature was moving somewhat... oddly.

His eyes widened. Beneath the weasel he could see two pairs of crouched legs.

"It's the humans!" He yelled at his fellow warriors. "Shoot!"

The orcs pivoted and fired. All four crossbow bolts struck the dead weasel. They lodged in the creature's fur, but it kept coming. The orcs dropped their missile weapons, and were drawing swords when the beast plowed into them. Two orcs were knocked off into the moat. The third orc grabbed the weasel's mouth with his left hand and yanked the jaws open. He peered inside, his right hand ready to thrust his sword down the creature's throat to slay the human he would see within.

A bloody, gauntleted fist erupted from between the weasel's teeth, slamming into the orc's snout. He staggered back while the fourth orc tried to slash underneath the creature's corpse at the humans' legs. He missed however. His blade stuck in the animal's hide instead, and as the two humans underneath rose up and threw off the dead weasel, the orc's sword was ripped out of his hand.

Elrohir had dispatched his last opponent and was heading to assist his friends when he heard the voice of the Slave Lord.

"Hold them off! I'll get help!"

Elrohir whirled. The voice had come from within the alcove. The ranger spun on his heel and half-ran, half-staggered in that direction. _I figured him for a coward_, he thought while gritting his teeth against the ever-present pain.

Aslan swung his sword, and the orc he was facing let out a pitiable cry and collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Nesco's attacker, deprived of his weapon, grabbed the ranger around her throat, determined to strangle her. That lasted only until Cynewine's blade slashed across and into his back, severing his spine.

Elrohir reached the base of the ladder. There was no sign of the trapdoor above opening, but Elrohir knew as his body suddenly jerked and stiffened up, that he had just fallen for the oldest distraction of all.

And he was going to pay for it with his life.

Elrohir slowly turned his head. The Slave Lord was standing right behind him, his childish face glowing in savage delight as he twisted further the sword he had just driven into Elrohir's back. The ranger turned back to look at his two friends. Miles away, their expressions were frozen into portraits of horror.

"I'm sorry", he whispered at them, even though he knew they couldn't hear him. "Tell Talass... that..."

He collapsed to the floor and lay still.

The Slave Lord couldn't believe how fast two humans, wounded to within an inch of their lives, could move so fast. In the blink of an eye, they were upon him however, their swords coming at him from every conceivable angle, their roars of rage drowning out all other sounds. He batted one strike away and dodged another, but he wasn't as experienced as they were in a fair fight. One stroke cut him, and then another, and another. Soon, he was knocked flat on his back, the two figures above raising their weapons for the kill.

He dropped his sword. "I surrender!" He squealed. "Spare me my life! I beg of you! Spare me, please! Show mercy!"

Ignoring him, Aslan bent over Elrohir's crumpled form. He grabbed the ranger's arm and squeezed, trying to wring just one drop, just one drop of Talent out of himself. "Please, Mighty Odin", he whispered. "Please."

Nesco dropped to one knee by the Slave Lord and grabbed him by the chest, lifting his upper body off the floor. "Show mercy? Like you did!" She snarled in a low voice, then glanced over at the paladin. "Aslan", she said, almost pleading. "Please don't tell me we have to keep this... _weasel_ alive!" She looked down at him with such rage that he cowered again. "Those animals back there deserved life more than you do!" Cynewine's voice was rising again. "King Belvor told us to put a stop to these slavers, so I say we do it!" She raised her sword again as the prisoner covered his eyes and whimpered.

Aslan grabbed Nesco by the shoulders and spun her around. His eyes burned into hers. "Elrohir clings to life, Lady Cynewine!"

She blinked at him.

The paladin moved his face closer to hers. "I don't know any of the healing arts, Nesco. See what you can do." With that, Aslan bent over the Slave Lord and began going through his belt pouches. "There's something else that Cygnus taught me", Aslan mumbled as his gauntleted fingers moved quickly. When he took one of the pouches from his belt, the prisoner reached out and grabbed it.

"Please", he said weakly. "I am hurt, and need th-"

The paladin backhanded him across the face with his gauntlet. "Not as much as you will be! Keep silent! Keep still!"

Nesco was frantically working on Elrohir. To all her senses, he was dead, but she trusted Aslan's judgment because- well, she didn't really know why she did.

Perhaps because it was easier to believe than the alternative.

Suddenly, Aslan was kneeling beside her, uncorking a thin vial and massaging the liquid within down Elrohir's throat. A milky white liquid.

Aslan glanced over at Nesco. "Filth like that always keep some type of healing in reserve, he said." He then looked back down at Elrohir, as did Nesco.

For several seconds there was no reaction. Then, Elrohir abruptly coughed. Blood dribbled out of his mouth, and he began spasming, as if he was having trouble breathing. His two friends moved him into a sitting position. Nesco checked his mouth, and then pounded him on the back several times. Elrohir took in a strangled gasp of air, and then (between aborted attempts) several deep breaths. He looked absolutely terrible.

But absolutely alive...

As it turned out, the door set into the ledge led to a corridor that wound back to the door the trio had been heading for when the stairs had dropped out underneath them. It took some doing, but eventually all the slaves were assembled together again in the chamber.

Most of them, that is. Apparently, they had been involved in some combat of their own while Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco had been engaged in their own life-and-death struggle. Sarkos, a fresh wound visible on his chest, recounted the details.

"Orcs. They came at us from behind after you fell away. We beat them back, but Sir Enkos…" his eyes looked at Nesco, sadly. "He was swept up in the fighting. The last I saw of him, he was trying to escape several orcs. I don't know if-"

"That's all right, Sarkos", Nesco said quietly. "Thank you for your help. These slaves might not still be with us if not for you."

Sarkos shrugged off the praise. "We have reached this far only due to your efforts, not mine." The large man grew grim. "Have you discovered a way out?"

"Elrohir is checking out a corridor we discovered above a trapdoor set in the ceiling", she replied. "He will report back to us."

Sarkos nodded, then looked over to where Aslan was keeping watch over the Slave Lord. His eyes flashed steel. "Why do you keep that one alive?" He growled.

Nesco's voice indicated her unspoken understanding. "We need information out of him."

The hirsute warrior crossed his arms. "Once you have it, give him to me." He then turned away to look after his fellow slaves.

Nesco sighed as she slowly went over to rejoin Aslan. To have found Sir Enkos, and then lost him again so quickly… It was true she had not known him well. Certainly not well enough to count him as a friend. And it was also true that he had already given Nesco all the information he knew about Sir Miles. Still, she thought sadly, he was a Knight of The Hart.

_I should have found the time to listen to what he wanted to tell me privately. I hope the others will not suffer for that mistake of mine._

The boxes in the alcove turned out to contain, not only some coins and gems, but also provisions for the slaves' journey to the stockade that would now not take place. A length of hemp rope found within was quickly put to use, binding the Slave Lord's hands behind him.

Elrohir's head reappeared through the trapdoor opening. His expression did not look encouraging.

"The corridor leads to stairs going upward, but they end inside a crypt of some kind. I think it's the one where the ghouls were hiding, in the temple cemetery. Can't be sure, though. I didn't try the door. There's some kind of noise coming from the other side, but I can't make it out."

Aslan sighed, exchanged weary glances with Nesco, and then addressed his team leader again.

"Did you see any side passages? Any other possible way out?"

Elrohir slowly shook his head. The paladin turned to their prisoner.

"Is there any other way out of here?"

He shook his head. "Through the main doors of the temple courtyard, the stables, or through the guard post. This is our land. Why would we need to sneak out?"

"Aslan", Elrohir called out. "Don't waste your breath on him. I'd be leery about taking any route he mentioned anyway. If Talass still has a _zone of truth_ spell available once we regroup, we'll get more out of this one."

The Slave Lord looked thoughtful, but otherwise showed no reaction.

"How about a _sword to the throat_ spell?" Nesco mumbled to herself, then addressed the mass of slaves. "We're going up this ladder, and will rejoin our allies above! Sarkos, get them ready to leave!"

Slowly the crowd, with the trio in front with their prisoner, the slaves, and Sarkos bringing up the rear, left the chamber behind.


	54. Gathering Clouds

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Talass covered her ears with her hands, but it didn't stop the noise.

She knew it wouldn't; it wasn't the first time she had tried it. There seemed to be nothing for it but to try to ignore the tumult. The roars and shouts of what had to be several hundred humans and humanoids outside the temple walls had started perhaps twenty minutes after her husband and the others had descended below ground. They had all rushed to the various doors that led outside, but they were still barred. Talass, suspicious that they had not been broken down yet (indeed, the mob outside was pounding on them even then), had cast a prayer of _detect magic_.

All the exits had been _wizard locked_.

Not only that, but the caster of the spell had been powerful. Vastly more powerful than either Cygnus or Zantac.

Talass let her hands fall back to her side and leaned against the side of the crypt, where she was currently standing guard. As the party's only cleric, all agreed that the cemetery was the most logical position for her. Yet, she thought ruefully, certain people were probably just as glad to be rid of her for a while.

People like Cygnus, for instance.

Talass had finally told the others of her vision. Zantac did not seem terribly concerned, Talass noted. Whether that was because he was not a believer in (or even familiar with) Asgardian gods, or because as a late addition to the party, he figured he was not included in the dream's warning, was unknown to Talass.

Argo had bit her lip and glanced over at his wife, then resumed his normal carefree expression when she had turned to him. Caroline seemed thoughtful for a while, but soon shrugged off any concerns. Or at least had appeared to.

Tojo, as anyone would have bet hard coin on, had shown no reaction whatsoever.

Cygnus, on the other hand…

"_Not coming back?" _the mage had said, disbelievingly.

Talass merely stared at him.

The color was rising in Cygnus' cheeks. "And was there a particular reason why you chose to keep this little tidbit of information from us until _after_ we had left, Talass?"

Talass did not back down. "We had already been commanded to appear before King Belvor, Cygnus. Would you have sworn fealty to His Majesty, then disobeyed his commands, all because of my vision?"

Cygnus, his mouth set in a tight line (an expression he was sure Talass would recognize), leaned closer to the cleric.

"I could have chosen not to go to Chendl in the first place."

Talass gave him a skeptical sneer. "And risked imprisonment? Losing all you've gained?"

Cygnus paused. "And what does Thorin lose if I'm the one who doesn't make it back?"

Talass hesitated, and then dropped her eyes to the ground. When she looked up, Cygnus was pantomiming removing a crown from his head and placing it on hers.

"Congratulations, my lady", the wizard said, his face a mask of false admiration. "I cede my crown to you. The king is dead. Long live the Queen of Manipulation!"

Talass had opened her mouth to argue when the noise began.

It was a combination of crashes, shouts, yells… the sounds of an angry crowd. It swiftly grew louder.

"They're rushing the temple!" Zantac cried.

Argo whirled. "We need to get to a defensible position if they break in! Come on!"

Caroline shot a glance at the ten slaves, who were now mostly cowering and crying. "Argo, what about them? Weren't we supposed to follow the others if they breached the temple?"

Argo gave his wife a sad look. "We couldn't bring them down there with us, my love, and if we fall, it really doesn't matter where in the temple they are."

With that, the ranger was running towards the inner doors. The rest soon followed.

When they reached them however, it was soon clear that their enemy had not yet reached them. The party cautiously opened the doors, then checked out the outer doors, the stables and then the guard post. Those doors were indeed being battered, but seemed to be holding up remarkably well.

Talass' announcement of what her _detect magic_ revealed surprised everyone.

"Someone helping us out?" Zantac mused. "Who, and why?"

"And more importantly, why aren't our enemies just climbing over the walls?" asked Caroline.

Argo, standing back in the cemetery, motioned for the others. "Come here, people. Listen."

They did, and listened. Among the general uproar outside, they could hear specific sounds. It sounded like people were coming right up to the wall… and then being hurled away from it.

Cygnus arched an eyebrow. "Not that I'm not grateful, but if someone that powerful is protecting us, I'd just as soon he show himself and use magic to transport us all away from here."

"Maybe he's waiting for Elrohir and the others to return first." Talass offered.

Cygnus had no reaction at first. Then, he turned his head to seemingly address Argo, but Talass knew the magic-user was looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Well, if that's the case, let's hope all of them _come back_."

Talass' face grew red. She took a step towards Cygnus and was about to let loose when Argo, unexpectedly, did it for her. The ranger strode right up to the wizard.

"Cygnus… shut the hell up."

The mage gasped at Argo. He hadn't expected that from Bigfellow. Without taking his eyes off Cygnus, Argo pointed at Talass.

"You know what, Cygnus? I actually agree with you. I think Talass should have told us about her vision before we left. But she didn't, so that's where we stand. Retirement is a thing of the past now whether you like it or not, half of our party has been gone for three hours now with no sign of their imminent return, my body has more holes in it than my boots do, and our only, I repeat _only_ chance for survival is for us to pretend like everything is absolutely perfect between us, and we will all get out of this in one piece, or none of us will. You _comprehend my language_, Cygnus?"

The magic-user stared at Argo for a while. His expression slowly settled down to normal, and then he arched an eyebrow at the ranger. A slight smile crossed his lips.

"Very logical… _Aslan_."

Argo raised an eyebrow back, and then Bigfellow's face broke into his legendary pained smile.

"Well, there's no reason to be _insulting_, Cygnus..."

Talass looked around the cemetery again and frowned. Everyone else was at his or her assigned guard post. The cleric, who originally had no doubts that Elrohir and the others would return, was starting to wonder. What if-

Suddenly, Talass whirled around, facing the crypt door.

She had heard a noise from within.

The priestess cocked her head, listening. There was no doubt about it. In spite of the clamor outside, she could hear the sounds of footsteps, slowly getting louder.

Talass yelled for the others, then stepped back, brandishing her holy symbol in one hand, and her war hammer in the other. Just as she did, the massive stone door slowly began to open. Talass saw who was on the other side…

And screamed.

"WAIT! WHAT! WHAT?" WHAT IS IT?"

Elrohir flung his arms upward, dropping Gokasillion and his shield. He had been surprised to find his wife on the other side of the crypt door, but nearly as surprised as he had been when she had shrieked at his appearance and thrust her holy symbol out at him. Her cry of alarm had set off the slaves behind them, and many wails and shouted exclamations were now wafting up from the staircase.

"Talass! It's me, Elrohir! What's wrong!"

Aslan and Nesco slowly came out from behind Elrohir, staring in wonder at the cleric, whose face was now moving from horror to embarrassment. Her husband picked up his dropped items, and then took one careful step closer to her.

"Talass", he asked in a tone of wonder. "Were you trying… to _turn_ me?"

Her expression gave the ranger his answer. He realized then how awful they must look, covered with blood and innumerable wounds. A wry glance at Aslan confirmed his suspicions. He really couldn't blame Talass, though. Truth be told, they weren't all that far from death.

Embarrassment was but a short stop to irritation to Talass, as it so often was.

"Where did you come from?"

Elrohir gestured behind him as everyone slowly moved out into the cemetery. Many of the slaves were reluctant to do so, hearing the commotion outside the walls, but Sarkos prodded them on from behind.

"That leads down to the Slave Lord's lair. That fellow," he gestured at the man being very carefully guarded by Nesco.

Talass' eyes took in all the new arrivals, then flickered back to her husband. "Did you find a way out of the temple grounds?" She asked.

Aslan grimaced. "We found a secret passage, my good lady", the paladin stated, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Unfortunately, that was it." He looked around with concern. "What's that noise? Are they getting ready to storm the temple?"

Talass gestured to the others running up that everything was all right. "Come on back to the main chamber," she told Elrohir and the others. "Let's fill each other in..."

An hour, at most, had passed. Despite the clamor outside, everyone was talking in low voices. This was in deference to Aslan, who lay on a bedroll. The paladin's armor, or what was left of it, was piled beside him.

Aslan was trying to sleep, or at least rest, long enough to gain just one teleport with his Talent. The plan was, once that was done, he would transport himself and Zantac back to the Brass Dragon and sleep there until he was back at full strength and the wizard had recovered all of his spells. Thus refreshed, they would return.

This assumed of course, that the rest of the party was still alive. Still, it was unanimously considered the best option available to them all.

Nesco sat on the floor a few feet from Aslan, her knees drawn up to her chest, and her head resting sideways on her knees. She silently watched as the paladin groaned, slipping in and out of consciousness. With the tumult and his severe injuries, Aslan's strength, both psionic and physical, would return very slowly, if at all.

The ranger pondered on all that had happened. She still could not believe what Elrohir had told her about Aslan- how he couldn't deal with physical pain as well as others. Nesco had seen no evidence of it. She gulped, remembering again lying on her stomach, mere moments away from death, ready to surrender to it, and then staring into those light blues eyes… and seeing the strength in them.

Strength that somehow, he had been able to share with her.

A tap on her shoulder made Nesco look up. Caroline was bending over the ranger, a tin mug in her hand. She had said something, but Nesco couldn't make it out over the din. She cupped her ear.

Caroline raised her voice a notch, only as loud as she dared. "I said, would you like some wine? It was in one of those boxes you brought up with you."

Nesco smiled wanly and shook her head. "Thank you Caroline, but I've already had some water." She turned to look back at Aslan, but soon became aware that Caroline was still standing there. She looked back at the younger woman.

Caroline had that mischievous smile on her face that Nesco couldn't quite figure out. Bigfellow gestured towards the sleeping paladin. "He's an amazing man, isn't he?"

Nesco looked back at him and slowly nodded. She could hear Caroline's voice as the young fighter continued.

"He can be a judgmental horror one minute over the most inconsequential things, and the next minute, he's ready to lay down his life for you. People say Argo's hard to figure out, but Aslan," Nesco could hear Caroline's shrug, "I don't know if anyone can ever really know him."

Nesco turned again to regard the younger woman. "How long have you known Aslan?"

Caroline considered. "About three years. Three _long_ years. She chuckled. "He's the only paladin I've ever known personally." Her face grew thoughtful. "Suffice it to say, they're not what I expected, if he's any indication."

Nesco nodded in commiseration. "I know what you mean." She looked again at the paladin, trying to find the right word. "He seems so… optimistic?" She shook her head. "I'm not sure if that's accurate, but he's always moving forward, always has a plan, always…" she caught her breath, "always looking for the good in others."

Aslan snorted, rolled over on his side, and began snoring.

Both women had to cover their mouths to keep from breaking out in laughter. Caroline, mischievous smile back in place, pointed at Aslan and said, "No matter how loud he snores, don't wake him."

Nesco's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, ho! So that was you?" Caroline shook her head and started heading back towards the others.

"Not me. But I don't think Argo's ever forgiven him…"

Cygnus walked over to where Zantac was sitting and joined him. The older wizard was staring glumly at his spellbook, which was spread out on the floor beside him. As Cygnus sat down, Zantac slammed the book shut with disgust and began stuffing it back into his backpack.

"There's too much damn noise. I can't concentrate."

Cygnus shrugged. "You can get plenty of peace and quiet back at the Brass Dragon. Just bring me back a hot cup of tea, okay?"

Zantac sighed. "Listen Cygnus, I've been thinking-"

The younger mage put his hand over his heart. "No more surprises today, Zantac. I've seen too many unbelievable things already."

"Har de har har. Listen up, string bean. Despite all evidence to the contrary, you're…" and here Zantac paused, "a more experienced wizard than I am. You know more spells, and you're better at casting. I'm the one who twisted your arm to come here. You never wanted to be here in the first place. Ergo, you go back. End of discussion, and make my tea apple cinnamon. None of that mint crap you like so much."

Zantac got up and swiftly walked away towards where the ex-slaves were huddled together before Cygnus could formulate a reply, an objection, or even a thought.

When the thought finally came, it was in the form of a question. Cygnus wondered if he accepted Zantac's argument out of logic, or selfishness. The idea of refusing to come back with Aslan, he was ashamed to say, had indeed occurred to him…

Caroline Bigfellow was just finishing up bandaging the arm of one of the ex-slaves who had come up from below; a glum, older man of about fifty. "There," she said, smiling at him. "You'll be good as new soon."

The man, who had been looking off into the distance as Caroline worked, turned slowly to look at his bandaged arm, and then eyed the young woman. Caroline looked back at him.

The man spoke matter-of-factly. "You look a little like my daughter."

Caroline hesitated, but she could read nothing in the man's face. She decided to take a chance.

"Is she back home?"

The man looked off again into the corner of the chamber. "She was young, and strong, like you. She… tried to protect me when the slavers came."

He said nothing further. Slowly, Caroline got up and walked away.

She found Argo as her husband was returning to the temple chamber. The ranger insisted on doing constant patrols of the area to avoid a possible surprise attack. He saw Caroline and was about to speak, when she walked up right to him and silently put her arms around him for a hug.

They stood there, rocking softly for a few moments, and then Caroline pulled back.

"Sorry", she said with an embarrassed smile. "I just needed that."

Her husband nodded, just the trace of a smile on his lips. "I did too, but at least you didn't have foolish pride keeping you from asking for it." His expression turned sober again. "The sky outside… I don't like it."

Caroline frowned. "What do you mean?'

Argo blew air through his lips as he tried to think of how to phrase his thoughts correctly. "It'll be dark soon. There are low clouds covering the whole sky. They're almost a brown color, like there's dust or dirt in them. And their height is dropping. Not fast, but steadily."

"Do you think it will rain? Or is there a storm coming?."

Argo shook his head. I don't know. It feels… _unnatural_. I don't like it." He repeated, then put his arm around his wife's shoulder. "Join me in a cup of warm water?"

Caroline smiled as they began to head back towards the others. She really wasn't thirsty, but she'd never tell Argo that.

She was still thinking about Talass' vision, and about how Argo loved to run off on his own, doing something heroic, something foolhardy, something…

"Nothing", the Slave Lord replied. He had apparently recovered all his poise now, although he still made no signs of resistance. "I will tell you nothing more. If you do regain this _zone of truth_ spell I have heard tell of, I will be silent, and you will learn nothing."

Elrohir could have sworn he heard a low growl in the back of his wife's throat.

The Slave Lord continued. "You serve both deities and patrons, noble and pure". He looked at them, and a smirk returned to his face. "Your morals will not allow you to hurt a prisoner who makes no move to escape."

Talass looked over to Elrohir, but her husband's face was calm.

"Belvor's court will retrieve want they want to know from this man. Of all our concerns, he is our least at the moment."

The cleric considered this and nodded in silent assent, although she continued to fix the Slave Lord with a stern glare. After a few moments, the man turned away, only to see Sarkos, still standing in his defiant pose, only about ten feet away from him.

Only now he was armed.

"I serve no noble patron or god", Sarkos said in a low voice that nonetheless carried clearly to his target. "Perhaps you will not reach the destination they intend for you. Many things can happen until that time."

Elrohir and Talass both frowned, but Sarkos turned back to his fellow ex-slaves, who had more or less chosen him as their unofficial spokesman. A number of heads nodded in agreement…

As he passed by them, Sarkos turned a curious glance at Zantac and the young woman who sat facing him. They were sharing a mug of wine between them.

Zantac couldn't stop staring. He hadn't noticed Marisee when she first came up from below with her fellow slaves, although now he was sorry he'd missed even a moment of being with her. She had caught his eyes and smiled, but in truth, it was not a flirtatious or seductive look, at least not overtly. Zantac however, had been so taken aback he had momentarily forgotten how to breathe.

She was not an identical twin by any means, and in fact was clearly younger, perhaps Caroline's age. But the resemblance between Marisee (_What a lovely name_, he thought) and Aimee was much too strong to be coincidence.

And it was not. As they began to talk, Marisee was amazed to find out that Zantac knew her elder sister, whom she had not seen in almost nine years.

"She always talked about learning the ways of magic", Marisee said softly, looking down at the mug in her hands. She glanced up at Zantac, shyly. "She always said she would go north one day, to Elredd, or perhaps even to Greyhawk. It seems that she went even further. I am proud of her."

Her voice was almost a whisper, so Zantac had to lean closer to her to hear it. At this range, he could swear that Marisee had the same alluring scent he remembered so well. He kept staring at her hair, as if it might change color, but of course it did not.

"Did the slavers raid your village?" he asked her, as gently as he could. She nodded, her eyes falling down to the cup again.

"I was heading out to the market from my far. As I came into the village square, I heard yelling, and screaming. I looked to the east, out at the bay… and I could see a tall ship, with yellow sails. Then, I saw… saw…"

She began to shiver. Tears trickled from her eyes, shut tight in a painful remembrance Without any hesitation, Zantac moved over to her side and put his arm around her. She leaned into him, and her sobbing soon subsided.

"It'll be all right", Zantac said with his best reassuring smile.

To his surprise (and a joy that he chastised himself for feeling), she looked directly into his eyes. Zantac never wanted to look away.

"I know", she said. "It will be… now."

"So this is it? You're the one who's coming back with me?" Aslan asked Cygnus.

The magic-user nodded, looking back at Zantac, who was (Cygnus blinked and looked again) holding hands with one of the former slaves, a stunningly attractive young woman. Cygnus smiled to himself.

_I should have guessed. Noble sacrifice, my ass. For that, he gets mint._ He glanced back at the paladin, who was again armored up and ready to go. "Yes, by mutual decision. I'm ready, Aslan."

"Hold the fort, Elrohir". The paladin gave his friend's shoulder a quick squeeze. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Cygnus has instructions to knock you unconscious should you stall for any reason, so get going." Elrohir's smile didn't fully hide his concern, but it was an admirable effort.

"All of you… take care. I promise on the name of the High One, _every one of us_ is going to make it out of here." Aslan finished with a glance at Talass, who said nothing.

The two walked apart a few feet, and Cygnus put his hands on Aslan's shoulders. "Well, Aslan," the mage said with a wry smile, "there's one good thing to come out of all this."

The paladin looked puzzled. "And what's that?"

Cygnus' smile grew broader. "One look at you, and Tad will be thanking the heavens you didn't let him come along with us."

For the first time since they had returned to the surface, Aslan smiled.

He concentrated, and they were gone.


	55. Gone From Reach

**14th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Cygnus looked around at the Tall Tales Room and smiled.

"This place never looked so good."

Aslan nodded and gave him a weary smile, then pulled off his helm as the two of them headed for the door. "We'll let Sir Dorbin and the others know what's going on, and then we'll retire."

All noise ceased as they entered the common room.

There were about eight or nine patrons assembled for the evening meal. They, along with the barkeep and the serving girl, all stopped and stared at the duo, particularly at Aslan. The paladin realized again what a sight he must look, but wasn't going to waste any time on lengthy explanations. He was about to issue some instructions to the barkeep when he saw Monsrek.

The cleric was standing along the right-hand wall of the common room. He was wearing his chainmail armor and had his hand on the hilt of his broadsword slung at his hip. Next to him was a warrior that Aslan did not recognize. He was perhaps in his fifties, with strawberry-blond hair. He was armed and armored identically to the priest standing next to him. His eyes darted over to him.

"Monsrek!" he said. "Is that-"

"Aslan! Cygnus!" The cleric was already moving towards the duo. The fighter followed him. "By the Summoner! What happened? The others- where are they? Are they are all right? Hold still, you fool!"

Aslan had shied back when Monsrek had laid his hand on his shoulder, but a fresh jolt of pain overcame any pretensions he had of false humility, and he let Monsrek heal him of his worst injuries. Meanwhile, Cygnus was eyeing the blond fighter curiously.

"You. You were with Dorbin and the others, weren't you? Back on Aarde, in the dungeons of Venom?"

The man nodded. "Sir Menn, former Earl of Chesterton, at your service, good Cygnus." His eyes seemed sad to the wizard. They seemed to be searching his and Aslan's faces for something, but for what, the paladin couldn't determine.

Aslan, holding his helm under his left arm, clasped Sir Menn's shoulder with his right hand. "I do not know the story of your arrival here, Sir Menn, but I am glad that you are well. Your companions have been our greatest friends and allies these past weeks. Regrettably, Cygnus and I are here but for a short while. We have been commanded by King Belvor to eradicate a group of slavers operating out of the city of Highport, far to the south. Our party is still alive, but in great peril. They are under siege in a temple inside the city. I must mindrest here, where I will regain the use of my Talent, and Cygnus here his spells. Then, we will return to Highport and hopefully, affect an escape. I am sorry that I do not have time to explain further, but time is of the-"

He stopped. Sir Monsrek's eyes now held the same sadness as Menn's did.

Aslan tried to suppress a sudden chill.

"What is it?"

Monsrek looked down at the floor, then back at the paladin and wizard.

"You two had better come with me."

* * *

Outside, the sun had set, its dim reddish light illuminating only the very highest clouds now. Those few stars not hidden behind the clouds had already begun to make their appearances. A cold wind was blowing almost constantly from the northwest.

Sir Menn and Monsrek led Aslan and Cygnus towards the paladin's cabin, but they turned away from the door and headed around to the back wall. They could see Wescene, down on one knee, examining some tracks. Sitdale stood by her, sword in hand. The elf looked up at the quartet as they approached. Her face was visible only intermittently through her black hair being tossed about by the wind, but her eyes looked red, as if she had been crying. Both elf and half-elf bore the same look as the others. Aslan could now identify what it was.

It was the face of grief. The face of loss.

Aslan was about to ask her what the tracks were when he felt Cygnus tap him on his shoulderplate. The mage was pointing off into the distance.

About fifty feet to the northeast of Aslan's cabin, four figures were standing. A staff stuck into the ground by them was illuminated by _continual light_. Monsrek and Sir Menn, still not having said a word, beckoned the two to follow them there. Cygnus tried to swallow, but couldn't.

They were headed towards the spot where a metal plate lay buried in the grass.

It was the memorial to Hyzenthlay.

Horrid thoughts began to run through the mage's mind, but then turned into pure confusion. As they approached, they could see that the four figures, who turned out to be Aiclesis, Torlina, Flond and Unru, were standing by a mound of freshly dug earth set about five feet from the location of the plate.

They had been digging a grave.

Cygnus turned to Monsrek. "My wife is not buried here, good Monsrek," he said as they arrived at the site, the four individuals already present exchanging miserable looks.

There was a brief silence. Monsrek stepped forward. "Cygnus. Aslan," he began, trying hard to maintain a calm demeanor. "Tadoa- Tad. He's gone. Nodyath took him. He has slain your dog, Aslan. Mirage." The cleric looked down at the earth. "I'm sorry. We didn't know when you would be back. We thought this might be where you would want him laid to rest. If you want, we can-"

Aslan had dropped his helm and walked over to the grave. He slowly knelt down and stretched his hand down into the cold, dark hole. He pulled off his gauntlet and ran his hands over his pet's cold fur.

There was a long silence.

"My good and faithful dog," the paladin whispered. "My most selfless of friends. Forgive me for not being there for you, and forgive me once more that I may put aside my mourning for you and deal with the urgencies of the present. The living still need me, and you are beyond all sorrows now. I swear to you, we shall speak again."

He slowly rose up and nodded to the others. "This is a fine spot, my friends, if Cygnus has no objection." Aslan looked over to Cygnus, who seemed to be in shock. The magic-user blinked his eyes rapidly and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, of course. This spot is a memorial to all we have lost. Lay him here." Flond and Unru began shoveling the loose earth over the grave as Cygnus and Aslan turned their attentions back to the others.

"Tad," Aslan said, then stopped. He could go no further.

"From what Wescene can make of the tracks," Sir Menn began, his voice threatening to crack, "Nodyath assumed the form of a wardog. Perhaps Grock, or maybe even Mirage himself. This was perhaps three hours ago. We found," the fighter took a moment to compose himself. "We found his sword lying on the ground where the tracks ended. Tadoa may have found Mirage's body and realized the deception- too late."

Aslan stared at him for a moment, and then whirled and began walking quickly back towards Wescene and Sitdale. Cygnus followed, as did the others.

Aslan stopped at the spot by the rear wall of his cabin. He stared down at the dark stain on the earth, and then slowly looked up to the others. His face was without expression.

Wescene had stood up. Trembling, she stared at the paladin while fingering a holy symbol of Corellon Larethian in her hands.

"I- I told him- that he would find someone to love, when he- when he- grew up."

Wescene turned away and hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Sitdale put his left arm around her, but she shrugged it off and began walking back towards the inn. Sitdale glanced at Aslan with a helpless expression that reminded him of Elrohir, then slowly followed Wescene.

Aslan slowly went down on his knees. The paladin placed his hands on the ground, palms flat against the earth. He closed his eyes.

The others stood around Aslan, arranged in a rough semi-circle. No one spoke.

Aslan saw.

_He saw Tadoa staring down at Mirage's cold, dead form. He saw the child whirl around, saw him drawing his sword as something that looked like Mirage but wasn't leapt at the elf. He saw the young elf's sword go flying, and he saw them disappear._

_And he felt a child's terror, and someone else's savage delight._

Aslan opened his eyes, but his expression was blank.

"_Psychic Impressions,"_ murmured Monsrek.

Aslan gave no response, but Cygnus glanced sharply at the priest, who met his gaze.

"I did not know your friend possessed that Talent."

For some reason, that statement angered Cygnus. The mage walked over to the priest.

"And for what reason would he tell you, or Dorbin?"

Monsrek furrowed his brows at him. His expression was grim.

"So we might know that Nodyath also has that ability. This villain seeks the destruction of us all, my friend. Are there other hidden Talents Aslan possesses that we should know about?"

Cygnus was breathing hard now. The cold air was biting into his lungs, but he didn't care. "Ask him yourself," he seethed, and then went over and helped Aslan up to his feet. The paladin looked over at his friend and nodded.

"It's as they guessed, Cygnus," he said softly. "Nodyath took the form of Mirage after he had slain him. Tadoa is gone." His light blues eyes abruptly darted over to Monsrek and the others.

"We have many enemies, Monsrek. How were _you_ so certain it was Nodyath?"

Torlina stepped forward.

"Because he came back afterwards."

Aslan and Cygnus were silent.

The wizard continued, rubbing her hands together for warmth. "We hadn't yet realized that Tad was… missing. Sir Dorbin had come outside to speak to him when he saw what looked like Aslan walk into the stables. Immediately afterwards, he heard yelling and neighing. He rushed into the stables to find 'Aslan' about to attack Perlial with his sword. They dueled- with their Talents. Apparently Nodyath was not at full strength, for he fled. He managed to duck around the side of the inn and _teleport_ away."

Sir Menn indicated the Brass Dragon with a tilt of his head. "Sir Dorbin is sleeping now, mindresting. Fee Hal stands guard over him."

Aslan walked over to the stables. Cygnus and the others followed.

Without a word, the paladin walked over to his warhorse, who nuzzled him gently. Cygnus did likewise with White Lightning.

Aslan had forgotten that the horses could cry.

He wiped away the tears trickling down the mare's face. She spoke in her low voice.

"Nodyath. He had no chance to deceive me."

Aslan looked at her quizzically.

Perlial's large brown eyes were shining. "For all his Talent, for all his telepathy, Nodyath knows not of our special bond. When I saw him, I felt nothing."

They touched heads. "All blessings to the All-Father," they whispered almost simultaneously. Aslan gave her a momentary smile, and Perlial gave her mane a small shake.

Cygnus had been explaining to White Lightning what the situation was. Now, Elrohir's steed looked over to the paladin.

"Aslan?" She asked. "Do you think that Tad is still alive?"

Aslan was silent for a few seconds, and then he nodded.

"Yes, White Lightning," he replied. "I am certain he is."

"How can you know this?"

The paladin turned to regard Sir Menn. "Because, good sir knight," he told him. "If Nodyath simply wanted Tad dead, he would have left his mangled body here for us to find. He has some other dark purpose in mind for him."

"Do you think he intends to ransom him, as he did with Thorin?" Torlina asked.

Aslan shook his head slowly. "No. He knows now that even his vaunted helm is no sure guard against trickery on our part. He will not ransom him back to us, but to others, perhaps."

Cygnus stared at him. "This Emerald Serpent? The one Jinella spoke of?"

"A good possibility, if her suspicions were true. If not, we must discover whom he is dealing with. Monsrek," the paladin turned to the cleric. "Can you send Jinella a _sending_, telling her the gist of what has happened?"

The older man ran his hand over his balding head. A smile flickered on his face. "If she will deign to accept it, I shall indeed, Aslan."

A sudden stab of fear jerked through Cygnus' heart. "Aslan!" he said. "Nodyath surely has read Tadoa's mind for any useful information. He must know now that we have sent Thorin and Barahir to the elves of Welkwood! We must warn Alias! Better still, we should get them back here as soon as possible!"

Aslan regarded his friend soberly. "And how shall we do that, Cygnus?" The magic-user gestured impatiently in response.

"Once you have mindrested-"

"Once I have mindrested, I will be returning to the temple in Highport as we planned, Cygnus. The lives of our friends are in no less than peril than before." His light blue eyes burned into Cygnus, who looked suddenly over to Torlina.

"Sir Dorbin," he asked her. "When he awakens, could he-"

"Sir Dorbin knows nothing of the Flanaess, Cygnus," Aslan cut in. "And we have no map here that could guide him, even if he were to risk his life in such an attempt."

Torlina said nothing, but Cygnus could see the truth of Aslan's words in her eyes. The wizard gritted his teeth and tried to maintain his composure.

"We have to do something. For all we know, Nodyath may have already-" he stopped, unable to continue. The mage looked down, then back up at the paladin's eyes, which had not changed their expression.

"Aslan," Cygnus asked. Somewhere in his mind, he could see Caroline begging Aslan, as he was now about to do. An intense feeling of jealousy was tearing at him. _Why are we always begging Aslan for the use of his Talent? Why does he have this Talent anyway, and not me? We both serve the same god!_ He tried desperately to push the feeling away. "Imagine for a moment, that you had a son. Flesh of your flesh-"

"Cygnus." The paladin walked over to Cygnus and put his hand on the wizard's shoulder. "I cannot take you to Welkwood, but you can stay here and use all of your magecraft, and that of our friends here, to ensure his safety. Neither I, nor the others, will begrudge you this. Do so with a free heart."

Cygnus gulped. He wanted to reply, but he couldn't. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. _That won't be enough_, he thought. _I know he's doing what he thinks is right, but I'm not going to lose my son again. If I can-_

Shouting coming from outside interrupted his thoughts. Cygnus, Aslan and the others went around the side of the inn, just as Sir Dorbin, Fee Hal, Sitdale and Wescene came out the main door.

Sir Dorbin looked worse than they expected. His eyes were almost wild with grief, his brown hair a mess. His eyes roved over the new arrivals without settling on them. Cygnus thought he looked on the edge of delirium.

Then he looked at the other three who had come with him, and his blood froze. They wore the same expression their leader did.

There was more bad news coming, the wizard knew.

Aslan peered closely at Sir Dorbin, trying to catch and hold the knight's attention. "Sir Dorbin? It's me, Aslan! What is it?"

Dorbin's eyes finally locked on Aslan. He licked his lips several times, trying to summon up the strength to speak. When he finally did, his voice was a thin imitation of its strong, noble self.

"Aslan. Our world, our home…"

The paladin could feel all the blood rushing out of his face. Something, a feeling from earlier in that day, was trying to return to his heart and his mind, but he paid it no heed.

Whatever it was, it was already written on the knight's face.

Aslan put both of his hands on Dorbin's shoulders. "Good Sir Dorbin, time is of the essence to us. You must steady yourself and tell us what you know!"

Cygnus looked at Fee Hal, Wescene and Sitdale, but they were in no better shape than Dorbin was.

"Aslan," Sir Dorbin spoke again, his voice cracking as he tried to raise it above a hoarse whisper. His eyes moved to the others. "Cygnus. All of you. We will not be returning home. None of us. Ever…"

Sir Dorbin swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

"Our world, Aarde, as we knew it- is gone from our reach."

* * *

Part of Aslan's mind was screaming at him that precious minutes of mindresting were being wasted. Still, he sat along with the others at the two large tables that had been placed together in the Brass Dragon's common room. The paladin watched as Dorbin drained a large mug of ale, which apparently regained him some composure. The knight then took a hard look at Aslan again.

"Did you sleep at any time today, Aslan? Did you have a nightmare?"

Aslan flinched, although he knew that had been coming. Wisps of images roamed on the edges of his memory. He frowned, trying to focus on them, but Sir Dorbin was already continuing.

I saw a great ring of stones, on the shores of a lake."

Cygnus' eyes went wide.

"Tovag Baragu,"he whispered.

Dorbin glanced over at him. "What?"

"It is a site many leagues southwest of here," the tall mage said. "It is very, very old, and held as sacred by the Baklunish people of the Flanaess. A Baklunish wizard named Bar told me of it several years ago, and we have had- first-hand experience of its awesome power."

The others eyed him curiously. Cygnus glanced over at Aslan, who indicated with a subtle nod for the wizard to continue.

"Tovag Baragu, also known to some as the Transformers Of Time, is both location and artifact. Whether its power is arcane, divine, or some mixture thereof, I do not know. We believe a holy cabal of Baklunish spellcasters are the only ones who have both the authority and the power to utilize the site, but we also believe that they may… how do I say this," Cygnus said, his features twisting into a grimace. "Sell the usage of the Transformers to others for a high price."

"Example?" asked Sir Menn, his expression grim.

Cygnus looked down at the table and at his hands currently cradling a cup of mint tea. "At the beginning of this year, an old foe of ours named Scurvy John, a pirate from the Wild Coast down south, was apparently able to pay this cabal to utilize, if only briefly, the power of Tovag Baragu." The mage glanced up again at the others. "Among its myriad powers, the Transformers can instantly snatch any person anywhere off the face of Oerth and _teleport_ them to the stone circle."

Numerous eyebrows went up, and there were several murmured expressions of astonishment.

Cygnus continued. "Scurvy John used it to have Argo, with whom he has a personal enmity, transported right out of our Tall Tales Room. I do not know all the details of what happened, but John apparently demanded single combat with Argo, in a fight to the death. Argo of course, as befits his contrary nature," Cygnus continued with a slight smile, "refused this. According to Argo, John was so enraged, he looked like his heart was going to burst. Argo was allowed to return home by those who controlled the Transformers, and that was the end of it." Cygnus shrugged and eyed the others again. "I was told other tales of Tovag Baragu, though," he added, his voice ominous. "Terrible tales, of the havoc it has wreaked in the past history of the Flanaess. All options are open to it. The fabrics of space and time are laid bare before the Transformers, to manipulate to whatever ends those who control them see fit."

Sir Dorbin was silent for a moment, and then he continued the recounting of his dream. "Inside of this circle, I saw a vision appear. I saw the earth as if from above, from a great height. I could see cities, towns, farms, forests, mountains, and rivers. I saw the sun cross the sky, and the moon. Then, it all began to flow by, faster and faster- night followed day in the blink of an eye. I saw cities vanish, and others arise in seconds. And then I heard a voice, great and terrible. Even as an omnipotent observer, I trembled." Sir Dorbin's dark blue eyes looked from one face to another among his audience. "I know not who spoke, but it was not a voice of weal, nor was it the voice of a mortal."

"What did it say?" Wescene asked softly.

"_Let thirty generations pass from home,"_ the knight replied. He again looked around at the others, apparently searching for comments.

"Thirty generations," Aslan mused. "If the voice spoke from a human perspective, that would be-"

"Six hundred years," cut in Unru.

There was a stunned silence around the table.

"By every god above and below," whispered Fee Hal. "Everything, everyone we ever knew- all gone."

"Let's not close the book on this just yet, shall we?" Sir Dorbin asked, his voice once again regaining its mien of command. He glanced back at Cygnus. "Good Cygnus, if this Tovag Baragu caused this, then it should be able to undo it. This 'Bar' of whom you spoke with. Could he aid us?"

The wizard slowly shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Sir Dorbin," he replied. "Bar was slain some years ago, by the lich Kar-Vermin." A thoughtful look came into his eyes. "Perhaps though, the Willip Wizard's Guild Library may hold some clues. Zantac's always boasting of it- perhaps it should earn its reputation."

"If Zelhile will still let him use it," Torlina added cautiously. "I daresay he's probably not very happy with him at this point. Or with you," she finished, her green eyes fixed on Cygnus, who could only nod a grim agreement.

"I wonder on whose behest this was done," mused Sir Menn.

Monsrek shrugged. "Nodyath would be my guess. Certainly, someone who wants things changed back on Aarde, or perhaps on Rolex."

Torlina glanced over at the priest curiously. "Rolex?"

Surprisingly, it was Flond who finished the thought. "Rolex is inextricably linked to our world, if Elrohir is to be believed. Whatever happened to Aarde has happened there as well, I don't doubt." He shrugged. "Why skimp on sharing the misery?"

"Well done, Dorbin."

It took a moment for everyone to realize who had spoken, but by that time Aiclesis had already risen to his feet. The elf was glaring at his team leader.

"We're here by your command alone, my leader." The rogue's voice dripped heavily with contempt. "We could have gone home before this happened. By the Abyss, we could have taken Tad with us, and spared his life as well! Now, we're all lost, one way or another!"

Cygnus and Aslan glanced at each other in puzzlement, but Aiclesis was already continuing.

"It wasn't our concern! _Nodyath wasn't even from our world!_ Do you know what you've done? What do you think the odds are of our being able to reverse this? _You've lost us our world!_ Damn you and your obsession with other Talents!"

Fee Hall jumped to his feet and came striding up to Aiclesis. "You have no right to talk to Sir Dorbin that way! He's risked his life a hundred times over for you! Besides, why are you distressed more than the rest of us? Everyone knows how slowly life moves among your kind. You never change! Why would-"

Aiclesis' fist smashed into the youth's face. Fee Hal went flying back, and crashed to the floor. He moaned, holding his nose with his right hand. Blood was starting to seep through his fingers.

"You fool!" Aiclesis shouted at him in elven. "You jumped into the bowl! We came after you!_ This is all your fault!" _he shrieked at Fee Hal and started kicking the downed squire when Sitdale and Unru grabbed him from behind. There was a brief but noisy struggle, with everyone on his or her feet now. Those who were not yelling or fighting were staring glumly around themselves. Dorbin, surprisingly, ignored the others and came over to Aslan and Cygnus.

"You two need to rest, and regain your strength. Nothing else is as important right now. Torlina. Flond."

The two wizards turned away from the spectacle to eye the knight.

Dorbin gestured. "_Alarm_ spells. Cast them for Cygnus and Aslan. Nodyath might still be nearby."

The two nodded and headed off, Torlina upstairs and Flond towards the main door. As he passed them, pulling up his brown hood over his face again, Flond turned to Cygnus.

"Still think we're better off than you are?" he hissed. The mage slammed the doors open as he went out.

Without another word, Dorbin turned away and headed back to break up the squabble.

"Come on, Cygnus," Aslan said quietly. "We both have tasks before us. Let's go."

* * *

Silently, Cygnus prepared himself for bed. He did not feel sleepy, but he felt tired. Drained. All the emotion slowly seemed to be seeping out of his body, and he didn't know if it was ever going to come back. Tad, Mirage… somehow, they already seemed like distant memories to him.

He grunted, shrugging off his backpack. Heavier than he expected, it slipped from his fingers and tumbled to the floor. There was a clattering noise as a small slate bounced out of it and landed at his feet.

Cygnus stared at it for a while, and then slowly picked it up. It bore several names upon it. His Enemies List.

He remembered the burnings of anger, the thoughts of vengeance, even the exultations of joy that this List had awoken in him in these days and weeks past.

Long ago, that was.

His hand opened, and the slate fell to the floor again. Cygnus slowly trod over to his bed, removed his robes and trousers, and lay down. He pulled the blankets up over his head. Everything seemed so unreal, so devoid of feeling. Even if they were to finally catch and kill Nodyath, Cygnus knew he would find no joy in it anymore. He knew his friends were counting on him. His son was counting on him. He had even seen the look in Torlina's eyes as tshe had left the inn for Aslan's cabin. She was hoping that somehow, Cygnus would be able to discover a way to help her and her friends.

The magic-user sighed deeply and stared at the inside of his woolen blanket, only dimly illuminated by a lit candle in his room. He thought of Aarde. Home. His parents. Part-Hew, his mentor. His grandfather, the supposed terrible wizard that he had never known. All those he had met there. Now gone. It was too much for him to imagine.

"I wish you were here, Hyzenthlay," he whispered. He rolled over on his side and hugged the goose down pillow tightly to his chest.

"Is this a sign, All-Father?" Cygnus whispered. "Have I been too prideful, too manipulative? Would you have me change? Or not? What would you have me do? Tell me, and I shall do it. All that I have done, all that I have planned, has come to naught. Please, Lord Odin. Guide me."

No voice answered back.

* * *

Aslan knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep.

He had undressed. He had unpacked what little needed to be unpacked. He had carefully hung up his holy symbol on the wall where it always hung when not in use, and he had stoked the fire in the fireplace, but his mind was in turmoil. Thoughts and feelings were surging through him like a raging river. He kept trying to calm down, using relaxation techniques he had learned from Tojo, but it wasn't working. There was so much to do, and so little time to do it in.

Thoughts of Aarde came unbidden. Home. Those he had known, and would now never see again. His mother…

"Stop it," he told himself. _"Stop it!"_

He whirled and thrust his hand into the fire.

With a cry of pain, he pulled it back. His hand was already starting to blister. Awkwardly, with his left hand he found his waterskin and poured its contents over his hand, trying hard to choke off the scream of pain. He forced himself to look at his hand again. It was not a serious wound. Indeed, after he had mindrested, it would be gone forever, but the pain.

The pain of a selfish act. The pain that he felt more in his heart than anywhere else. The pain that did not heal.

That was the kind of pain Aslan couldn't stand.

Still, he mused bitterly as he got ready for bed. It had quieted his mind of all other concerns, at least temporarily. "Is that the kind of sacrifice I need to make more often, Odin?" he asked with a note of bitterness as he sat down on his bed. He reached over to scratch Mirage's ears.

And stopped. The paladin looked around at the cabin. His empty cabin. Mirage would never again share it with him.

He glanced towards the wall next to him. Not ten feet away from where he lay, his beloved dog had slowly bled his life away, while a horrid monster with Aslan's face had looked on and smiled, and plotted the abduction of an innocent child.

Aslan shut his eyes tightly, but it didn't help. As surely as if he was using his Talent, he could see himself telling Mirage to watch out for Tad. He could see himself telling the boy he couldn't come with them to Chendl, even as the elf had begged and pleaded, and finally acquiesced.

Like any child, Tadoa had believed his elders would look out after him.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Aslan whispered.

Abruptly, he threw his face upwards and screamed.

"_This wasna supposed tae happen!"_

No voice answered back.

Aslan slowly lay down on the bed, willing the tears to stop until they did. Grimacing with pain, he pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes again.

_I am a paladin_, he thought. _A paladin of Odin. I have been blessed with a Talent no other man has. I have my faith, my courage, and my strength to see me through adversity. My friends, who have saved my life in the past, now depend on my swift return. I need to be fully rested, and so I shall be. It is that simple. I will cut away the chaff of anything that impedes me in what I must do._

He thought of Cygnus, whom he knew must be feeling the same way. _You were right Cygnus_, Aslan thought. _Even Sir Dorbin was right. Nodyath is not simply another foe, to be countered or out-thought. I do not share his wickedness. I cannot predict his next move, because I do not think like him, despite our outward similarities. We cannot be everywhere, but he only has to be in the right place for an instant. Very well, then. I shall play his game. When these Slave Lords have been vanquished, I will show my counterpart just how powerful I can be. I will make any sacrifice…_

Aslan opened his eyes. Above him, the blue eye of Odin, his holy symbol, gazed down upon him.

The paladin shut his eyes again.

_I will pay any price._


	56. Under Siege

**15th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

"Zantac?"

The mage turned around at the sound of that voice. The thought occurred to him that he would be very pleased indeed to hear that voice every day for the rest of his life.

He turned around. Marisee was walking back towards him from the former slaves. Zantac could see the group was starting to get very restless. Some had been sleeping earlier, but now they were all awake. Some looked on edge, either looking forward to some imminent combat or dreading it. Others constantly darted glances at the Slave Lord, and their fists clenched or tightened around the handle of whatever weapon they had scrounged up. Even Marisee, Zantac noted, carried a thin dagger stuck in her belt. He noted grimly that the weapon's blade was coated in dried blood. He then noticed something else he hadn't before.

"Where did you get those gloves?" he asked.

Marisee smiled, embarrassed, at him. She held up her hands, displaying the leather gloves, dyed an ivory color. "One of the other slaves found them, in one of the boxes your friends brought up from below. I traded some rations I had found for them, and a bottle of perfume." She indicated a miniscule bottle that was wedged between an old belt and her filthy rags, then turned her hands around, looking at them in admiration. "They're much more beautiful than any I've seen, even in the shops of Elredd." She then looked up at Zantac in alarm. "You don't think I was foolish, do you? Trading food for silly things like these? I know- I was, wasn't I? It's just that… I've never had these things before. My parents couldn't afford them even if they had wanted to. I know I'm just a village girl, but…" she trailed off, looking down at the stone floor, as if she had just committed a cardinal sin.

With a trembling hand, Zantac softly took her chin in his hand and lifted her head up to look at him. "You deserve all that, and much more. And once this is over, you will have it all, if you want."

She smiled back at him, her lips trembling and eyes moist, then threw herself around into Zantac's arms and hugged him tightly Zantac closed his eyes as well, hoping and praying that this was not a dream.

Marisee pulled back and then looked back over at the group of former slaves. She cleared her throat and tried to save them both face by changing the subject. "They're getting restless."

The wizard could only nod helplessly. "I know."

Marisee looked deeply into Zantac's eyes. He could see the worry that was there. "If the others don't return soon, I'm afraid something may happen. And besides…" she broke off, looking away.

Zantac was puzzled. "What?'

Marisee hesitated, and then said to him in a near whisper. "There's something important I have to tell you, Zantac. Can we go somewhere private for a moment?"

The mage closed his eyes for a moment. _Please Marisee, don't tempt me._ He opened them again and gave her a wan smile. "I'd like to, but Elrohir's all fired up about not letting anyone getting out of sight." He leaned closer to the young woman. "Whisper it to me."

Disappointment flashed in Marisee's eyes for a moment, but then she leaned in to the magic-user's ear. "There were rumors", she said. "Passed amongst some of us late at night, when none of the slavers or guards were around. They said that there was a spy put in with the other slaves. He was used to check on the reactions of potential buyers, to insure that they were who they said they were. Also, it was said," and here she hesitated, "that he reported back to one of the orcs about any 'problem' prisoners, those who might be planning an escape. I fear that spy may be here with us now."

Zantac chewed his lip, then looked back at Marisee, who was watching him intently.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, my dear," he told her. "Elrohir and Nesco said they killed the orc chieftain, and we have the Slave Lord himself in our custody. I can't imagine any of them could-"

"No. Not Chief Arrn." Said Marisee. "Rezshk. The witch doctor was the truly powerful one. Everyone knew it, but they preferred to deal with Arrn, and Rezshk seemed to prefer it that way. But it was said the spy reported directly to him."

Zantac frowned and looked over at the group of slaves again. "Which one of them could be a spy?"

Marisee shrugged. "The strongest."

The wizard's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Sarkos. The bare-chested warrior was pacing back and forth among the group, talking with them. He had clearly cemented his status as leader in their eyes. They spoke hardly at all to the rest of the party now.

Zantac tried to keep a clear head about this. "We have no proof of any of this, Marisee. And further, even if it were true, we shall have the truth out of the Slave Lord soon enough."

There was a pause, and then Marisee leaned in close to whisper to Zantac again. He could feel her warm breath, her lips almost touching his ear.

"Unless the Slave Lord does not last that long."

Zantac looked again at Sarkos, who was glaring now at their prisoner. Even at this distance, he could see the planning going on behind those eyes.

"How long has it been?" Caroline asked aloud, to no one in particular.

Talass, who seemed to have a better internal sense of time's passing better than any of them (with the exception of Aslan) sighed and muttered "About six hours."

Elrohir's voice was firm. "They will be back soon. Aslan should be at his full strength by now."

"And then what?"

Elrohir turned around to see his fellow ranger walk up to him, his face unusually grim.

"I've been running through the scenarios", Argo Bigfellow said. "I count forty-four of us here total, not counting Aslan and Cygnus. It'd take Aslan a month to ferry us all out by teleportation. He could try polymorphing into a dragon or some such as a mount, but he wouldn't be as tough as the real thing, and that would just make him the target of choice. Even his psionic blasts couldn't clear out a big enough area for us to make a break for it. We're moving too slowly. And if there exists some spell that could help us, Cygnus never mentioned it." He finished with a glance towards the temple doors, then turned back to eye Elrohir. "Sooner or later, and probably sooner, that mob out there is going to break in. Any more miracles up your sleeve, oh fearless leader?"

Elrohir sighed and gave Argo a small grin. "Miracles are our specialty, Argo. We can't seem to come up with them until the moment we need them, but trust me, they're still in stock."

Argo seemed to consider for a moment, then gave his friend a large smile. "I'll take a dozen, please." He started to walk back towards Caroline, then turned around again. "To go."

Elrohir's grin grew to match his. "Please wait to be served until the gods call out your name, sir…"

"Nesco?"

Cynewine had been watching the banter between her two fellow rangers, smiling inwardly at the obvious comradeship between the two men. That was something she desperately wanted to join in. Despite the sometimes-fierce arguments that raged amongst them, all of these people were long-time friends. Even Zantac, whom had just joined recently, seemed to be finding his niche. Nesco was getting there, though. Everyone seemed to respect her skills. Even Caroline, who had seemed suspicious of Cynewine at first, was acting much more friendly towards her now. Things were not actually going that bad.

Not counting their imminent demise, of course.

It took a moment for the mage's voice to register. When she turned around, Zantac was standing by her, casting furtive glances around him. Nesco was mildly surprised. This was maybe the second time since she'd come up from the surface that she'd seen the wizard without that attractive young woman at his side. The ranger tried to suppress a smile as she pictured the two of them together. "Yes, Zantac?"

The magic-user looked troubled, more so than even their current situation might account for. He looked at her soberly. "I'd like to speak with you for a moment…"

Nesco tried to take it all in. "That sounds a little far-fetched, Zantac."

"Why?" the wizard queried. "What would Marisee have to gain from making up such a story? "

Nesco considered. Admittingly, she couldn't think of any logical reason. Then a stray idea struck her.

"Sir Enkos," she murmured.

Zantac looked at her curiously, but Nesco was deep in thought.

_I wonder if that was what he wanted to talk to me about._

"Hmmm. You may be onto something, Zantac," she said softly. A frown settled on her face. "I wish Sir Enkos were still here."

Zantac's voice was quiet. "And who was the last person to see Sir Enkos alive?"

Nesco's eyes grew wide. "Sarkos." She glanced over at their captive, still standing meekly by them. The ranger pressed her lips together. "I don't suppose you'd care to offer any information as to the veracity of this tale?" She muttered at him.

The Slave Lord raised an eyebrow at her and smiled. "Would you believe anything that I might say?" He then looked past the duo, a troubled look appearing on his face.

Nesco and Zantac turned around. Tojo was standing about five feet away, staring at them, his face even more serious than usual. It seemed not like him to eavesdrop, but before either of them could say anything, the samurai took a step up to Zantac and addressed him with a slight bow.

"Kumquat not arways faw on right side of tree, Zantac-san."

With that, Tojo turned around and walked away.

"Huh?" Shouted Zantac at the samurai's retreating back. _"WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS DOES THAT MEAN?"_

Everyone else in the chamber looked over at him. Zantac's face grew red, but before he could even begin to think up something to say, the noise outside, which had noticeably dimmed in the past half-hour or so, suddenly increased. It swiftly grew to its former volume… and then beyond.

"Everyone on their feet!" Argo shouted, running past them on his way towards the temple doors. "Time to go to work!"

A few minutes later, everyone was assembled in the cemetery. The ex-slaves were a sea of frightened faces as they looked at the sky above, and even the party didn't like what they saw.

It was dark, some hours past midnight in all probability. A thick layer of clouds covered the entire sky at a terrifying low ceiling. Two hundred feet, at most. What were probably hundreds of torches outside illuminated their undersides, which rolled and boiled an angry a dark brownish-red. Occasionally, flashes of lightning lit up the clouds from within, but the rangers noted that the air did not have that smell with it that often preceded a storm. A somewhat larger glow was coming from the north or northwest, possibly from the docks area, perhaps six to seven hundred feet from their current position.

The party members looked at each other. Zantac let out a deep sigh.

"Only two spells left, and I've got to use one of them," he said loudly, then handed off his quarterstaff to Nesco. "Hang on to this." He started digging through his spell component pouch.

Marisee grabbed hold of his shoulder. "Zantac, don't! It's too dangerous!"

The wizard looked back at her. He figured he was one of the few so far in the group who hadn't yet tried to imitate Argo's pained smile, so he gave it a try. From Marisee's reaction, he thought she was probably wondering if he was having an attack of gas. All the brave and clever quips in his head went flying off and were lost.

"I'll be all right," he said simply and walked over to the wall. "I just really hate this spell, that's all."

The wizard stared up. The stone wall looked to be about ten feet high, and perhaps two feet thick. Zantac glanced up at his hand that he held over his head, grimaced and then closed his eyes, tipped his head back and opened his mouth wide. He felt the drop of viscid tar land on his tongue. Despite his better judgment, he peeked through one eye and watched the spider's legs writhing as the creature struggled between his thumb and forefinger.

_I really, really, really hate this spell…_

Zantac climbed slowly but nimbly up the wall, his hands and feet sticking securely with each contact. When his head was almost level with the top, he took a deep breath and moved up a foot further, peering over the top.

Nothing he saw encouraged him.

As he expected, the temple, or at least the eastern portion of it, which was all he could see, was still surrounded by a hostile crowd that looked to number in the hundreds. The closest of them were maintaining a distance of at least ten feet from the wall, though. To the northwest, Zantac could see the source of the glow the party had seen earlier.

It was a ship.

Just coming into view from behind a warehouse was a vessel perhaps seventy or eighty feet in length. Zantac knew a little of ships from his brother, who was a fisherman, but could not place what kind of a vessel this was. It had the shallow flat bottom of a keelboat, but no room for oars. And instead of one large sail, which most keelboats carried, this one had two smaller sails.

Had it not been for the source of the glow, the one thing that would have captured Zantac's attention more than anything else was the obvious quality of this ship. Even from here, he could see the masts, prow and other woodwork were carved into pleasing humanoid forms, although he could not make out the finer details. The sails rippled as though in a strong breeze, although Zantac could feel none. The ship was moving slowly westwards, paralleling the docks and sailing as close as possible to the piers. The wizard could make out no crew on the ship, although he supposed that might be due to the distance. Or more likely, due to the source of the glow.

The ship was on fire.

Flames were engulfing most of the rigging, although not yet the sails (magically resistant, Zantac guessed). Most of the deck seemed aflame, as did the small forecastle. The wizard turned his head around and down towards the others, who were looking up at him expectantly.

"Well?" Talass asked. "What is it?"

Zantac told them.

Elrohir was visibly upset. "That's supposed to be our escape route? Our mysterious savior sends us a ship, and doesn't realize it'd get shot to pieces, or burnt to a crisp before it even makes dock?"

Zantac was about to reply when a noise coming from the other direction- south, made him turn back and look.

A massive battering ram was slowly being wheeled towards their location. It was currently making a wide turn around the temple's southeastern corner. Two ogres, both wearing harnesses, were pulling the contraption along, keeping the siege weapon at a distance of about fifteen feet from the walls. The ram's housing alone looked to be at least as high as the temple walls. Around the ram swirled a mob of shouting humanoids.

_Not good_, the mage thought. He updated the group below. "They must have cast some kind of spell on that ram to make immune to whatever force is hurling people away from the walls who get too close. Obviously, they're getting ready to use it against us."

"Or it's simply too big to be effected by that force," offered Caroline.

Zantac considered and nodded. "Either way, it'll be in position in no more than two minutes, by my reckoning. Suggestions, anyone?"

The reply to his query came, not from any of the party, but from Sarkos, who had been standing further back in the cemetery, near the crypt.

"Someone is coming up the stairs!"

At that pronouncement, several of the slaves started wailing again, despite the best efforts of Sarkos and the others to stop them. Zantac turned back to the scene outside, desperately hoping to see something that might aid them, when an arrow whizzed by just over his head. It was followed by several others.

He had been spotted. Some in the crowd surged forward towards the wall, but were immediately hurled back. The mob began yelling for the ram to brought around.

"Our number is up, Elrohir," Argo said grimly as he drew Harve from its sheath. "Miracle time."

Elrohir stared back, then slowly drew Gokasillion and nodded to the others, who also drew weapons. Zantac came back down from the wall and retrieved his quarterstaff from Nesco. Marisee rushed over to the mage and clung to him tightly.

Elrohir addressed the party. "We make our own miracle today, good people. And if we fail…" he took a deep breath, trying to calm his own nerves as much as everyone else's, "then at least Aslan and Cygnus will survive." The ranger looked over to Sarkos and the others. "I'm sorry, people. We did our best. We won't begrudge any of you if you decide to surrender, but in all honesty I don't think they'll accept it at this point."

"They will if you let me go."

Nesco stared at the Slave Lord standing next to her. Despite his hands being bound in front of him, he seemed more confidant than any of them as he continued speaking, raising his voice in order to be heard above the riot outside. "Condemn the slaves to death if you wish Elrohir, but know that their blood will be on your hands, as well as that of all your friends here. I can guarantee the safety of all of you, but you must surrender to me… now."

Sarkos had started striding towards the Slave Lord when he had started speaking. Now, he stood right in front of him, his hand white-knuckled with the tight grip he held on the hilt of his sword. The others tensed, ready to intervene, but Sarkos merely thrust his face in front of the Slave Lord, glaring at him eye-to eye."

"Then we all die. The only dishonorable death… will be yours."

Zantac and Nesco glanced at each other, but Sarkos was already moving back to the slaves, trying to keep them from falling completely apart.

Elrohir, Talass beside him, moved into the guardhouse and made ready to remove the wooden beam holding it shut. He hoped that their unknown benefactor had not made his wizard lock proof against them as well. Elrohir turned back to the others. The noise was even louder, and only by shouting could he make himself heard now.

"Everyone into position! We'll make for the ship! If there's enough left of her to board, maybe we can put the fire out!"

He was speaking nonsense, and he knew it. They wouldn't get thirty feet before they were cut down, but he didn't want to die without a plan, no matter how impossible it might be. As the others started getting ready for their final battle, Elrohir looked over at his wife, whose blue eyes were now gazing calmly into his. There was no fear, or pain now, and for that Elrohir was grateful, but he still couldn't work up a last smile, no matter how hard he tried.

His own guilt remained.

"I'm sorry Talass," he told her. Both of his hands held weapon or shield, so he put his right arm around her shoulder as best as he could. "I guess I didn't do my father very proud, did I?"

She smiled at him, and cradled his cheek with her left hand.

"I tell you this as a priestess, my husband. Your father today looks down upon you from Asgard, and is filled with pride. And one day, when our son Barahir is grown to manhood, we will look down upon him from above, and our hearts too will swell with pride. For the past, the present, and the future are all filled with stirring tales of bravery, of courage, and of fighting the good fight, waging the just battle, and showing others just what it means," her voice cracked, and a tear just as likely born of happiness as of sorrow rolled down her cheek, "to die for what you believe in."

Elrohir stared at her in wonder. Talass gave him a guilty smile and wiped her face.

"You were right, dearest. Retirement is for those who can choose it, like Cygnus. Our paths were predestined for us." She looked into his eyes again, and her smile grew wider until he could see nothing else, or cared to. They kissed, one last time.

Talass pulled back and cleared her throat. "I'll take the five hundred on the left, you take the five hundred on the right," she told him.

Elrohir smiled.

"Works for me."

Caroline was amazed at how calm Argo seemed, although she was aware of the raging storm that must be within him. She clutched his left hand tightly. He glanced over at her and smiled.

"Please don't think me heartless, but I'm glad you're with me."

Caroline nuzzled up to Argo for what she guessed would be the last time. "Anyone else might think it so, but I know you too well, Argo Bigfellow Junior." Her face turned down. "I'm sorry, my love. I know I promised you children-"

Argo cut her off. "And I shall hold you to that promise, my love."

She gazed back up at him in wonder.

He returned the look. "We shall have them on Mount Olympus," he said calmly, as if it was self-evident.

Caroline couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. "Is that permitted?"

Argo shrugged. "I'm not sure, but all happens according to the will of the Mighty Zeus," he said, then cocked an eyebrow at her. "I'll sweet talk him, you flash a little skin, and we'll make the magic happen." His auburn eyes, made even more majestic in Harve's red glow, sparkled. "We always did."

They embraced, then kissed. Argo then turned back towards the front and raised his sword high over his head. _"We shall fight until we shatter our weapons on the bodies of our enemies!"_ He yelled.

"Hey!" Yelled Harve. "Let's watch that crazy talk here, shall we?"

Argo and Caroline laughed, but were just barely able to make out the voice of Tojo behind them.

"You arways make jokes."

They turned around in wonderment. Caroline for one, couldn't believe that Tojo would choose his last moments on Oerth to suddenly bring up unknown grudges he had been holding back.

Yanigasawa Tojo was bowing deeply to them. It was at least as deep as the bow that he had given King Belvor. When he rose up, the samurai's face held only his eternal, inscrutable expression.

"I not rearn so much if I not reave Nippon… if I not meet Errohir and Asran-san, and then meet awe of you. Your rafter… uprifts my so. Is easy to die with honor."

He cocked an eyebrow at them.

"You make me raff."

Argo and Caroline stared incredulously at Tojo, as did Nesco and Zantac behind him. The samurai still looked as grim as ever.

Argo spoke slowly, just a trace of a smile on his lips. "I'll have to take your word on that, Tojo-sama."

Without warning, Yanigasawa Tojo's face broke out, not into just a full smile, but into the best imitation of Argo's legendary pained smile that Caroline had ever seen.

"Onry wish they had been… _better_ jokes. You pretty rame sometimes, Bigferrow-san…"

Nesco was still smiling even as Tojo had turned around and bowed to her, as well. Like Argo and Caroline, she returned it as best she could, wincing at the pain the effort involved.

She and Elrohir were still by far the most seriously injured of the party. Their usefulness in the upcoming melee would be limited to the first weapon strike of their opponents that hit.

Nesco glanced over at the Slave Lord, standing next to her. From the expression on his face as he eyed her, he seemed well aware of this fact.

"So, Lady Cynewine," he said in his high-pitched voice. "Are you ready to die needlessly?"

Nesco scowled at him and held her sword close to his throat. "Perhaps. I will have your example to learn from."

She got a small nugget of satisfaction from the frown that crossed his face. The Slave Lord took a deep breath and resumed his former demeanor, a bit more nervously now. He looked straight ahead of him at no one in particular as he spoke.

"How tragic. To come all this way in search of your brother." He looked back over at Nesco and smiled again. "You do realize he was sold to the stockade weeks ago?"

The ranger nodded. "So Sir Enkos told me. You do realize that you will pay for-"

He interrupted her. "Who?"

Cynewine frowned impatiently. "Sir Enkos! My brother's companion and fellow Knight of the Order! He was one of those we freed, but-"

Again, her prisoner cut her off. "We had no such prisoner."

Nesco wondered how many seconds she could take of this before her sword arm started swinging of its own accord. "You lie poorly, wretch. I saw Sir Enkos. I spoke with him!"

The Slave Lord frowned. "Only Sir Miles of that party was taken prisoner. The others were slain as best I know, or are unaccounted for, at best."

"And why should I believe anything of what you say?" Nesco snarled. "Have you suddenly decided to tell the truth out of the goodness of your heart?"

The rogue smiled sardonically at her. "My logs were meticulous and well-kept. They were in one of those boxes you people tore through like rats. Did you not bother to read them, or were you interested only in the pretty baubles?"

Nesco hesitated. If what their prisoner was saying was true…

A vision came speeding into her head, as if shot from an arrow. A hideous creature lying dead on the floor of the stable, its large, octopoid eyes staring…

"_Doppelganger,"_ she whispered.

She whirled around to stare at Zantac…

Marisee, panicked, was clutching at the red-robed wizard. "Please!" she cried out. "I can't go out there! I'm afraid! I'm sorry, but I am! I'm not a warrior", she said, her voice weak now, staring wildly at the dagger she clutched in her hand. She looked back up at Zantac, her brown eyes wild with fear. "I don't know how to use this! I don't want to die!"

Neither do I, thought Zantac, but it's probably only minutes away for all of us. He looked again at the petrified young woman, and couldn't bring himself to lie to her. Instead, he hugged her close.

"Stay close to me," he whispered. Wordlessly, she nodded, then buried her face in his shoulder.

A loud _boom_ came from behind them, from the crypt. Zantac had _wizard locked_ it hours earlier. Now, small chips of stone were falling off the door as it rattled under the assault of something from the other side…

Slowly, Elrohir lifted the wooden crossbeam off the slats holding it in place and laid it beside the door. There was so much noise coming from just outside that he doubted the mob would have heard it.

The ranger took one last look at his wife, and at his friends. He took a long, deep breath and glanced up at the sky overhead, which was now illuminated almost constantly by lightning within.

_Father of Victory_, he prayed. _Please save these people…_

He yelled _"NOW!"_ and yanked the door open, but other than Talass, it was doubtful anyone heard him.

Far behind Elrohir, in the cemetery at that exact moment, the stone crypt door shuddered and fell off its hinges, toppling to the ground with a mighty crash. Behind a massive wooden club, its head shod in iron, a large face moved into view. It had light brown skin, a sloping brow, bushy eyebrows, large flared ears and a bulbous wart on its nose. Beady eyes stared at the assembled humans, and the creature began to move through the opening, stooping low to do so.

"_KIIIILLLL!"_ Glarg screamed, but even the ogre's shout lost in volume to another sound.

A blast of thunder from above quaked the city below.

The clouds opened, and the sky began to rain comets.


	57. Fire From The Sky

**15th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Streaming tails of fire behind them, numerous bright yellow balls plunged straight down out of the sky, slamming into the crowd below and exploding on impact. Elrohir and Talass, who were just starting to move out the guard post door, had the best view.

The comets were not falling indiscriminately. In fact, they were falling in a line pattern running north-south, running parallel to the temple's east wall, and landing about thirty five feet or so from it. When each one hit, it exploded in a brilliant flare of red fire that resembled nothing else so much as a rose blossoming at accelerated speed. Although powerful (Elrohir winced as a nearby screaming orc directly underneath a comet was turned to ash by its impact), the small flowers of fire about twenty fire in diameter that spread out from their landing points were noticeably less intense, and resulted in minor burns and combustibles catching fire at worst.

The ranger looked. It was hard to tell how far south the curtain of fireballs extended, although it seemed to extend at least the length of the temple wall. To the north, it seemed to extend as far as the docks; creating a narrow corridor perhaps ten to fifteen feet wide all the way out to the closest pier… where the flaming ship would be passing by in a few minutes.

Elrohir turned back to the others. _"GO! GO! GO! GO!"_

He and Talass turned left and began running, followed close behind by Argo and Caroline ….

Back in the cemetery, there was panic. Some of the slaves were massing in a pile by the door that led into the guard post, pushing and clawing at each other to get through. Sarkos was trying to stay in the midst of the crowd and direct them, but he was quickly becoming overwhelmed by the effort.

Marisee was nearly hysterical now, as well. "I can't do this! I can't go out there! _I'll die!"_ She shrieked.

"You'll die if you stay!" Zantac shouted back. "Come on! I'll be with you the whole time, I promise!"

The wizard risked a quick glance back towards the crypt. Grasping a barbed spear in his right hand, the witch doctor Rezshk confidently strode out to stand beside Glarg. He flashed a vicious smile at the assorted slaves and adventurers, but said nothing. Instead, he turned to the ogre standing next to him and began casting a spell.

_He's shining him up_, groaned Zantac inwardly. _Short duration spell too, if he's waited until now to do it. Probably nasty_. He turned to Nesco. "Go!" He shouted. "I'll cover the rear!"

Cynewine stared at him for a moment, shook her head momentarily at what she no doubt considered an idiotic move by Zantac, and then nodded, and with Tojo moved ahead, helping Sarkos trying to keep the mass of former slaves moving in the right direction. Together, they managed to start pushing them out the far door into the street.

Zantac half-pushed, half-dragged Marisee towards the guard post door. As he did he watched Rezshk walk briskly over to stand by the wall in the exact same spot where the Willip wizard had earlier cast his _spider climb_ spell. The orc pulled from his spell component pouch his own live spider as Zantac and Marisee headed towards the guardhouse, and the witch doctor was lost to their sight.

Glarg however, was moving directly towards them now. Moving unnaturally fast. Marisee screamed as she and Zantac ducked into the guard post just as Glarg's club smashed into the wall next to them, showering them with shards of stone…

"Ye gods! They must be storming the temple!"

Cygnus released his grip on Aslan's shoulder and whirled around. He had to agree with his friend's assessment. The temple main chamber was littered with boxes, debris, even feces. Those within had apparently fled quickly, and en mass.

Aslan was already heading towards the inner temple doors, which lay ajar. "Come on!"

Cygnus needed no urging. Not burdened by armor, the wizard ran past the paladin and pulled open the door that led into the cemetery and charged forward towards where the guard post lay. Although much of the vegetation that had grown suddenly upon their initial entrance here had turned brown and died off, there was still enough to limit lines of sight. It wasn't until he got within twenty feet of the crypt that the mage stopped. He had a quick glimpse of an ogre ripping the wooden door of the guard post off its hinges and squeezing his bulky frame inside. Further away and off to the left, Cygnus thought there might be a figure standing on top of the temple wall, but he couldn't identify it from here.

What he could identify without a problem though, were orcs. They were pouring out of the crypt door into the cemetery. One of them spotted the magic-user and shouted out something guttural to his companions. They all turned to face him and snarled.

Cygnus turned back to warn Aslan.

The mage's eyes widened, and a sick look came into his face. _"Oh, no!"_ He told the paladin. "You know I don't like that! You know I haven't practiced as much as I should have!" Nevertheless, he ran over to Aslan, casting a quick glance up at the fiery sky overhead, and then back at the charging orcs.

"Couldn't you at least have… created a saddle or something?" Cygnus pleaded.

Aslan snorted and stamped his hoof impatiently…

Just at they came through the outer door into the street, Marisee grabbed Zantac and with surprising strength, wrested both of them over to the right side, instead of to the left with the others. They flattened themselves against the wall as Glarg came out seconds behind them, his massive frame crumbling the stone frame of the doorway. Without a second glance, the ogre turned left and ran after the others, bellowing at the top of his voice.

_Was that a brilliant maneuver, or just plain lucky?_ Zantac wondered. He looked over at Marisee, but the young woman was pointing northwards.

"Look!" She cried. Zantac followed her outstretched arm.

Nesco was trying to run, but the slaves were spreading out now, covering much of the "safe" corridor. They were jostling her every which way as they brushed past. She also noted grimly that this "safe" corridor might not be so safe after all.

The comets were not falling continuously. The ranger could already see that some of those in the crowd were staring upwards, trying to find a moment in which to dash forward. At the head of the pack, Nesco could already see Talass grappling with a half-orc who had broken through. Her husband pulled Talass' attacker off her, and the cleric's war hammer struck the half-orc in the side of his head, sending him spinning back towards the edge of the corridor. The half-orc recovered, raised his sword again… and then vanished in a red burst as a comet incinerated him with a direct hit.

_How many of us are actually going to make it?_ Nesco thought, then looked around her again. _I've got to save as many of them as I can. Even our prisoner-_

_Wait! The Slave Lord! Where is he?_

Nesco quickly spotted their captive, but there were so many people in the way she knew there was nothing she could do at the moment. He was behind her, at the trailing edge of the former slaves. Most of them had taken the time to slam into him as they ran past, and he was covered with even more cuts and bruises than he had sported previously. Only the fact that half of the former slaves had already dropped their weapons in fear, and the other half were too busy running to safety, had spared his life thus far. He flashed a grin at Nesco that made the ranger sick to her stomach, and then, with a glance upward, turned sidewise and made a dash for the crowd…

It was exactly this that Marisee was pointing at. "Quick! Zantac!" She cried. "You've got to stop him! No one else can!"

Zantac frowned at her. "Look Marisee, I personally don't care about the guy, but why do we have to kill him now! Didn't you say earlier that-"

"But don't you see?" Marisee shouted, her brown eyes pleading with the wizard. "Nesco's brother- Sir Miles! If the Slave Lord gets away, he'll make sure Miles is killed! You've got one spell left! Use your _magic missiles_ and kill him before it's too late!"

This was all happening too fast for Zantac. He tried to sort things out, but there wasn't time. If he was going to take out the Slave Lord, he had to do it now. He pointed at the slaver, and began incanting.

Then, that feeling, that nameless _something_ that came into Zantac's head every so often, did it again, shaping his thoughts for him…

_You told Marisee that you only had one spell left…_

_BUT YOU DIDN'T TELL HER WHICH ONE IT WAS, DID YOU?_

Zantac's eyes grew wide and he gasped, stopping the incantation. _I just lost the spell_, he thought.

"That's right," came a voice from behind him that started off as Marisee's but finished off as his own. "And a whole lot more."

Two gloved hands grasped his head from behind…

Nesco could not see Zantac. She could barely see the Slave Lord, as her ex-prisoner plunged into the crowd, suffering only a few burnt hairs from the nearest comet impact some twenty feet away. She had lost him.

Sarkos, on the other hand, had not.

As Cynewine watched, the hirsute warrior also made it into the crowd, which parted before his seemingly berserk rage. Much faster than his more seriously wounded quarry, he caught up to him and spun him around. Sarkos raised his sword to strike…

It was at that point that, from the corner of her eye, Nesco saw the spear. It was sailing along just over the heads of the crowd, and then it dipped abruptly, snaked around two members of the mob and impaled Sarkos from above and behind, pinning the burly man down to the ground, its shaft still quivering. The Slave Lord, and the others by him, gaped at the spectacle, then turned their eyes back towards the temple wall.

Standing atop it was Rezshk. A wild gleam in his one eye was visible even from where Nesco stood, a good hundred feet away from the witch doctor. She stared at the orc for a moment, and then returned her gaze to Sarkos, to see if he was still alive. What she saw made her catch her breath.

The spear sticking up out of Sarkos' back hadn't stopped quivering. Now it slowly _backed out_ of the fighter's body, its backward-pointing barbs ripping out more flesh as it exited. Flying backwards through the air, the weapon returned to Rezshk, who was already standing with his right arm cocked back behind him, his hand curled to receive his weapon.

_He's not going to waste any time_, Nesco realized. With a sinking heart, she looked around. Sarkos may or may not have been killed by the spear, but the mob had swarmed all over him by now, so Nesco knew it didn't really matter anymore.

A piercing scream, even louder than the surrounding tumult caught Cynewine's attention. Glarg the ogre had caught up with the rear end of the fleeing slaves. One young man's cry of terror was cut short as the massive club slammed into him, sending his instantly-lifeless body sailing off into the crowd.

Nesco cried out in rage and started running back towards Glarg, but the others- Elrohir, Talass, Argo, Caroline and Tojo- had already passed her. She gasped with the effort to keep up with them and had to turn to the very edge of the "safe" corridor to avoid the rest of the oncoming slave mass. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Slave Lord again.

The man now held Sarkos' sword in his hand. He held it aloft as he shouted out to the mob, inciting them to break through the curtain of comets and kill or capture the fleeing slaves. His words seemed to be having an effect as several tough-looking human and half-orc warriors gathered around him, and then began to move northwards.

Suddenly, the Slave Lord and those around him crumpled to the ground with no sound other than the _thud_ of their bodies hitting the cobblestones and the clank of dropped weapons. Others in the crowd pointed up to the sky.

About fifty feet in the air, astride a gleaming white pegasus, a figure in brown robes was pointing downwards…

"Got him!" yelled Cygnus.

The wizard frankly didn't think he was going to be able to cast his _sleep_ spell, or any other spell for that matter. Bent low over the polymorphed Aslan, holding onto his neck for dear life with his left hand, Cygnus was glad he had decided to leave his quarterstaff at home. As it was, he was still frightened out of his wits. He hadn't ridden either pegasus much at home, and they had special saddles to help their riders stay on.

The mage looked around frantically as Aslan orbited the scene. He could see the burning ship continuing to slowly sail westwards along the docks. It looked like at least some of the slaves might make it to one of the largest piers just as the ship reached it, although he couldn't imagine how any of them would be able to board the vessel, even if they would dare risk being burnt alive.

Further south, he could see Elrohir, Talass, Argo, Caroline and Nesco engaged in battle with a particularly fierce looking ogre. Tojo, for some reason, seemed to have tumbled past the ogre and was continuing to run south.

He couldn't see Zantac.

What he could see easily however, was the rain of arrows and crossbow bolts that were now heading in his and Aslan's direction. Cygnus grabbed Aslan's neck with both hands and shut his eyes. He flinched despite himself as several of them struck, and he felt a sickening lurch as Aslan jerked with the impact, as well.

Cygnus opened his eyes. Despite his knowing that both and Aslan had been shined up by all the mages and priests of the Sir Dorbin party right before their departure with every defensive spell they had available (including _protection from arrows_), his reaction had been instinctual. Seeing their ineffectualness, only a few missiles continued to be fired at them now by the crowd. Cygnus didn't know exactly how many arrows and/or bolts the spell could absorb before being used up, but he hoped it would be enough.

"What do we do now?" He yelled helplessly at the pegasus, knowing that Aslan could not speak in this form. The mage could only hang on tightly and trust in the paladin's judgment.

Aslan came out of his circle, and started heading towards the largest battle…

Glarg was proving to be a lot more trouble than his opponents had bargained for. Although not quite moving at the lightning pace he had a minute or so before, the massive arcs his club made swinging at his foes were causing them to be particularly cautious. Elrohir and Nesco, knowing full well that one direct hit would kill them, had by unspoken agreement fallen into a supporting role, feinting with their weapons and trying to give Talass, Argo and Caroline the opening they needed to make that crucial strike.

So far though, it wasn't happening. Glarg was clearly protected to at least some degree by an invisible field of force that tended to turn aside weapon blows, much as the priestess of Hextor had been. Roaring in rage, the ogre was attacking with more skill than most of his kind. In fact, he seemed as good as any fighter they had yet encountered, and his abilities were no doubt enhanced still further with magic right now, as well. Nesco had looked around for Zantac, cursing the wizard for not being around to provide a magical _dispel_ or something of the sort, before she remembered that he had been just about out of spells anyway.

Cynewine knew that Cygnus and a pegasus that Argo had told her was Aslan were flying around overhead somewhere, but she could no longer spare a glance upwards to check. Glarg had fixed his black eyes on her now. His brow furrowed with recognition.

"_You!"_ He yelled. _"This time, me make sure you stay dead!"_

The giant club swung and down at the ranger, who jumped backwards at the last moment. Mud and stone fragments from the street showered the ranger from the weapon's impact. Glarg raised the club for another strike, but then cried out in pain and spun around.

Argo had rammed Harve into the ogre's left hip, and was wrenching the sword around in the wound. Bigfellow's eyes widened as he saw the metal-shod club head come whipping around at him, but the ranger ducked in time, although he was forced to let go of his sword, which remained embedded in Glarg's side. The ogre was now gazing at Argo in raw fury.

"_Me kill you!"_ He screamed, saliva spraying the ranger.

"Me no surprised" retorted Argo, wiping his face and looking for a chance to grab Harve again. Somehow, Glarg's dim brain was able to tell him what Bigfellow was attempting, and he turned around so that his left side was facing away from Argo. The ogre grinned at his own cleverness, and then screamed with pain as Caroline, who was flanking the ogre opposite her husband, had grabbed Harve when it came by her and yanked the glowing sword out of Glarg's femur. The young woman stepped back a pace as Glarg redirected his attentions on her. This proved to be yet another mistake on the ogre's part, for he immediately yelped as Talass' war hammer put several cracks in his left knee. However, this time his club swing didn't miss.

Talass was lifted off her feet and landed on her back in a spray of blood. Elrohir cried out and moved towards her, but stopped when he saw his wife waving him off. The ranger hesitated. Talass' face was a wretched parody of what it had been. Several of her teeth littered the street. He nose was an unrecognizable mess, and one eye seemed to bulge dangerously in a smashed socket.

Elrohir could hardly stand to look at his wife this way, but the priestess still seemed to be in a battle-induced rush, and knew it might do more harm than good to try and calm her down. Now Talass was looking at him. She was trying to say something, but Elrohir couldn't understand it. The cleric was pointing at him repeatedly, as if she was trying to point something out to her husband.

Then Elrohir realized Talass wasn't pointed at him, but behind him. He whirled around and saw it.

"_Nesco!"_ He screamed. _"Duck!"_

Instinct took over for Nesco Cynewine. Although an opportunity to bury her sword in Glarg's lower back had presented itself, she instead flung herself down to the street as something passed over her. The ranger looked up in time to see Rezshk's spear curve around and begin to retrace its flight path.

It was coming back at her. Nesco tensed and readied herself to roll out of the way, but the spear merely passed overhead again and then rose into the air. She breathed a sigh of relief. The weapon was simply returning to the witch doctor, who was again standing with his right arm cocked back, ready for another throw. Nesco looked around again. She could see Talass stare off to the south, then slowly begin to hobble off in that direction. A flash of annoyance passed through the ranger. While Talass was no doubt seriously hurt, Nesco was sure she was still in worse shape. Why was…

"Caroline! Nesco! Elrohir!" Hold him off! We'll be right back!"

And with those words, Argo Bigfellow Junior began running after Talass.

Nesco staggered to her feet. "You've got to be kidding me!" She screamed. "What do you want me to do- pluck out my heart and throw it at him?"

But the two of them were gone. Nesco looked back at the battle to see Glarg grinning at her.

"You little ones cowards," the ogre said. "But me make you littler still."

Moving fast, the club came up and swung down at her…

Zantac's eyes popped open. A great searing pain began in his cheeks where Marisee's gloves had touched them. The fire quickly spread throughout his entire head, and then down to his shoulders. His face started twitching, and then spasming. With no small difficulty he turned around, just in time for a dagger to bury itself in his left shoulder.

He could still manage a partial scream, and did so, both at the pain coming from both sources and from the sight that awaited him, even though it was what the mage had been expecting to see.

An exact duplicate of himself was standing where Marisee had been a moment before. The only signs that she had ever existed were the ivory gloves the false Zantac wore (now stained with the same bright green liquid that was dripping off Zantac's cheeks), the dagger which the imposter now yanked out of the real wizard's shoulder with a satisfied grunt, and the bottle of bright green "perfume" the imposter held in his left hand.

"Told you Rezshk had a spy," the doppelganger chuckled. "You humans are always on the lookout for lies, when it's the truth that always does you in." He slashed again with the dagger, but Zantac was somehow able to parry the blow with his quarterstaff, which both of his hands were now locked tightly around. The wizard didn't know what to do. Even if he had had any spells left, which he didn't, he'd never be able to cast them. The spasms were starting to get worse, and he could feel the burning starting to creep down into his torso. His panicked eyes looked into his own malicious ones.

"Finally realizing how ugly you are?" His duplicate sneered, and then momentarily assumed a bemused expression. "You just don't think, do you?"

The dagger came back again, and this time plunged into Zantac's right shoulder blade, because the wizard, in a blind panic, had turned to run. His legs were already starting to refuse to obey his commands, however. The magic-user could hear his own laughter behind him, and he knew he was dead.

_He's right_, Zantac thought. _I wanted to come along on this expedition. I thought I could handle whatever came up, and I couldn't, and now I'm dead. I didn't think._

The phrase reverberated in his head.

_Didn't think. Didn't think…_

And without thinking, his _something_ made him act.

Zantac rammed his quarterstaff into the dirt of the street and ran around it as fast as he could. As he came around, the mage let the poison-induced grip he had on the staff stay there and he pushed off with his feet, jumping as high as he could, up and forward.

The doppelganger's eyes grew wide and his mouth opened with mute surprise as both of Zantac's feet slammed into his chest. The duplicate staggered backwards. He kept his footing, as well as his dagger, although the poison bottle dropped to the ground. The grin returned to the creature's face as he watched Zantac fall clumsily to the ground, and writhe around in pain.

Although the constant jerking of his head made it difficult, Zantac could still see his own form looming over him now. The mage saw the dagger, now bright red with his own blood. Now it was coming down…

…and now something was slamming into the upright Zantac and another gleaming sharp something was slicing into his body. The Zantac on the ground winced as he saw his own torso being cut open. As it fell, the doppelganger's form was already beginning to transform, but that Zantac didn't see. He was staring with horror at something that looked like a mockery of Talass' face bending over him. A firm hand clasped his shoulder, and the fire and the spasms went away. Talass and Argo helped him to his feet.

"Wha- what happened?" the wizard gasped. He looked over to see Tojo, katana in hand, staring down at the dead doppelganger.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Zantac," Bigfellow grinned, then bent down and picked up the bottle of bright green liquid. He held it in his gauntleted hand, frowning.

Zantac looked over to Talass. He thought maybe the cleric didn't realize how badly she was hurt, but as she watched her swish her tongue around in her mouth and then spit out a bloody tooth, he figured maybe she did. He smiled gamely at her. "Thanks Talass, for curing me."

She shook her head. "Didden cure you." She muttered.

Zantac looked confused. "What?"

Talass' eyes flashed with anger, as if she thought Zantac was referencing her inability to speak properly, but then cooled down as she realized the truth. "Nah devou enough for cure. Srow onry," she stated, sounding remarkably like Tojo now. "Fi hours onry. Maybe run course by hen. Oat know wha kine oh oison ha is."

"I do." Said Argo. The other three looked at him, and he presented the bottle to them.

"It's called _ka plerth_. It's an orcish poison, brewed from certain roots. The humanoid troops under Herzog Grenell use it sometimes. I didn't know those particular plants grew this far west, though. It acts on the body's muscles, causing them to spasm. Not fatal by itself, but it makes the target easy prey to pick off."

Talass glared at the small bottle, her expression made even fiercer by her bulging eye. "Oison. Eppon of cowards an heh uncrean."

Bigfellow smiled at Zantac. "Sorry we took so long getting here. Tojo was the first one to spot you, but he ran into about a dozen orcs that had just popped out of the temple en route to you. I know he didn't need the help," the ranger added with a smile at the samurai, who remained expressionless, "but we thought we'd just hurry things up a bit." Argo's auburn eyes grew thoughtful as he regarded the bottle in his hand again, then turned to look back northwards. "Cowards and the unclean. You're right, Talass… it most certainly is…"

The ranger suddenly ran off back towards the others, still holding the bottle.

"Argo!" Talass yelled, then moaned and clutched her cheek from the effort that had cost her. Talass was now doubled over in pain, and dribbling blood. "Ner haught… he wood… oh hat far…" she gasped.

Zantac was about to offer assistance when he noticed Tojo walking over to him.

To Zantac's astonishment, Tojo pointed at the dead doppelganger, and then wagged his finger in the wizard's face.

"She pray you rike rute, Zantac-san."

And with that, the samurai also ran off northwards.

"_What? Huh?"_ Zantac shouted. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Talass straighten up and look at him. Despite the obvious effort it cost her, the cleric smiled at him.

"You not aree wiff him?"

"_Agree with him?"_ Zantac cried out in frustration. _"I CAN'T EVEN UNDERSTAND HIM!"_

Nesco had just barely dodged the blow, but she felt so weak she could hardly stand up. Her numerous wounds were all announcing their intention to start simultaneously start bleeding again on her.

Caroline, seeing the ranger's plight, dropped her own sword and grabbed Harve with both hands. She waited until Glarg's eyes flickered over to Elrohir following a successful feint, and then rammed the sword into Glarg's gut. It wasn't a deep wound, but it was enough to make the ogre roar in pain.

"Well Harve," Caroline asked, breathing heavily but still smiling. "How am I doing?"

"Less gabbing and more stabbing, woman!" the sword shouted.

"Why, you pointed piece of cr-" Caroline began.

She never finished the retort. Caroline had a split-second view of the club head before it slammed into her right arm. She heard the bone break, felt the weapon as it continued on to crash into her side, and saw everything go black.

Elrohir and Nesco both screamed as they saw Caroline drop to the ground. It was as much in horror as it was an attempt to distract Glarg from his follow-up smash. It was ineffectual however, as the ogre smiled broadly, and raised his weapon high over his head…

…but even Glarg's sudden scream of agony was lost in the crack of thunder that accompanied the brilliant light of the _lightning bolt_. The bolt from above left the ogre literally smoking. He was still standing, but seemed in a daze. He slowly turned his head upwards in bewilderment…

Cygnus pumped his fist in the air again. _"YES!"_ He shouted, then cried out in alarm as Aslan suddenly twisted and turned in mid-air, nearly throwing his passenger off. The wizard was about to ask what the hell Aslan was doing when something stabbed him in the back. The impact threw Cygnus forward and his forehead bounced off Aslan's neck. Before the full extent of the pain made itself known to Cygnus however, it suddenly doubled in intensity. The magic-user screamed out in agony as he felt something gouging out a chunk of his flesh as it pulled back out of his body.

Worse, it was taking with him with it.

Cygnus tried to hold on, but it was no use. He caught a brief glimpse of a spear flying off back towards the temple as he pitched off and fell into space.

I can't believe I didn't memorize a _feather fall_ spell, was his last thought as sky and ground spun dizzyingly around him…

Tojo was the first to rejoin the battle with Glarg. With his battle cry rivaling the ogre's roars in volume, Tojo drew his wakazashi as well, which the others had rarely seen him do, and fought with both swords against the giant. He whirled like a top, both blades slashing and cutting. None of the wounds were vital, but they were quickly piling up. It seemed amazing that the ogre could continue to battle with all the damage that had been inflicted upon him, but he did. Clearly, he was a much more formidable opponent than they had expected.

Elrohir looked around. Talass had also rejoined the fray, although she was currently bending over Caroline, and dragging her off a few feet away. Elrohir had no idea if the younger woman was dead or unconscious, but he couldn't spare the time for a longer look.

Now even Zantac was back from wherever he had been, threatening their foe with his quarterstaff. Admittingly, that wasn't much, but every little bit helped now.

There was still no sign of Argo, however. That left Tojo, currently closest to Elrohir, as their best fighter ongoing, and even he was seriously wounded.

Even Glarg knew this, and was concentrating his attention on the samurai now. As Tojo moved in for another pass, the samurai's right foot slipped on some of the blood that now pooled in the street. With a cry of surprise, Tojo went down. He was quick to start rising to his feet, but the club was already in motion, directly in line with Tojo's head…

With what surely seemed the last of his strength, Elrohir stepped forward and underneath the swing and thrust Gokasillion upwards at what he hoped was the exact correct moment. It was. The sword's tip bit into the wooden shaft of the club, behind the metal-shod head. With a roar that was born out as much pain as sheer effort, Elrohir twisted, and the ogre's club went sailing out of his hands. The weapon slammed into a mercenary standing at the edge of the crowd, knocking the man senseless.

Talass, gasping in agony, stood up again. Caroline was still alive, and in fact, was beginning to stir, but the priestess could do little more for her. The cleric's gaze turned southwards again.

_Dammit! Where the hell is Argo?_

Then she saw him. The ranger was standing back about twenty-five feet or so, dangerously near the outer edge of the safe corridor. She must have run past him without seeing him. Argo was not looking at her however, or at any other member of the party. His sling out and a bullet ready to fly, he was staring upwards at the wall, shouting out something in orcish.

Rezshk glared down at the puny human below him. Clearly, he was trying to goad the witch doctor by shouting out insults in crude orcish. Rezshk wondered what kind of mistake this fool think he might make anyway. The battle belonged to him, Glarg and his allies. Despite the loss of his doppelganger spy, their foes were all now near death, and Rezshk was determined to push them over that line.

The orc grinned as Argo's sling bullet bounced harmlessly off him, courtesy of the vial of black liquid he himself had brewed up earlier. As his returning spear quickly nestled into his waiting right hand, Rezshk instantly flung it at the annoying human.

Talass cried out in frustration as much as in horror as the spear sank into Argo's right side, despite the ranger's best efforts to dodge it.

"_What are you doing?"_ She screamed at him.

If Bigfellow heard, he gave no sign. He dropped his sling and grasped the handle of the spear, apparently trying to pull it out. Talass closed her eyes in sorrow. _He's going to find out in a minute that he didn't have to do that_, she thought.

As if on cue, Argo's scream hit her ears. Talass opened her eyes again just in time to see Argo sink down to his knees, and the spear start to fly back to Rezshk. She started to stagger back towards the ranger…

Rezshk's smile grew even wider as joy flowed through him. He yelled to his beaten foe in Common, not wishing to debase orcish by sharing it with a mere human_. "Old orcish saying, human! Insults do not a battle win!"_

His right hand waited patiently as the weapon returned to it.

Instantly, Rezshk's one eye popped wide open. A searing pain blossomed in his right hand, and then began to run down his right arm, which began to spasm. His fingers locked around the spear and would not let go. His mind raced as he realized what had just happened…

Talass pulled up short as Argo held out his hands in a gesture for her to halt. As she did, she could see his gauntlets were stained a bright green.

"_Old human saying,"_ he said to her, with that infuriating smile that Talass knew that, despite herself, she'd miss if she never saw it again. _"What goes around, comes around…"_

Screaming in agony, Rezshk could not control his upper body as it pitched backwards, and with a final shriek, he toppled over back into the cemetery, vanishing from view…

It was incredible, but Elrohir, Nesco and Tojo could not doubt the evidence of their own eyes. Just as Glarg, deprived of his only weapon, had raised his foot to squash Tojo into samurai paste, three of the incoming comets had apparently veered from their downward trajectory and slammed into the large humanoid. As the ogre roared in agony yet again, Elrohir glanced upwards.

What he saw made him gasp in astonishment, and not a little horror.

About thirty feet in the air, Cygnus was dangling upside down. His left hand, the one that held his _ring of shooting stars_, was still pointing directly at Glarg. It was he who had sent the missiles of fire, and not their mysterious savior, whose comets continued to rain straight down.

What was holding onto Cygnus though, was no pegasus. It was a devil.

A horned devil, to be precise. As big as Glarg, the black, winged horror was flapping its wings madly, moving around in a slow circle. One clawed hand held firmly onto Cygnus' right leg. The mob below was moving back in horror. Only the occasional bolt or arrow was flying up now, and those went wide.

Elrohir's eyes narrowed at he stared at the devil. "Aslan?" He whispered.

And then despite all the battles he had been in ever since he had arrived in Highport, despite all the horrible things he had seen happen to his friends when their attention had lapsed for just a second, Elrohir realized again a split-second too late that he had made that very same mistake once again

_For the last time_, was Elrohir's last coherent thought as Glarg's hands grabbed him around the middle, lifted him up and started squeezing.

Elrohir's scream was cut off along with his oxygen supply. His left hand opened in reflex, and the shield fell out of it and clattered to the ground below. He swung Gokasillion, but the ogre was holding him at arm's length, and the tip of the ranger's weapon passed inches away from Glarg's nose. Elrohir tried to reposition Gokasillion to stab down at the ogre's arms, but he couldn't. He was too weak, in too much pain. As he felt his ribs start to crack, he knew he had lost.

Glarg was nearly mad now, with combined agony and delight. He could feel all the other humans slashing, stabbing and bludgeoning him, but it didn't matter. The ogre knew he was mortally wounded, but he didn't care. He knew Rezshk would heal him. He decided to kill this one in his hands, this one that had tricked him before and now had taken his favorite club away from him, and then retreat back to the temple. With the spell that made Glarg able to run very fast still in place, he knew he could outrun these puny humans. He eyed the one the others called "Elrohir" and just slightly relaxed his grip, just for a few seconds before his final squeeze. Glarg loved to see that last look of terror in his victim's eyes. It made him feel… stronger.

"Me kill you now!" He said to the human, who stared at him dumbly, blood dripping out of his mouth.

"What?" Elrohir said weakly.

Glarg snarled. _"Me said, Me kill you now, human!"_

The human cupped his left hand to his ear. "I can't hear you," he gasped. "What?"

With an inarticulate roar of frustration, Glarg pulled the human in so that they were now nearly- nose-to-nose. _"STUPID DEAF HUMAN! ME SAID, ME KILL YOU-"_

Elrohir rammed Gokasillion through Glarg's right eye and all the way up into his brain.

"No need to shout," the ranger whispered just before blacking out. "I heard you the first time…"


	58. The Burning Ship

**15th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Highport, The Pomarj**

Cygnus would just as soon have kept his eyes closed.

Looking at the ground (mostly occupied by an angry mob) passing by at what seemed like far too little a distance was bad enough, but the horrid sight of the winged devil above him was even worse. The mage had to keep continuously telling himself, _That's Aslan, that's Aslan._

He opened his eyes again, but couldn't quite believe what he saw.

They were now flying directly towards the burning ship.

"Aslan!" The mage squealed. "What the hell- I mean, what the dev- I mean, what are you doing?"

There was no reply. An awful thought occurred to Cygnus. Although Aslan had assured them all time and time again that it could never happen, what if taking the form of a devil had twisted the paladin's mind towards evil? Cygnus began to struggle, pinwheeling his arms about.

"Stop that!" barked out Aslan in a horrible, gravelly voice. "I'm having enough trouble hanging onto you as it is!"

"The ship!" Cygnus gasped. "Aslan, we'll be-"

"No, Cygnus," Aslan said, his voice a little softer now. "We won't."

"Aslan!" The mage cried out. "Why-"

"Why a devil? You were expecting an archon, maybe?"

Cygnus nodded as well as he could while hanging upside down. "Well, actually, yes."

The paladin's voice sounded unnaturally harsh, even considering the form he was now in. "Use your head, damn it! An angel or such would have drawn fire from every missile weapon down there- more than enough to break through our protection. Seeing a fiend gives them pause; they're weren't sure if I was an ally of theirs or not." His voice grew lower. "They know now I'm not."

As he carried Cygnus over to the main deck, and slowly began to lower the mage down, the wizard realized that he was feeling no heat from the flames at all.

"An illusion!" The wizard cried out. "Aslan, it's an illusion!"

And with those words, the flames disappeared.

Cygnus had an upside-down view of the crowd, which had begun to pull back from the spectacle of the burning ship and the winged fiend, turn around, point at them and start muttering amongst themselves. Cygnus looked up again to see a very angry-looking horned devil, indeed.

The magic-user managed a weak smile. "I guess that wasn't my shining moment, was it?"

The devil snarled and opened his hand, letting Cygnus fall. The mage didn't even have time to shriek before his head crashed into the wooden deck from a height of maybe one foot. Moaning in pain, by the time the mage had regained his feet, a great flapping of wings presaged Aslan's touching down beside him. The paladin immediately started walking towards the rail of the ship.

Cygnus looked around him. There was still no sign of any crew onboard. Although Cygnus himself could feel no wind, the sails were slightly filled as the ship slowly moved forward. As the wizard watched, they flattened, and then billowed out in the opposite direction, as if suddenly, a strong wind was blowing the ship to a halt. The ropes comprising the ships rigging, magically animated, tied and untied themselves at will.

The mage saw that a solid wood railing surrounded the ship's sides, about five feet high off the deck. Amidships, there was a space about five feet wide that had no railing, but a rotating dowel had been carved into the space, only a few inches above the deck. Both ends of the dowel fit snugly into holes in the railing on either side. Cygnus saw that the dowel was merely one end of a long wooden ramp, about twenty-five feet long and five feet high. It was this ramp, which had been lying across the deck, that Aslan the devil was now lifting up. When the ramp pointed straight up, it teetered for a moment, and then fell outwards, landing on the pier with a solid _thump_ just as the ship came to a halt.

The mass of former slaves stood there on the pier, staring up in fear at the ship.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on! Get on board!" Aslan shouted at them.

"Er, Aslan…"

The devil whirled on Cygnus._ "What?"_

The mage folded his arms and gave him a sour grin. "Are you planning on sailing them directly to Hell, or do they get a cruise on the River Styx first?"

Aslan looked at him in puzzlement for a moment, and then his eyes widened and the devil slapped his scaly forehead with his palm. By the time he turned back to the slaves below, he was his old self again. "Come on, then."

Slowly, at Cygnus' urging, the slaves moved up the ramp and onto the ship. The odd crossbow bolt started coming their way, so Aslan told them all to lie down on the deck. Crying and moaning, they did so. The last to board were a solemn-looking man of about fifty and the teenaged girl with a blackened, badly infected foot.

Between them, they held the unconscious body of the Slave Lord. They dumped their cargo unceremoniously on the deck before the man turned to Aslan.

"You said he was important to you."

Holding onto each other for support, the two ex-slaves joined the others in hiding from the erratic fire of missile weapons…

Elrohir slowly regained consciousness, although he didn't have the strength to open his eyes yet. He was lying across what he figured was Glarg's arm. Judging from the fact that it wasn't moving, he assumed that the ogre was at last dead. He sighed then winced at the sharp pain that brought to his ribs. His eyes popped open in surprise.

Directly in front of them was the face of his wife. The bulging eye, the smashed cheekbones, the obliterated nose and the ruined mouth, he saw it all at a glance.

The ranger slowly cracked a smile. "Hey there, beautiful," he whispered.

Talass' face distorted even more as she began to help her husband to her feet. "Rease, own ake ee raff. Urs oo utch…"

Argo and Caroline walked slowly, unsteadily down the safe corridor, holding onto one another. For the most part, the mob had pulled back, but they glared at the party as they slowly made their way towards the ship.

"So," said Caroline, too weary even to smile, as she looked up at the face of her husband. "Is this what the others used to do all the time before they retired?"

"Not all the time," Argo replied, his face expressionless. "As I understand it, sometimes they actually got into a little trouble." The ranger looked down at her, the smile in his eyes rather than his mouth.

Caroline rested her head against his shoulder. "I quit," she said softly.

Argo squeezed his wife's shoulder and planted a kiss on the top of head, but said nothing. Together, they walked on…

Nesco cried out and went down on one knee again. She angrily wiped away the tears that came to her eyes and forced herself back to her feet. Great Zeus, but she was in pain. She had no idea the human body could withstand such torment. From head to toe, she hurt. The ranger gritted her teeth and tried to focus on Argo and Caroline ahead of her, but her vision grew blurry, and things started to topple sideways.

A strong arm grabbed Cynewine around her waist and helped her stay upright. Nesco's head jerked around and she literally gaped in astonishment.

Looking straight ahead without even any kind of acknowledgement, Yanigasawa Tojo helped Nesco along. The samurai's face was set in a stare of grim determination. Nesco was bewildered.

"Tojo?" she asked him. He did not look at her. He did not reply.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cynewine saw Caroline Bigfellow, ahead of her, look at Nesco and shake her head at the ranger, as if to say _Don't talk to him._

Out of nowhere, an image flew into Nesco's mind. Her baby brother Lencon, perhaps five years ago, when the daughter of a neighboring noble, all of seven as he was, had tried to practice a ballroom waltz with the youngest Cynewine. He had complied, but the boy's chubby face had the same look of brave stoicism while doing something distasteful that Tojo's held now that Nesco would have laughed, if the effort had not been so costly.

Nesco could just barely hear the samurai sigh. She looked away from him as the smile washed over her face…

Trudging along, Zantac brought up the rear. He was wounded, he was dirty, he was hungry and thirsty, but most of all, he was depressed.

_Argo was right. I sure know how to pick them, don't I?_ The red-robed wizard thought ruefully to himself. _The only women who seem to have any interest in me are self-serving harlots or flesh-craving abominations!_

His eyes narrowed as he regarded the part ahead of him. _On the other hand though, look at Elrohir and Argo. They're madly in love with their wives, and yet every day they have to worry that by the end of it, they may be widowers, or their wives widows. Is that kind of heartache really worth it?_

The mage considered briefly, and then nodded to himself, picking up his pace just a bit.

_Guess, I'll just have to find out for myself, won't I?_

The party had just finished boarding the vessel. Aslan's rather terse behavior was surprising everybody. The paladin had given everyone a quick rudimentary healing, just enough to let them function, but had not spoken a word to anyone. He had only snapped out reprimands at anyone who let themselves be exposed to the incoming missile fire.

Aslan glanced up. It looked like the sails were starting to billow again. He bent over the railing and grasped one end of the ramp. "Elrohir," he said. "Take hold of this, and flip it back."

At that moment, the rain of comets ceased. Everyone's head looked shoreward.

The mob suddenly surged towards the ship, although one voice carried above them all.

The party looked further inland. Rushing towards them along the temple wall was Rezshk, his spear held aloft. He was screaming for those nearest the ship to board her.

"Great Zeus!" Bigfellow exclaimed. "Doesn't that guy know when to quit?"

Talass tested her tongue out before replying, somewhat sardonically. "It surprises you that a witch doctor could cure the very poison that he brewed up?"

Argo turned towards her and flashed his trademarked smile. "I'm just a lowly ranger, my good lady. Green goop is the extant of my alchemic knowledge."

Talass' voice was grim. "As long as you know how to duck. _Get down!"_

The two of them ducked behind the railing. Argo flinched as the barbed head of Rezshk's spear protruded through the railing right next to his head. It quivered for a moment, and then withdrew.

Elrohir's eyes widened. The mob had already reached the gangplank. It was now too heavy to lift.

"_I am done playing!"_ Aslan shouted. Elrohir saw nothing, but he knew what was about to happen.

And it did. The mob hesitated and then cried out in pain as the wave of psionic energy washed over them. Although all of them didn't flee, the ones in front did, slamming into the ones behind them. Many fell off, into the sea. A second _psionic blast_ cleared the plank as the ship began to move off.

The paladin whirled his head around at a sound to his right. Two orcs, apparently under the influence of _spider climb_ potions or spells had leapt from the docks and were now clinging securely to the hull. Aslan snarled and fired another blast at them. They cried out and fell off the hull into the water, like barnacles losing their hold under a sandblasting.

Slowly but surely, the ship left Highport behind…

Cygnus chuckled as Aslan, after using his remaining energies on healing friends and former slaves, finished checking out the ship for any hidden stowaways or signs of damage. He had found neither.

The wizard counted on his fingers. "Let's see. _Polymorphing_ into an ogre in order to lie your way into the slaver's lair, an orc in order to deceive the jailors and free the slaves, and a devil to fool an angry mob."

Aslan glanced over sharply at him.

Cygnus smiled. "For someone who hates lies as much as you do Aslan, you've been using an awful lot of deception lately. Is this something that-"

The paladin suddenly grabbed Cygnus by the front of his robes and slammed him back against the railing.

"_YOU HAVE A POINT TO MAKE, CYGNUS?"_ He screamed at the mage.

There was a long silence. Only the creaking of the hull, the movement of the sails, and the squeak of bats flying overheard could be heard.

"No," whispered Cygnus. "No, I don't."

Slowly, Aslan released his hold on the mage's brown robe. Sensing something, he looked behind him.

All his friends were staring at him. Even the mass of freed slaves were silent, watching.

Elrohir spoke first, softly. "Aslan," he said. "Is everything all right?"

The paladin closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, his long-time friend could see the hurt there. Hurt, and something else.

"No, Elrohir, it's not all right," Aslan replied. "It's not all right at all." He looked back at the wizard. "Cygnus," he said. "Tell the others what we found back at the Brass Dragon. Tell them what happened to those who depended on us… who trusted us." The paladin stormed off towards the lone door in the forecastle. "I need to mindrest."

The door slammed behind the paladin. The others turned their gaze to the magic-user.

Cygnus swallowed hard as tears came to his eyes. He didn't know where to begin.


	59. The Emerald Serpent

**16th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Headquarters of the Emerald Serpent, Willip, Furyondy**

"_PLEASE… SOMEBODY HELP ME!"_

Tadoa had not expected the scream to erupt from him so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Certainly, the young elf knew that no one could hear it.

No one who cared, that is.

He had heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the closed door, and knew that someone would be entering the chamber soon. Tad didn't know who would it be, but he was very certain that whoever it was would have no intention of helping him.

The door opened, and Dangerous Hands came in.

The monk glanced over briefly at the child strapped down, spread-eagled, on the large stone slab. No expression showed on his face as he leaned over Tadoa, checking the metal plate.

About a foot square, the piece of metal had a small, circular hole in the center, from which a flexible tube made out of some kind of translucent fabric protruded. Small barbed hooks, all currently lodged securely in the elf's bare chest, surrounded the perimeter of the metal square. Although there was a constant pain, it was nothing compared to when the hooks had been inserted, one at a time.

Tad closed his eyes at the memory. The perversity of being tortured and then that of a healing spell being cast upon him to heal the wounds and close the skin… with the hooks still attached, and the end of the tube resting against his chest.

That healing spell had been cast by the Emerald Serpent himself.

Tad opened his eyes again. Dangerous Hands was now checking the other end of the five foot-long tube, which was currently held up by a vise attached to a worktable of some kind placed just off to the right. The very end of the tube sported a nozzle, which was currently inserted into an empty glass vial. Other alchemical equipment littered the table's surface. Tadoa still had no idea what the purpose of any of this was.

And he knew he didn't want to know.

Tad couldn't help but see the four long meat hooks hanging down from the ceiling above him; their curved tips maybe five feet above his head. Something else he didn't know the purpose of. Perhaps for intimidation only, he thought.

That thought gave him little comfort. Tadoa felt very, very intimidated.

Dangerous Hands was now looking over Tad again, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He had shaved off his peach stubble, but was still clad in the same simple clothes the child had last seen him in. The elf looked at the human's hands. The monk's so-called "Dangerous" hands appeared ordinary in every way, perhaps a bit more calloused than most, but that was it.

The elf saw the monk glance down. Tadoa closed his eyes again, this time in embarrassment, willing the tears not to come. Successfully, this time. Although elf-born, Tad had spent so much time around humans that he shared their modesty about nudity. He knew that keeping him naked was simply to make him feel more helpless.

Again, the knowledge helped little. Tadoa _was_ helpless, and both he and his captors knew it.

There was no lasciviousness or desire in the monk's eyes as his eyes roamed all over Tad's body. Perhaps the image had arisen from the ever-present meat hooks hanging over his head, but Tad couldn't help but think that Dangerous Hands looked like a butcher studying a cow carcass, making sure he knew exactly where he was going to make his first cut.

The battleaxe leaning twenty feet away against the far wall of the chamber did little to dispel that idea.

Dangerous Hands ignored the weapon however, as he took a grimy cloth from the worktable and began slowly to wipe between Tadoa's legs. The child grew sick at the remembrance that he could no longer urinate or defecate in privacy. It had been some time since he had done either. He had not had any food or water for at least a day. He believed it had been about one day since he had awoken in this chamber. No one who had seen him had responded in any way to the elf's screams or his pleas for mercy, the intermittent _silence_ field around him notwithstanding.

It differed somewhat from the magical fields of _silence_ that Tadoa was familiar with in that the Emerald Serpent seemed to be able to moderate it at will, by the simple act of raising or lowering his right arm.

The elf swallowed and looked back at Dangerous Hands, who was finishing up now. He felt at least marginally cleaner now. The monk tossed the soiled cloth back on the worktable and picked up a small mug. He dipped this into a pail of water sitting on the floor next to the worktable, then walked over to Tad, who despite his best efforts to maintain his dignity had already raised his head up as far as it could go at the sight of that cool, refreshing clear liquid. The child had forgotten how parched his throat was. The monk was lowering the cup to Tad's lips when the elf suddenly clamped his lips shut and looked away.

_How stupid can I be?_ He thought. _Whatever that is, it's not pure water. Poison, or some kind of drug._

Apparently sensing his thoughts, Dangerous Hands glanced down at the mug, and then back at Tadoa. What might have been one-tenth of a smile crossed his face.

"You think poison?" the monk asked in a small voice that managed to sound both soft and gravelly at the same time. His eyes narrowed.

"You not be that lucky. Drink."

Tad hesitated.

Dangerous Hands grabbed Tad's face with his left hand. He squeezed his cheeks expertly, popping open the child's mouth without any resistance. He poured about half a cup of what Tadoa fervently hoped was water down his throat, the left hand moving down to stroke the elf's throat, ensuring that Tad could not resist swallowing. The child almost choked, but Dangerous Hands slowed the stream of water so that Tadoa could finish off the water.

The monk replaced the cup as Tadoa lay back down on the table. The child was tired. He just wanted this to end. He had no idea what the purpose of any of this was. Were they simply planning to torture and kill him? That seemed so… foolish.

He looked again at Dangerous Hands, and decided to try bravery. Certainly, his cowardice thus far had netted him little.

"You know," Tad said. "My friends will come for me. Aslan has vast powers. He'll find me, even in here."

The monk, who had again been examining the equipment on the worktable, glanced over at the young elf.

"Your _god_ not be able to find you in here," he stated matter-of-factly.

A noise from without made both Tad and Dangerous Hands look towards the door at the same time. The approaching footsteps had been very light. Tadoa realized that the monk's hearing must be at least as good as his own.

The elf that called himself the Emerald Serpent swept through the doorway.

The Serpent was wiry and lithe, his green robes swirling around his body as he moved, almost of their own accord. He had narrow hips and a long neck. The jade dragon design embroidered upon the robes reminded Tad of a robe Tojo had once owned- a _kimono_, he believed it was called. The samurai had lost it some time ago; Tad couldn't exactly remember where or when.

The Serpent's long blond hair cascaded over his face. One green eye, somewhat more yellow-green than that of most elves, peered at him through the strands. The Serpent tossed his head, sending his locks cascading back down over his shoulders and gave his captive a tight, closed-lips smile.

The older elf was holding a small, leather bound container that might have been a glove box. He laid this gently upon the worktable. Tadoa saw Dangerous Hand's eyes flicker to the lock on the box with a whiff of curiosity, which vanished as he stepped away from the stone slab and faced his master squarely, his hands clasped behind his back.

The Emerald Serpent looked upwards. In the very center of the room, a globe of _continual light_ hung. The elf then said something Tadoa couldn't understand, a magical phrase no doubt. The globes white light turned green and diminished, until it was about as dim as dusk. The Emerald Serpent then turned back to Dangerous Hands.

"He has bought what you hired him-"

The Emerald Serpent raised his left hand in a warning gesture, cutting the monk off, then looked back over his shoulder at Tadoa. He lowered his right hand, and the young elf was engulfed in silence. The Serpent turned his attention back to his underling.

Tad was angry, and he didn't even know why. He was nothing more than an utterly helpless prisoner. Surely, they had no attention of letting him live. Why was the Serpent being so damn secretive? The child gritted his teeth. He couldn't hear, and the Serpent had his back to him, but he could still see Dangerous Hand's face. The monk was standing about ten feet away from where Tad lay. In the green dim light, his lips were hard to perceive.

But not impossible. Elrohir's father had taught the child the art of lip-reading, and Tadoa had often used it to spy on patrons' conversations back at the Brass Dragon when he was bored. He couldn't catch all of what the monk was saying, but he got some.

"What use have we for that?"

A shake of the head. "Prophecies --- bad things to be involved ---

"I do not trust that --- he could be dangerous."

"--- last message from Sbalt states --- stands ready."

"One more ---, master. Last night, I spoke with the Mammal of the Lake. He is hungry, and demands we sacrifice to ---, as --- contract."

There was along pause, as the monk absorbed some final instructions from his superior, and then he bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. The Serpent stood in thought for a moment, and then slowly turned around and came back to Tadoa. Bending over the younger elf, he slowly raised his right hand, and sounds came back to the child's ears.

They stared at each other. Tadoa noticed the skin on the Serpent's throat. It seemed dry, almost scaly. He looked again into the older elf's eyes, searching…

After a few moments, the Serpent spoke in elven. His voice was smooth and silky, the words flowing gently into Tadoa's ears.

"Hello again, young Tadoa of Rolex."

Tad did not respond.

What looked like a momentary flash of compassion passed through the Serpent's eyes. "I'm sure you do not believe me, Tad, and I will not ask you to, but I do regret what has happened. It has been decided by others that you should be brought here. We need information from you, and I have been chosen to extract the information, as well as… other things," He finished, his hand idly playing with the tube sticking out of the boy's chest.

The child still did not respond, except form a slight narrowing of his eyes. He hated anyone other than Elrohir and his friends calling him "Tad". He continued to stare directly into the Serpent's eyes, despite the palpable waves of fear that were washing over his body.

The elder elf's expression remained neutral. His right hand moved down to touch Tad's cheek with a feather-light but icy cold touch, while the left slowly came back into view, holding a slender, black wand he had pulled from a pocket within his robes. Tad didn't think the Serpent was wearing anything under those robes, but he said nothing.

"I can torture you, young Tadoa, but I cannot make you trust me. The latter… could avoid the former. Will you trust me?"

Tad considered. It certainly seemed like an option, and he had precious few of those in his current condition. Perhaps he could play along, stall for time… or perhaps the Emerald Serpent really was telling the truth. He'd seen stranger things in his day. And he _was_ a fellow elf, after all. Just like…

Just like…

Tadoa felt something besides fear wash over him. He pulled his head away from the Emerald Serpent, while continuing to stare into those eyes. What he was thinking was no more than a guess, and even if he was right, it wasn't much of a trump card to play.

But he decided he wasn't going to die a victim.

"Forget it, Serpent. Your _charm_ spell didn't work."

The Serpent assumed a look of affront. "I have cast no-"

"And you can stop speaking in elven."

The yellow-green eyes stared hard at Tadoa. He seemed momentarily taken aback by the child's declaration in Common. The Serpent maintained his tone of wounded pride, but now it was mixed with suspicion, and some curiosity.

"Perhaps this is only my pride speaking, but I do not think any other language would suffice when speaking with-"

"You're not an elf."

Tadoa's words hung in the air for a few moments. The Serpent kept his right hand level, but the left hand, bearing the wand, came closer now. The faux pride had vanished, and only a cold curiosity remained.

"And why do you say that, young Tadoa?"

"Because," Tadoa replied, trying with all his heart to keep his voice level, "I've seen you twice now. I'm an elf, and yet I can do something that I've yet to see you do."

The Serpent's eyebrows rose, and he leaned in even closer to Tad. Their faces were now perhaps two feet apart.

"And what is that, my dear boy?"

Tadoa swallowed hard. "Blink."

The Emerald Serpent stared at him for a few moments, and then he slowly gave the child a slow, exaggerated blink. As he straightened up, he again grinned at the boy.

"You're very intelligent… for an elf."

Tadoa let his hatred sweep him along. "And you're not all that stupid… for a snake."

The Emerald Serpent's grin vanished as though it had never existed. The wand shot out to point directly at the child, and he hissed another arcane phrase.

Tad exploded.

Never, never in his life had he felt such pain. It encompassed every square inch of his body at once. His skin, his muscles, his bones, even his hair seemed as it were burning, melting him away. Even screaming was difficult, because inhaling brought with it additional pain.

But he managed it.

An altogether different grin spread over the Serpent's face as he watched the young elf's body spasm.

Had he retained the presence of mind to do so (which he did not), Tad would have been amazed that he could have survived more than five seconds of this, yet the pain continued. It was everywhere, above and below him. He was swimming in a sea of liquid agony. Even the pain itself gave him nothing to focus on. One instant he was burning to ash, the next freezing into an icy corpse. Then he was being torn apart, and the next instant crushed into a bloody pile of assorted organs.

The Emerald Serpent watched all of this. His malicious grin intact, his right hand began to conduct a symphony of torment, waving up and down in the air. The boy's screams were muted, and then returned to full volume. The left hand, holding the wand like a baton, kept time to the horrific tempo he was creating. Sharp up-and-down gestures brought a "skipped" screaming, while a low-but-not-too-low plummet made the cries of agony almost like delicate whispers.

Eventually, the "elf" raised his right hand and turned away from Tadoa. He bent over the vial on the worktable.

Tad continued to writhe. The pain had been so intense that even its imprint, its recent memory was too much for his body to endure. His eyes saw, but his brain could not process, a thick, dark gray liquid slowly move through the tube from his chest, and drip into the vial.

The Serpent had opened the lock on the small case he had carried on. Tad saw small vials of powders and what looked like very small paint brushes, but he was still unable to attach any meaning to what he saw. All he could do was close his eyes and wait while the pain receded slowly.

Very slowly.

Tadoa had no idea how long he had lain there, but when he realized that he could think again, he opened his eyes again and turned to the right, The Supreme Serpent was engaged in conversation with a human male of about forty-plus years of age, with a weather-beaten look about him. His clothes were nondescript, as was his sallow face, dull brown eyes and balding pate. He was handing over what looked like a tied bundle of horsehair to the Serpent.

Tad realized abruptly that the _silence_ field was again in place, but both individuals were to his side. Almost without realizing it, Tadoa began reading their lips again.

Human: "There you ---"

Emerald Serpent: "Well done, Nodyath."

_Nodyath!_ Tad thought. He's _polymorphed_, but for what?

ES: "Dangerous Hands will pay you on your way out."

The young elf thought furiously as Nodyath nodded. _He's just come back from some kind of mission for the Serpent. A successful one, apparently. He must have been among people who would have recognized his true form._ He glanced again at the pile of horsehair now in the Serpent's hand and shuddered. _That's from one of our horses_, he thought. _I know it. He must have gone back to the Brass Dragon. _The elf's eyes grew wide as he remembered Nodyath's threat. _Dear Corellon, he prayed, please don't let him-_

N: "I'd just --- soon have killed them both, but --- really on guard there now, --- they have more spellcasters among them then the Elrohir party ---"

ES: (Laying the hair on the worktable) "The hair of his children."

N: "What?"

ES: "Oh, just part of something that's either a prophecy… or a recipe."

Nodyath abruptly glanced over at Tadoa, causing the young elf to freeze in panic. He couldn't look away. He couldn't even lip-read what the Serpent was saying, but he could make out Nodyath's response.

Aslan's counterpart shrugged and bit his lip. "I could care less. You own him now, not me. Do what you want with him."

The psionic turned and quickly headed towards the door, then abruptly spun around and glared at the Emerald Serpent, who was raising his left hand in a gesture of peace.

ES: "l mean that with all ---. Congratulations to you and Talat."

N: (eyes narrowing) "How --- you know?"

ES: "Not all of --- need a _helm of telepathy_, Nodyath."

Nodyath stood there for a moment, and then with a final glance at Tad, left the room.

The Serpent looked back at the child, who quickly averted his eyes. The "elf" turned his back again to Tad, after gesturing with his right hand to raise the silence. He began doing something with the items contained in the case.

Tadoa again stared at him. The thought suddenly appeared in his mind that the Serpent was going to torture him again, and then all his attempts at heroism, his efforts to keep his dignity, everything that he ever held dear went out the window.

"Please," the young elf croaked. "Don't hurt me again. I'll do anything you want me to. I'll tell you anything you want to-"

He cut off suddenly, trying to hold back a scream as the Supreme Serpent's tongue landed on his chest.

Even as he bucked and strained against the straps holding him down, Tad began to realize that it was a fake, a prosthesis of some kind. The elf looked up again at the Emerald Serpent, but that was even worse.

Yellow eyes with vertical black slits were staring down at him. A thin, forked tongue darted out momentarily. The area around the Serpent's neck and shoulders was covered in tiny scales. The creature smiled as it put away the makeup case.

"It feels good not to have to pretend… doesn't it, Tadoa of Rolex?"

Shame, Tadoa's constant companion, cam upon him again. Almost as bad as the pain, because they were now working together against him, and Tad knew that, despite whatever horrid kind of monster the Emerald Serpent really was, he was still going to do anything he asked of him.

_I'm sorry_, he thought to his friends, _I thought I was as strong as you people, but I'm not. May your gods and mine forgive me._

Tadoa asked him, leaning forward again. "What is it you really want of me?"

The Serpent assumed a thoughtful pose, then looked down at the elf lying beneath him. "I do believe, young Tadoa, that if I remove those bonds, you will not make any move to get off of that table."

Tad leaned back, closing his eyes in gratitude, imagining the wonderful feeling of being able to flex his limbs again. "No," he whispered, then spoke in a somewhat louder voice. "I promise you I won't."

There was no response.

Tadoa opened his eyes.

The Emerald Serpent was standing over him, holding the battleaxe in his hands.

"I wasn't looking for a promise, you lip-reading mammal," he hissed. "I was stating a fact."

Tadoa tried to scream, but the _silence_ descended along with the axe.


	60. On The Way Home

**17th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY  
Off the northern coast of The Pomarj**

Elrohir watched the sea pass beneath him.

The ranger was sitting by the gunwale, his legs dangling off the port side of the ship. His damaged plate mail was currently stored below decks, so he wore his simple spare clothing that he was now glad Cygnus had insisted they all pack before leaving Chendl. Elrohir had honestly thought they would all be back at the capitol within twenty-four hours.

Of course, he had been wrong.

Elrohir glanced upwards at a small flock of seagulls that were flying overhead. He looked down at the water again and sighed. He rubbed his chest in the area that still hurt.

Aslan had been a non-stop healing machine for the last two days, and yet there were still injuries remaining among the party members. Healing the former slaves had been the paladin's highest priority, and no one had contested that of course, but Elrohir would still be glad when Aslan would be able to heal him back up completely. His ribs still hurt something fierce sometimes.

The ranger glanced back over his shoulder at the forecastle. The door to the small chamber inside was still closed. Aslan was again mindresting inside. The paladin had commandeered the room as his personal quarters, and no one had begrudged him that. Elrohir wished that Aslan would come out of his deep depression, but there was no sign of that happening anytime soon. In fact, the ranger could feel himself sliding a little deeper into that hole every day.

Every day, he thought about Tad.

Talass, still wearing her chainmail, came by and sat down next to her husband. Silently, they stared out at the waters of Wooly Bay together. The shore of the Pomarj was just visible as a gray line on the horizon.

"It's good that that table we found in the lazarette is able to magically create food and water," she said after a while. "I don't think my faith alone would have been enough to feed all these people."

Elrohir was glad that Talass was also avoiding the subject of Tadoa. He turned and gave his wife a wry smile. "_Lazarette_. Listen to you. When did you get all nautical?"

Talass managed a prim expression and arched her eyebrows at Elrohir. "The Fruztii are renowned sailors, dearest. I wasn't cloistered inside the temple my whole life before I met you, you know. However," and she nodded her head towards one of the ex-slaves, who was currently sitting on the deck near them, "Captain Thrumb there has been expounding on his knowledge and offering his opinions, whether anyone's listening or not."

Elrohir nodded. Thrumb was a man about seventy years of age, the oldest of the thirty-five or so former slaves on board. He claimed to be from Greyhawk, and owned a ferry that he ran on the Selintan River. Although a cantankerous old coot, he certainly possessed a wealth of nautical knowledge, so they let him be. Currently, he was sitting on a cleat, staring up at the main mast, marveling at how elven artisans had fashioned the wood into a giant image of a slender elven male. The mizzen had likewise been carved into an elven female, and both faced each other. All the lines and rigging blended seamlessly into the architecture of the masts and the booms. The prow was another male elven figure, one arm outstretched forward. This one had webbing between its fingers though, and an unexplained, sorrowful expression on its face.

Thrumb apparently had heard his name mentioned, for he glanced over at the pair, and rose to his feet with no small amount of grunting and groaning. He ambled over to them, putting on his captain's mien.

"Damndest ship I ever saw," Thrumb said for perhaps the fifteenth time now, as Elrohir and Talass silently mouthed along with him, and then smiled at each other.

Thrumb appeared not to notice. "Craftsmanship, well, she's as good as ever I seen," the sea dog opined. "But no tiller, no quarters… hell, _no crew?" _He shook his head. "Taint right, doin' it all by magic." He scowled at the pair. "What's the sea without a seaman to sail 'er?"

"Any idea where we might be heading?" Talass asked him, in an attempt to interrupt Thrumb's latest discourse.

Thrumb squinted, even though he wasn't looking into the sun, and the clouds hung thick in the sky above. "Osprem knows, good lady. Wish yer elven friends had left us a map, or a sign, or something," he groused, then folded his arms across his chest. "At this speed, we're about a week out of Elredd. Maybe that's where we're headin'. If not there, who knows?" He took in a deep breath of the salt air, held it, and then released, while running his hand through his unkempt white hair. "Greyhawk's a good three weeks if we keep coastlinin'. With the hard chine this old gal's got, she'd be able to make it up the Selintan easy, even at ebb tide. Maybe there. I wouldn't mind meself, but these lubbers here might not be too keen at bein' at sea for three weeks." He gave Elrohir a crafty glance. "Better make sure that fancy sword o' yers don' get rusty."

Thrumb slowly walked off. Elrohir and Talass resumed their silent vigil of the water.

Something moved at the corner of Elrohir's line of sight. Glancing left, he saw a number of fishing lines trailing off the ship's stern. He turned back to Talass with a puzzled frown. "Isn't that magic table giving us enough food?" he queried.

Talass shrugged. "Yes, but it's all fruits and vegetables, remember? Some of our passengers have more of a craving for fish than others. I think Argo and Caroline are back there with them."

They let the silence fall again. Elrohir surprised himself with his next comment.

"I guess you were right, Talass."

His wife glanced back over at him.

Elrohir looked down, rubbing his hands together. "You said one of us wouldn't be coming back. None of us knew it would be the only one who never left in the first place."

The cleric stared at her husband for a moment, and then slowly, sadly, shook her head.

Elrohir didn't understand. "What?"

Talass gazed evenly into his eyes. "Tad was not in my vision. He was not with us when we saw the volcano, nor when we encountered the fossergrim. The vision was speaking of someone else."

Elrohir's puzzlement grew, and he could feel frustration growing with it, as well. "Yes, but wasn't that all symbolic? The volcano, the fossergrim? We certainly saw neither of those in Highport, and now we're on our way back. Are you saying one of us is going to die before we even make it home?"

Talass was making an effort to control her temper. "I don't know, but I _do_ know that this isn't over yet. Even when we release these slaves, and get the Slave Lord back to Chendl, there's still that stockade they spoke of, isn't there? It was all being controlled from there. What if King Belvor asks us to return and finish off this Markessa, the one who supposedly runs the whole operation?"

"I don't know," Elrohir said in a near-whisper. An image of Tad came unbidden into his head. Young Tadoa, his friend, and friend to his father.

Even when his father and his entire party had perished, he had made sure that Tad escaped. Elrohir had failed in that.

The ranger wiped away the tears starting to form in his eyes and looked back at his wife. "Asks, or commands?"

The priestess of Forseti raised her eyebrow at him.

Elrohir's tone was grim. "A question can always be answered _No_..."

On the far side of the ship, Cygnus found Zantac leaning over the rail. As he approached, he could see his fellow wizard's hands clamp down hard on the rail and lock tight for several seconds before they released.

"Hey, Twitch."

Zantac's head snapped around. Cygnus gave him his best smile, but got only a perfunctory one in return. Nevertheless, he sidled up next to the older mage as Zantac returned to his intense examination of the lack of scenery.

"Anything I can do for you, Zantac?"

"Yeah," the red-robed wizard replied without turning his head. "Lean over this railing as far as you can."

Cygnus assumed feigned insolence. "Well, fine. Just checking up on my friend, and that's the thanks I get."

Zantac shrugged. "Talass has done the best she can do. I should be fine in a week or so, she says. Meanwhile, her spells take care of the worst of it." He looked around, seeming unable to look his fellow magic-user in the eye. "Is it worth it, Cygnus?" he asked quietly. "This constant battle for glory, for treasure, for righteousness, for whatever? You fight and kill, grab the swag, and then you do it again, and again and again."

Cygnus shook his head ruefully. "You're asking the wrong person, Zantac. I didn't want any of this. You know that."

"But you did at one time," came the response. "You never could have become as experienced as you are if you hadn't."

"True," Cygnus admitted. "It's like some kind of vice, or drug, I guess. You dabble in it just long enough to get what you want, or what you think you need, and then you get out."

"Or you try to."

Cygnus nodded. "Or you try to." He closed his eyes, trying to wipe away the image of his last view of Tadoa; the young elf waving good-bye as the party rode away from the Brass Dragon.

Zantac's voice intruded. "Well, at least we won this round."

Cygnus shook his head. "We didn't win. We were saved. The comets, this ship. We were in way over our heads, and someone a hundred times more powerful than you or me stepped in and saved our sorry asses."

The older mage looked thoughtful. "Someone? Not some servants of a deity?"

"I'm pretty sure it was a wizard," said Cygnus. "Who, I don't know. The ship is elven, so I'm thinking perhaps it came from the elves of Welkwood. If that's the case, we might be heading towards the Wild Coast city of Fax. It's the closest human city to where that particular tribe dwells."

Zantac inclined his head. "This Alias, the leader of these elves. The one who's looking after Thorin and Barahir. Is he a powerful enough wizard to manage all this?"

Cygnus shook his head again. "Not even close, unless he's been deceiving us."

Zantac tried on a nonchalant expression. "I've always wanted to see the Wild Coast. Fax would be as good a place as any to start."

The younger wizard grimaced. "It's also Scurvy John's home port. By now, Alabin probably knows that we killed his brother Dak."

Zantac raised an eyebrow. "We?"

Cygnus gave his friend a thin smile. "Like I said before. Welcome to the family, Twitch…"

Nesco kept looking at the Slave Lord.

A circle about ten feet across had been drawn around the mizzenmast. The Slave Lord had been instructed to stay within that circle, or the party would not be responsible for what his former captives might do to him, and thus far, he had been the model prisoner. Of course, he alone had received no healing from Aslan or Talass, so the rogue was in little condition to try anything.

Especially with Tojo standing silently nearby.

Nesco could have sworn the samurai slept standing up. She was amazed at his tenacity. She had attempted to thank Tojo earlier for his aid, but he had merely gazed over her right shoulder into the distance and said nothing.

"Fish?"

Nesco turned around. Caroline Bigfellow was holding a piece of driftwood, upon which was the still smoking remains of half an overcooked fish.

Nesco smiled. "No thank you, Caroline."

The younger woman shrugged. "Suit yourself," she said, then proceeded to devour the fish with a fervor that even Nesco the ranger found somewhat animalistic, and a little unnerving. Then she remembered that the party did not take their meals until after their passengers had eaten, and sometimes the food-producing table had used up it's magic for the day by then. She briefly regretted her refusal as she watched Caroline spit out the larger bones, then look back at Nesco.

"Aslan's being a rash today."

Nesco raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"An irritant. Sorry, it's an expression more common in Aerdy, I guess. I had the nerve to suggest that he try teleporting back to the Brass Dragon to see what was happening there, and he nearly bit my head off." Caroline made a rather weak attempt at Aslan's bass voice. "Are you insane, woman? And just how do you expect me to teleport back to a ship that's sailed off in the meantime? There's no anchor, so we couldn't even try to stop ourselves! Besides," and her Caroline's voice faltered and reverted to her own, "it's a little late for that now."

The ranger watched as Caroline stood there silently for a moment, and then hurled the piece of driftwood over the railing. Tears began to slowly fall down the fighter's face.

"I was his… teacher… in swordplay. He wasn't supposed to be… be…"

Nesco felt uncomfortable. She didn't really want to do this, but suddenly she was holding Caroline in her arms as the younger woman began sobbing uncontrollably. Nesco had never even met the young elven boy they called Tad.

Which made her own tears all the more surprising.

"Scry."

Both women were instantly alert at Tojo's announcement. The samurai, who could have been made of stone for all the movement he had shown during this emotional outburst, was pointing upwards. About ten feet away, a faint swirling in the air could be seen briefly before it vanished.

Both women regained control, although Caroline was still sniffling. Nesco turned to Tojo, desperate for something to distract her from all this. "Any ideas on who that might be, Tojo? Friend or foe, you think?"

The samurai gazed at the ranger, then slowly shook his head.

"Not know, Nesco-san. Onry know, this not over yet."

Both Nesco and Caroline could see into his violet eyes. There was indeed feeling there.

"Sacrifices we make... not over yet."


	61. Liquid Agony

**22nd Day of Coldeven, 565CY  
Headquarters of The Emerald Serpent, Willip, Furyondy**

"Please, make it stop… make it stop… _MAKE IT STOP!"_

The last word of his scream was drawn out as Tadoa wriggled as fiercely as he could, but it was no use.

Another drop of blood fell from his leg and landed unerringly on his forehead.

Tad's four limbs, each now banded with several rings of metal, dangled from the meat hooks above him. They had been removed days ago, but due to some vile spell from the Emerald Serpent, they still occasionally dripped blood.

Tadoa, of course, could do nothing about it. He had tried wriggling his trunk for what seemed like hours, but he always seemed to be right underneath one of his former arms or legs when they decided to drip.

The pain in his stumps was excruciating. The Serpent had of course, healed the wounds so that the elf did not bleed to death, but that was all he had done. Now, something horrible was everywhere Tad turned his eyes. He couldn't look at his own body without seeing the stumps, and he couldn't look up without seeing the limbs that used to be his.

And if he looked to his side, he saw the Emerald Serpent.

The Emerald Serpent, who had become the child's entire world. He, or those under him, fed Tad, tormented him, cleaned him up, tortured him, gave him a pillow to lay his head on when he slept, and talked to him.

Actually, only the Serpent himself talked to Tadoa for any length of time. He had started with questions. Questions that were not, as the boy might have guessed about his friends.

They were questions about yuan-ti.

Tadoa had never even heard the term. The Emerald Serpent, whom Tadoa guessed to be one of these yuan-ti himself, was apparently very interested if his race inhabited either Rolex or Aarde. Although Tadoa could neither confirm nor deny this, the Serpent showed no disappointment. He had merely stood there, gazing down thoughtfully at his captive.

The Serpent was once again disguised as an elf. Tad had noticed (although he would never dare speak it aloud) that he maintained this disguise at all times. Only that one time had he allowed Tadoa to see his true form. The young elf believed that the other members of the Emerald Serpent organization did not know the true nature of their leader. Despite the fact that he was occasionally alone with one or the other of them however, the thought of trying to use this information to his advantage never occurred to Tad.

Whatever remained of his life was pain, and he knew that.

If he resisted, they hurt him. If he cooperated, they hurt him. If he remained silent, they hurt him. If he begged and pleaded for release, mercy, or even death, they hurt him. He had profaned Corellon Larethian, renounced everything and everyone in his former life, and sworn to be the Serpent's loyal servant forever.

And still, they hurt him.

At first, it had been merely physical. A small portion of Tad's mind, even in the midst of brutal torment now, would watch the dark gray liquid flow from the tube in his chest to a vial on the worktable. The Emerald Serpent would not say what this liquid was, or what purpose it was being put to. At first, Tad had harbored the tiniest of hopes that the Serpent's refusal to share any information with him meant that the young elf might someday be released. Now, he knew it was due merely to the Serpent's secretive mindset, which allowed his organization to thrive even in a kingdom like Furyondy.

There was less physical torture these days, though. The Emerald Serpent had moved on to Tad's mind.

He would pull up a chair and sit besides the black slab on which Tadoa's trunk lay. At the Serpent's command, Tadoa had begun to tell him his entire life story; from as far back as he could remember.

And then the Serpent would tell him how Tad had been wrong about everything.

Everything good about Tadoa's life had been a lie. His mother, his myriad siblings had all hated Tad, but deceived him with soft words. Why, Tadoa hadn't even known who his own father was. Did he not ever wonder about that?

Of course, they all had reason to hate Tadoa. It had all been his fault. The coming of the Invaders From Beyond, the very Devastation that nearly destroyed his own world. All Tad's fault.

The child had a hard time actually following the Serpent's convoluted reasoning. To his mind, it didn't seem to make sense.

But to his heart, it did. The same heart that now groaned with misery at the torture that had been inflicted upon him, a torment that he knew now he deserved.

Now they were talking about Elrohir's father, and his band of companions. Tad's best friend at the time had been Luthor, the only other elven survivor of the Wildwood encampment. Tadoa's eyes ran with tears as he heard from the Serpent how Luthor had secretly burned with the desire for vengeance against Tad, who had condemned all of his people to death from the Neutral Forces. Of course, Tad had struck first, tricking them all into setting off one of Hoos' deadly traps, while he, Tadoa, "conveniently" managed to escape.

"You do believe what I'm telling you, don't you, my friend?" the Emerald Serpent asked him.

It was a phrase he seemed to use a lot lately. In the beginning, Tadoa hadn't always; although he always said yes, in a vain attempt to avoid future pain. But now, he did believe him. Yes, Tadoa would suffer, and Tadoa would die, and his soul would be sent hurling into the Abyss, where it would do the only good it had ever done- be consumed to help awaken a sleeping god that Tad had never even heard of.

But he believed.

"Let's back up a bit," said the Serpent. "This _Venom_. This wizard who seemed to have such a fascination with snakes. Tell me more about his lair, and his minions."

And as Tadoa told him, the Serpent's eyes began to take on an almost dreamy quality. He stood up, clasping his hands behind him and gazing about the green-lit chamber.

"Is not Merrshaulk wondrous, Tad?" the Serpent asked his prisoner. "If the yuan-ti do dwell on Rolex and Aarde, then we have allies who eagerly await the joining of our forces. If not, then two unimaginably huge vistas lie before us, ripe for the taking! Either way, the Sleeping God shows us the way towards the day when he shall awaken, and all three worlds will writhe in his coils!"

He leaned over the slab, his face close to Tadoa's.

"And all thanks to you, my child. All thanks to you."

Tad started to cry again. The Emerald Serpent had pulled out the black wand again, but he didn't need to use it anymore.

As the boy cried out in despair, the dark gray liquid began to flow again.


	62. Aslan and Argo

**25th Day of Coldeven, 565 CY**

**Wooly Bay**

**(60 miles southeast of Safeton)**

The knock on the door snapped Aslan out of his lethargy.

The paladin scowled and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the door to the spartan cabin. He slowly rose from the wooden bench he had been sitting on, and pressed his lips together. He said nothing.

The knocking repeated. A series of five knocks, a short pause, and two knocks.

Aslan pushed the air out of his lungs, blowing his lips. He strode over to the door and opened it, his head already inclined upwards at the proper angle to look directly into the auburn eyes of Argo Bigfellow, Jr.

The ranger stood there, a (for him) relatively mild smile on his face. In each hand, he held a carrot.

Aslan crossed his arms across his chest. "You realize if I'd been mindresting, you'd be overboard by now."

Argo inclined his head, his eyes twinkling. "But we're all healed up now, so I know you weren't. Unless you've been _polymorphing_ into strange forms for devious and unnatural purposes."

The paladin didn't feel like playing this game today. He glanced down at the deck as he spoke, his voice sharp. "Do you have a purpose for bothering me, Argo?"

"Believe it or not, yes." Came the response. "Here."

A carrot flew into Aslan's field of view. He fumbled, but managed to catch it. He stared at it for a moment, and then stared back up at Argo.

The ranger assumed a patient expression. "It's called a carrot, Aslan. You eat it, and it provides nutrition for your body. We rangers have special knowledge that when people don't eat for… what's it now, two days? They may actually develop a need for food."

Aslan stared coldly at Argo. "I've had quite enough of these already. I'm not a rabbit, Argo."

"Then what are you?"

The question caught Aslan by surprise. He peered at Argo's face, but Bigfellow looked deadly serious now. "Because you sure aren't acting like a paladin."

Aslan's hand tightened around the carrot. He briefly considered throwing it back at Argo, but the ranger had stealthily moved forward so that he stood in the doorway, and was too close to Aslan now. So instead, he whirled around and strode back into the cabin.

"What the hell do you know about how a paladin acts?" He said to the far wall.

He heard Bigfellow enter behind him. The sound of creaking wood followed as Argo eased his large frame onto the wooden bench. When Aslan turned around, Argo had his palms upturned (his carrot still in one), and facing him.

"Then enlighten me. How do they act?"

There was a long pause. Aslan continued to stare at the blank wall.

"Well, for starters," he said in a low voice, "They protect the innocent."

"No. They don't."

Aslan whirled around. Argo was gazing at him, his expression stern. "They _try_ to protect the innocent. Sometimes they succeed… and sometimes they fail."

The paladin's scowl returned. "Stop trying to make me feel better, Argo. It isn't working, and frankly I resent it."

Argo shot up to his feet and strode up to Aslan. "I'm not trying to make you feel better, Aslan! I'm trying to tell you the truth! We all have to come to grips with what happened to Tad!"

"You weren't there when he begged me to let him come with us!" Aslan shouted. "He begged me, dammit! He-"

"Tad wasn't an innocent, Aslan."

Shocked, Aslan could say nothing. He just stood there and blinked.

Argo raised a hand in an explanatory gesture. "He was a warrior! Yes, he was a child, but he was a fighter, too! We'd all made that decision long ago! He wanted to be one of us, and we agreed! Tell me, Aslan- _why_ did Tad want to come with us? Was it because he was afraid to be left behind at the Brass Dragon, or was it just because he wanted to be with us, to be where the action was?"

The paladin was still silent.

Argo continued, more quietly now. "Nodyath took him under the very noses of the Sir Dorbin party. Do you really think it would have made any difference if we had been there, as well?"

Aslan remembered that night he had spent alone in his cabin.

"No," he whispered. "It wouldn't have." He looked back at the ranger. "But he's still alive, Argo. I know it in my heart."

"You said the _sending_ you received from Monsrek two days ago indicated that divinations could not locate Tad, right?"

Aslan nodded. "It's The Emerald Serpent. I'm sure of it. They have him. I'd guess that their lair has powerful shieldings against divination." His expression pained. "But we can't do anything about it! We turned due north several days ago, right? So we're not heading for Fax, or Safeton, or any city on the Wild Coast!"

Argo agreed. "Thrumb is saying either Hardby or Greyhawk now."

Aslan frowned. "And if we don't stop at Greyhawk, we're into the Nyr Dyv! We might be going all the way back to Willip!" He looked back at the ranger. "Every second might be crucial, and we're trapped here on this ship until we dock!"

"You're not." Bigfellow's response was quiet but firm.

Aslan rolled his eyes. "You know I can't leave, Argo! I wouldn't be able to _teleport_ back to-"

"Then don't!" The ranger's voice grew louder. "Go to Willip, and look for him! We'll be fine! We'll meet up with you sooner or later- pack your holy symbol and go!"

Now it was the paladin's turn to grow quiet. "I can't do that, Argo."

He had expected Argo to ask "Why not?" and the ranger did, but Bigfellow's expression told Aslan that he already knew the answer.

The paladin gazed back out the open door. "Because this isn't over yet. Talass is still worried over her vision. Anything could happen to us here on the high seas. I won't feel safe until we make port." He looked over at Argo, his eyes moist. "I have to make a decision, and live with it. I have to…" and here his voice choked up, "I have to try and save those that I can, instead of those that I might."

Slowly, Aslan lowered himself back onto the bench and lowered his face into his hands. He felt tired. So tired.

He felt Argo's hand on his shoulder. The ranger's voice was soft.

"I'm not an expert on these matters Aslan, but I do believe that's _exactly_ how a paladin is supposed to act."

When Aslan lifted his head, Argo was already back at the doorway. "Eat," the ranger said, the mild smile back in place now. "You'll feel better."

The paladin made a sour face, but bit into the carrot. He savored its flavor and texture, then shrugged. "Tastes a little better than the others, I guess." He gave his friend a half-smile. "Must be missing that guilt aftertaste."

Argo's mild smile widened into his mischievous one. "Hey- watch this!" he told Aslan and then tossed his carrot in the air and maneuvered under it, his mouth opened as wide as it could go. The orange spear landed right on target, burying itself in Bigfellow's throat almost up to the root. The ranger spread his arms wide, took a bow, and said something that might have been "Ta-daah!" had not the carrot prevented it.

Aslan shook his head as Argo removed the vegetable. "That's you all over, Bigfellow. Amazing, and yet totally pointless."

"Pointless?" Argo asked slyly. "Oh, I don't know." He gave Aslan a wink.

"Just wait until I teach it to Caroline."

He took a big bite out of the carrot as he walked away.

"I hope she learns that part, too!" Aslan yelled after Argo, and slammed the door shut after him. He looked back at the bare walls, and then stopped dead as he realized what he had just said. His eyes grew wide with embarrassment as he turned his head towards the ceiling.

"Lord Odin," he began. "If I am still a paladin in your sight… then you truly _are_ All-Forgiving…"

Elrohir stood on deck amidships. He was again staring upwards at the main mast.

"Still trying to remember where you've seen it before?"

The ranger started. He hadn't known Talass had come up behind him. He gave her a weak smile of agreement, then returned his gaze to the purple banner that flew atop the mast.

It bore a silver insignia of three moons. One full, one waxing, and one waning.

"I don't recognize it," Elrohir said, trying to find the right words, "But I feel… that I _should_, or that I _will_, or… something. I don't know." He returned his gaze to Talass. "It looks somewhat like the symbol of the elven goddess Sehanine Moonbow, but there are differences. Perhaps an offshoot…" He shrugged.

Talass was curious. "I've not heard that name. What position does this goddess hold for the elves?"

Elrohir thought, remembering. "She is the Daughter of the Night Skies, consort to Corellon Larethian. She is the Keeper of Dreams and Revelations."

His wife considered. "Seems… propitious. Perhaps there is a connection, after all."

Elrohir turned back to her. "She also guides the spirits… of elves who have died."

Talass was silent.

"How fascinating," came a sarcastic voice behind them.

The pair turned. The Slave Lord, still sitting within his proscribed circle around the mizzenmast, leered up at them, his former confidence returned. A smug smile rested on that babyish face.

Talass' hand went to the haft of her war hammer. "Not as fascinating as the pretty patterns your brains will make splayed out on deck if you don't shut your useless mouth," she snarled. "Say something useful for once, why don't you?"

Their prisoner raised an eyebrow. "How about this? All your heroics to date have been for naught. Markessa will simply establish a new base for incoming slaves, either in Highport or elsewhere. I do hope the death of this "Tad" elf you speak of was not too high a price to pay for your foolishness."

Elrohir had to restrain Talass as she drew her hammer and started to advance on the Slave Lord. "Talass! Dearest! No! He's baiting us! Don't fall for it!"

Talass struggled for a moment in her husband's arms, then breathed deeply, her blue eyes refocusing. "You're right. Of course. But I can understand Sarkos' desire. This man is fit for nothing but-"

"Care to tell us anything about this _Markessa_?" the ranger asked their captive, cutting his wife off.

The Slave Lord smiled that infuriating smile again. "Not really. But I do truly hope you return to the stockade in an attempt to finish her off."

Elrohir looked suspiciously at him. "Why?"

The rogue gazed at him with a superior, patronizing expression. "Because I will enjoy hearing the news of your deaths."


	63. Plans of The Serpent

**2nd Day of Growfest, 565 CY**

**Headquarters of The Emerald Serpent, Willip, Furyondy**

"Please… kill me."

The Emerald Serpent glanced over at Tadoa.

The yuan-ti, still in his elf guise, had been going over numerous sheets of paper in his lap as he sat in his chair by the black stone slab on which Tad lay. The Serpent reached over and placed the papers on the nearby worktable, then stood up and bent over the young elf.

The brief flicker of intelligence and pleading, that had been in the boy's eyes faded. The Serpent had been surprised that any of it still lingered. He smiled benignly at the youth, holding a thin finger in front of the elf's eyes.

"Perhaps, my dear boy… if you are good."

Tadoa snarled and lunged his head forward, trying to bite the finger. The Serpent yanked his hand away just in time, but did not seem to take offense. He merely stood there, observing as Tad writhed his limbless trunk around, trying to move. His teeth chomped constantly, and he bit his lip. A small trickle of blood mixed with a few bubbles of foam about his lips. Feral sounds came from within Tad's throat as the child glared at his captor with a burning insanity.

The door opened, and a middle-aged human male entered. He was of average height, and well built, although not so much as to be exceptional. His hair, worn almost to his shoulders, was a very light brown, starting to fade to salt-and-pepper. His pale blue eyes paid wordless tribute to the Serpent, although they did glance momentarily over to the elf child growling and squirming on the black slab. He was dressed simply, in a gray shirt and trousers, and carried a sheet of parchment and a feathered quill in one hand.

The Emerald Serpent rose from his chair and took a step towards the center of the chamber. "Ah, greetings! You are… 'Olec' today, are you not?"

The man nodded, a smile crossing his handsome features. "Olec Hardson, experienced wainwright, at your service, Master."

The Serpent acknowledged with a small nod. "And what can I do for you today, Olec?"

The man assumed a somewhat cautious demeanor. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Master, but we did need to give you a status report, and ask if there any changes needed. You've been spending a lot of time here with this one," he finished, indicating Tadoa with a nod of his head.

The Serpent gave an apologetic smile. "Yes, I have sequestered myself down here quite a bit recently, haven't I?" He gave a small, false laugh and leaned briefly over Tad again, while still smiling at Olec. "You know… elf-talk."

Tad snarled and again lunged for the Serpent, but the elder "elf" had already returned to his previous position. "Let's have it, then."

The man frowned, then glanced over at Tadoa. "Er, master, " he inquired. "Shouldn't we…?

The Serpent looked over at his captive, then withdrew the black wand from his robes.

"I don't think that will be necessary any more, Olec."

He pointed it at the young elf and hissed. The child's body arced, as if a jolt of electricity had gone through him. An incomprehensible noise escaped from Tad's lips, but no dark gray liquid flowed.

The human gave his master a wry smile. "Well has run dry, then?"

The Emerald Serpent sighed. "So it would seem. Ah, well. Even the most bountiful harvest cannot last forever. I'd say we got our money's worth out of this one, though. In any case, your report, please."

"Olec consulted the sheet in his hand. "Of course. Let's see… the emissary from the Horned Society arrived yesterday. We received the agreed payment, and he took the horsehair bundle and is on his way back to Molag."

He glanced up at the Serpent, perhaps hoping for some elaboration, but his master merely nodded. "Good. Proceed."

Awkwardly, the human made a scribble on the parchment with one hand, while holding it in the other. "Our plans against Chauv, while still in the early stages, proceed. The Grey Serpent is ready for Stage One, while our volunteer continues to train for Stage Two."

Another nod from the Serpent. Another scribble.

"We have received word from Dangerous Hands. He, The Runt and Sbalt have finished preparing the lair of Sandcats in Farlyow. It is ready to serve as their base of operations. Nodyath has brought the two rescued recruits there, and dropped them off. " Olec looked up from the parchment to give his superior a leer. "Sbalt still thinks he runs the show, but Dangerous has him well… in hand."

The Emerald Serpent grimaced. "If you're ever thinking as disguising yourself as a bard, Olec, I'd advise against it. What of Sbalt's brigand band?"

"Thirty to forty strong, currently hiding out north, near the Castle Chauv. They stand ready when needed, or at least they say so."

"And the new recruits?"

Olec ran the quill down the list. "I made some notes… ah, here they are. One is Transdoor, a priest of Nerull. Nodyath freed him from an Ulekian prison. The other is Frill, a sorcerer who has been involved in a long-standing feud against a Nyrondese wizard. He wishes our aid against his rival when this task is accomplished."

The Serpent considered. "Perhaps, perhaps not. We'll attend to that when the time comes. What of Nodyath? Where is he now?"

Olec made another scribble, then frowned at his superior. "I don't know, Master. He has quite the attitude, that one. He does say that he continues to spy on the Brass Dragon Inn, and has learned new information through his _helm of telepathy_. Apparently, Elrohir and his allies were sent by King Belvor to deal with some slavers in The Pomarj. They are now returning via ship, but it is unknown as to the date of their arrival."

The Serpent looked thoughtful. "When they do return to their inn, have Nodyath inform us, and then have him contact Sbalt. He and the others will then make their move… and destroy these outworlders utterly."

Olec looked curious. "You think this Elrohir and the others are a threat to us?"

The Emerald Serpent raised an eyebrow. "Not yet, but why wait until they are?"

"SNAKES!" Tadoa suddenly screamed.

Olec stared at the elf.

"They're coming! Writhing, coiling, sliding, slithering! They're at your feet, and in your soul! They will swallow us whole, and we will laugh! Laugh all the way down! Down, down, down we go!"

Shrieking laughter erupted from the child's throat, but all sound suddenly ceased as the Emerald Serpent, his eyes flashing with anger, thrust his right arm downwards. He then turned to regard Olec, who was looking at him in puzzlement.

"Loud, that one. I can't hear myself think."

Olec's questioning gaze softened, but did not disappear. The Serpent's face relaxed in an easy smile.

"Don't you humans have a saying? _Children should be seen, and not heard?_"

His follower relaxed, and looked back at his scroll, and made a last scribble. Rolling it up, he again addressed his master, a frown now on his face.

"There is one last thing. I was contacted last night while walking along the docks. The Mammal of The Lake. He says if we do not feed him again soon, he will come ashore to find his own food. It sounded like a veiled threat to me."

"Hmm," the Serpent mused. "I think that perhaps our aquatic ally has outlived his usefulness." He tapped the wand into his right palm several times, thinking. Olec waited patiently until his superior's eyes rested on him again.

"The Wizard's Guild has been preparing to move against Chic for some time now. Alert our contact there. I think perhaps we should aid these noble practitioners of magic against this fiendish menace, don't you think?" He flashed another fake smile at Olec, who returned the grin.

The Serpent gestured to Tadoa. "For now though, we'll keep him quiet. Give him this one."

Olec nodded. "I'll take care of it tonight." The Serpent however, shook his head.

"No. Give the job to someone else, and do not tell him about our plans. Chic might see your thoughts if you do it, and we don't want to tip our hand."

The man frowned. "So, it is true, then? The Mammal can read our minds, and not just speak to us in our heads?"

The Serpent nodded. "Yes. Chic is a true telepath. And they can be… most dangerous."

Olec's eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't that category include Nodyath, as well?"

The "elf" again flashed his mirthless smile. "Indeed it does. Do not worry, however." He tapped his temple with the wand. "I have a plan all prepared to deal with him, should the need arise." He looked back at Tadoa, who now appeared to be crying softly, his eyes shut tight. The Serpent raised his right arm to raise the _silence_, and then he and Olec moved over to the child.

"I'll get a sack and wagon ready," the human said, and then glanced at the elf's limbs, still dangling from the meat hooks. Olec glanced over to the Serpent while indicating them. "Do you want me to take these, as well?"

"No." the Serpent said softly. He reached out and gently pushed one leg into the other limbs. The metal rings encircling them rebounded off one another, producing a metallic tinkling Olec found quite pleasant.

"You know I and my mate… um, my wife, have a child," he told the man, while giving the limbs another small push. "I think I will give these as a gift to my son. A set of wind chimes." The Serpent looked abashed as he turned back to Olec and shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a lover of music."

Olec shook his head and whistled. "That's pretty… cold-blooded, master. If I may say so."

This time, the Emerald Serpent's smile was genuine. "Why, thank you, Olec."

"Down we go," giggled Tad.


	64. Chic And His Morsel

**2nd Day of Growfest, 565 CY**

**The Dockyards, Willip, Furyondy**

The wagon rolled slowly onto the pier.

The driver kept the horses moving slowly. While he was in no mood to linger here any longer than necessary, he did wish not to make any more noise than he had to. The wagon itself was newly built, the wheels moving quietly, a tribute to its construction. The boards that made up the pier however, were old and warping with age and exposure, and they clattered as the vehicle and its draft team moved over them.

It was a cold, clear night. The driver had a black scarf wrapped around his lower face and neck, and a leather cap on his head, but he still shivered occasionally. His threadbare hide jacket did little to keep out the chill.

Above him, the moons hung together in the sky. The silvery Luna was only half-full, but the aquamarine Celene was nearly full, missing only the barest silver of blue. They were so close together that the driver thought they looked like two giant eyes looking down at him, judging him. Disapproving of his actions.

The driver didn't like that feeling. He glanced back over his shoulder. In the bed of the wagon were numerous large sacks containing freshly killed duck and geese carcasses. If someone from the night watch did see the driver and stop him, he would claim that he was making a late delivery to the merchant ship that was docked at the end of this pier. He knew that it was scheduled to leave in the morning, bound for Dyvers with its cargo of foodstuffs. No one was supposed to be on deck at this hour, but if there were, the driver would simply claim ignorance. A paperwork snafu had caused him to deliver his goods to the wrong ship, and he (a simple dockworker) would sort it all out in the morning.

Even if no one came by however, he had no intention of boarding the ship. And the only sack in the wagon that truly concerned him was the one stuffed underneath the others.

The one that was starting to wriggle again.

The driver frowned. The blue whinnis had apparently worn off. As he brought the horses to a halt about ten feet from the end of the pier, he sighed to himself. That wasn't going to make this any easier.

The man dismounted and walked back to the wagon bed. He reached over and pulled the sack he was interested in upright. He hesitated a moment, and then, not really sure why, he loosened the drawstring and pulled the sack down about a foot, exposing the elf's head.

Tadoa stared at the man absolutely no comprehension in his eyes. A rag had been stuffed into his mouth, and a gag tied over that. The child's nostrils flared, and his chest heaved with the difficulty of breathing.

"Sorry, kid," the man mumbled. "It's just business, you know? I gotta make a living." With that, he hoisted the sack into his arms, and walked over to the very edge of the pier.

He suddenly whirled his head around. He thought he had heard a faint splash coming from the other side of the pier, by where the merchantman was docked. The man watched and waited, but there was no further sound. He looked down. The water, black from both sewage and night, showed no ripples.

The driver took a deep breath, and looked at the child in his arms one more time.

"Hope your god takes care of ya, kid," he said softly and heaved him out over the water as far as he could. The sack hit with a splash, but did not sink immediately. Water rushed in, but the cloth just slipped down from around the limbless boy. The sack went under, but the elf's trunk bobbed around like a buoy.

The driver did not see this, however. He was already engaged in turning the horses around and heading off…

Tadoa was confused, but not upset. He was sure that death was near, and that thought gave him some comfort. He hated everyone and everything that life contained, except its ending. He hoped that a giant snake would arise from the depths and swallow him. That would be the most wondrous way to die, but he would be content with drowning. He struggled to spit out the gag, but it was tied fast.

He did however, slowly slip beneath the surface.

A hollow, pounding noise filled the child's ears. Even with his elven eyes, it was hard to see, but he was adrift in a cold, blue void. There was garbage and muck all around, but Tad could make out a dark shadow far off, moving slowly towards him.

_Snake?_ He wondered, hoping.

Hello, pretty morsel.

Tadoa did not recognize the voice in his head, but he watched keenly as the dark shape grew nearer. Two red eyes gleamed wickedly at him from a long, narrow face. Dark fur covered the creature's body, which resembled a huge otter.

But wait. What is this? 

The tone of the creature's "voice" shifted as it swam a slow circle around Tad, observing the elf. _Do they think so poorly of me that they feed me such scraps? A mere chunk of a child, without even a mind to hold fear?_

This meant nothing to Tad. All he knew was that this stupid animal, which clearly wasn't a snake, wasn't eating him. He continued to try and spit out the gag, although he could feel the water all around him, trying to get into his nose, his ears, trying to find the opening where it could slip in and quench his life.

Something will have to be done about this. But for now, I hunger, and you must suffice.

The creature came straight at him. _At last_. Tad closed his eyes in ecstasy, and waited…

Something grabbed him, and despite himself, the boy opened his eyes. What he saw was another elven face staring into his own. This face though, had greenish-silver skin and flowing hair the color of vibrant jade. Tad's own green eyes showed his rage, and he writhed in the other elf's grasp, trying to escape, to bite him, anything to get free and catch the death that seemed to be so close, and yet so elusive. Out of the corner of his eye, Tad saw the furry creature pull up short, less than ten feet away from them.

What? A trap? 

Chic rushed at them both, but the elf extended a webbed hand towards the beast. There were blinding flashes of light, and Tad could feel a thunderous _boom_. As the last of his oxygen left him, the child finally managed to lift the gag just enough to swallow water.

_Take me, Merrshaulk_ was his last thought as the blue sea turned to black.


	65. The Tribal House

**3rd Day of Growfest, 565 Cy  
Elven Tribal House, Willip, Furyondy**

"He's coming around."

A male voice. Elven.

"Everyone be quiet. Don't make any sudden moves. We don't know all of what they've done to him yet."

Female. Also elven.

Something touched his cheek.

Tad's eyes snapped open.

He was lying down on a soft bed. There were three elves looking down at him.

The one furthest away, standing perhaps at a ten-foot distance off to his right, was a sea elf. Tad blinked at him. At least, the child thought he was a sea elf. Tadoa had never seen one before. He frowned. Wait. That wasn't quite right. He _had _seen one before, but he couldn't place when. Was it recently?

The sea elf gazed at him with eyes so pale blue, they looked almost silver. He appeared worried, biting his lip and glancing over occasionally at the other two. Tad wondered what might be wrong.

The second elf was the female. She was sitting on the edge of the bed by Tad. It was her hand that had brushed his cheek. She was a high elf like Tadoa, and sported the dark hair and green eyes most common of their kind. Those eyes too, held both worry and kindness. She glanced back over to the sea elf.

"Oceanus, there's a decanter of Aleeian wine in the parlor. Could you go get it, please? And tell Keasten if anyone else arrives, we're not to be disturbed."

The sea elf nodded, somewhat reluctantly. "I'll be right back." He turned and hurriedly left the room.

The elf turned her attention back to the child. "Tadoa?" She asked in a soft voice. "My name is Ehlissa. I am from Welkwood."

Tad said nothing. His eyes wandered to Ehlissa's hair, pinned up and held in place by a golden clasp shaped like an eagle. They went to her small, silver earrings, the woven leather clasp on her green, furred half-cloak, the weave of her green linen tunic. When they returned to meet Ehlissa's eyes, there was no change in his expression. The female glanced back over her right shoulder. 

"There's nothing there I can see. What did they _do_ to him?" 

Slowly, the third elf, who had been sitting on the far edge of the bed, rose and walked over to stand beside Ehlissa and gaze down upon the youth.

This was the oldest elf Tadoa had ever seen. His face and hands carried deep lines in them. Elves generally did not age as quickly as humans did, even relative to their long life spans, but this elf looked to be well over 700 years old.

His hair was gray, his eyes green but somewhat clouded. Ehlissa made room for him on the bed as he sat down on a corner of it and gazed closely at Tadoa.

It was only then that Tad saw the tears slowly running down his face.

"My dear boy," the old elf whispered in a hoarse voice. "My dear, dear child. It's all right now." He paused briefly. "I am sorry it took us… took _me _so long to find you, but it's going to be all right now. I promise." 

Tad just stared at him.

The old elf's brow furrowed, and he frowned. "Tadoa," he said, his voice a bit stronger now and placing his hands on the younger elf's shoulders. "Look at me. Do you remember me?"

Tadoa saw nothing in his face that looked familiar. Surely he would have remembered seeing an elf this old. His eyes wandered to the deep purple robes the old elf wore. They had silver stitching of abstract designs upon them. The sleeves were-

Tad looked. Upon each sleeve was embroidered a design.

Three moons. One full, one waxing, and one waning.

Something deep within him stirred- but then everything else crashed down upon it and blocked it out.

"NNNOOOOOOOO!" He screamed, as the hatred came back.

Tadoa lunged forward, trying to bite the old elf's arm. The child managed to grab hold of his sleeve and held on tightly, worrying it like a dog. Startled, the old elf pulled back, bringing Tad along with him, so that the boy was now sitting upright in bed. Tad began struggling fiercely as Ehlissa tried to grab him. Something that was sticking out of one of the sleeves of the tunic Tad was now garbed in hit a wood-and-crystal lamp on an end table that was lit by _continual light_ and knocked it to the floor. Wild shadows of light and darkness danced crazily around the room. Tadoa kept wrenching at the fabric of the old elf's robe until a piece of it tore free. He spat it out. Ehlissa was trying to push him back down onto the bed, so he lunged at her nose, trying to bite it off. It was all she could do to hold him off. Growling, Tadoa twisted left and right, and something that was sticking out of the other sleeve of his tunic came flailing around and slapped the female elf's cheek before bouncing off.

"He's trying to bite us!" She cried. "He doesn't realize he's got his limbs back!"

"Thank Sashelas for small favors!"

Oceanus had returned. He slammed the decanter of wine down on the end table and helped Ehlissa wrestle Tad back down onto the bed. The sea elf glanced back at the ancient high elf. We need to bind him!" He shouted over Tadoa's yelling and barking. We need a spell!"

The old elf just stood there, apparently in shock. Other voices in elven could now be heard from the door. They were raised voices, as well.

Oceanus gritted his teeth. "Sohar and Kina were just coming in. I _told_ Keasten to-" The aquatic elf turned back to the door. "Sohar! Please! We have an emergency here! You and Kina just wait out in the parlor! We'll be out in a minute! Keasten! Get him out of here!"

As Tadoa, now lying prone again on the bed, continued to struggle, out of the corner of his eye he saw a male elf peering through the open doorway, staring at him. Tad could just see the arms of another elf pulling at him, but he stood fast. The one Oceanus had called Sohar…

It was The Emerald Serpent.

Tad stopped struggling.

Four eyes widened simultaneously.

The anger continued to coarse through Tadoa, but now it had direction. _You lied!_ His mind cried. _You told me my soul would feed the great Sleeping God! You said you'd kill me! You promised!_

And then, amazingly, his anger washed away, and was replaced by something else. Something older than his anger.

His fear.

Tad screamed from the very depths of his soul as Sohar's face vanished. Ehlissa was saying something, and the old elf might have been incanting now, but Tad heard none of it as he blacked out.


	66. Mutiny

**3rd Day of Growfest, 565 CY**

**The Selintan River**

_Thrumb was right,_ Nesco thought grimly. _We're not going to stop._

Their vessel was commencing a turn towards the northwest at the sharp bend in the Selintan where the river passed underneath the Wharf Gate of the great metropolis. The river was teeming with small craft, some coming dangerously close to their ship, despite numerous shouted warnings by those on board to keep clear, as they had no control over their vessel's heading. Fortunately, there had been no collisions yet.

On their right, through the light drizzle that had been their constant companion since the early morning, they could see the wooded bluff slowly slide past them. Above the trees, dimly visible through patchy fog, could be seen the massive stone walls of the Free City of Greyhawk. Some people were standing on the narrow strip of land that stood between the bluff and the riverbank, watching their passage. Adjacent to the city, at the river's bend could be seen the city's overflow, a large shantytown clustered around Barge End, where the barges of the seagoing gypsies called the Rhenee were moored. To their left, the river's bend formed a triangle of land on which was situated a smaller slum (the Far Bank, as Thrumb called it), which was also filled with onlookers gazing at this strange ship passing through.

On deck, things were getting ugly. The former slaves had gradually grown more and more depressed as each potential homeport; Elredd, Fax, Safeton and Hardby had one-by-one vanished as a possible destination for their autonomous vessel. With some (perhaps unwitting) encouragement from Elrohir and his friends, they had pinned all of their hopes that the ship might put in at Greyhawk. Now, that hope had faded, and the passengers didn't want to stay onboard any longer. Despite the drizzle, they were all above decks now, looking wistfully at dry land so tantalizingly close.

Some had in fact threatened to jump overboard, but had until now been dissuaded from doing so. The ex-slaves were, for the most part, women or the elderly, and might not survive such a plunge. While they were now closer to shore than they had been at any point since the beginning of their long journey, a brisk wind was making the Selintan's surface dangerous-looking. The heavy river traffic looked to offer more chance of colliding with a swimmer than of rescuing one.

Now Nesco turned back to the middle-aged man who had lost his daughter. His name was Cheriken, and he was currently engaged in a heated argument with Elrohir.

"We cannot wait any longer!" Cheriken shouted. The teenaged girl Ethily, who had been clinging closely to Cheriken since their rescue, stood meekly behind him, nodding in agreement.

Elrohir was clearly engaged in a losing battle to try and control his exasperation. "What would you have me do, Cheriken?" the ranger shouted back. "How many times have I told you we have no control over this ship?"

"All the more reason for us leaving it now, while we have a chance!" the former slave yelled back, gesturing with his hands wildly at the vessel around them. "Who knows who built this ship? Who are they? What is their purpose? You say they are elves, and are friendly, but what proof have you of that? And now we head towards the Lake of Unknown Depths! Pirates and monsters beyond description lurk there!"

"As does the Furyondan Navy!" cut in Elrohir. "They will protect us! I'm certain now that we are heading for Willip! It's our home city!"

"Yours perhaps, but not mine," Cheriken replied curtly. He swept his hands towards his fellow passengers. "Nor theirs." A swelled agreement rose up from the crowd, and their elected spokesman continued. "We all dwell from the Wild Coast, Hardby, or points south. Some of us are from Greyhawk," he added with a nod towards Captain Thrumb, who stood silently nearby, taking no part in the discussion, "but none from further north! And we are to stand by meekly while this ghost ship sails into the Nyr Dyv?"

The murmuring from the crowd grew louder. Several shouts of "No!" broke out. "And what if we do not stop at Willip?" Cheriken pressed. "What if we continue to sail north, and up the Veng River, or the Ritensa?" He glared hard at the ranger. "The lands of the Horned Society! Perhaps _they_ would welcome a ship full of innocent men and women," he breathed hard, "and foolish, would-be heroes, as well!"

The crowd erupted in protests. Elrohir snapped.

"Perhaps you'd like it better back in Highport?" he spat at Cheriken, then whirled around and began to stalk off. "We can't stop this ship, so if you want to jump, be my guest!" he shouted over his shoulder.

The reply was swift. "Maybe you can't stop this vessel, but I _can and will_!"

The ranger stared. Cheriken had produced a hand axe and was now striding towards the main mast. "We'll cut the sails, and drift aground!" he yelled, as he lifted his hand back to swing.

The axe was abruptly yanked out of Cheriken's hand, and its owner shoved backwards. The ex-slave staggered into Ethily, who helped him keep his footing.

Argo Bigfellow stood by the mast, lazily tossing the weapon up and down, catching it each time.

"Caroline, cover the mizzenmast." he said quietly. His wife swiftly moved to obey.

There was a short silence, broken by Ethily's pleading voice. "After all we did for you?" The girl asked. She indicated Cheriken. "He risked his life to get the Slave Lord and bring him to you!"

"Thanks a lot," the aforementioned Slave Lord grumbled, staring up at Caroline from his seat by the mizzen.

"Shut up," Caroline snarled at him.

Nesco stepped forward. "Everyone. Please listen to me."

It didn't have the dramatic effect she was hoping for, but enough people turned to look at the ranger that she felt confident enough to continue.

"Please understand., she said to Cheriken and the others, "We are not mercenaries. We did not come to rescue you for money-"

"That's right," came the voice of the Slave Lord. "She only came to rescue her brother."

The rogue suddenly cried out in pain as Caroline slammed his head back into the mizzenmast. The Slave Lord put his head down on the deck, whimpering and holding his head in his hands. Argo raised his hand.

"Don't hit him, love."

Caroline looked at her husband questioningly.

Argo indicated the crowd. "I don't want them to think that we have anything to fear from that one," he said. "The one responsible for torturing and killing their friends and families."

While the former slaves considered those words, Nesco again attempted to keep a dialogue going. "We're all tired of being at sea. Now I do think Elrohir is right, and this ship is indeed heading for Willip. However, I think we may be able to find a way to drop anyone who wants to off here at Greyhawk."

Aslan turned to the ranger, his face hard. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Nesco."

Cynewine smiled at the paladin. "I'm sure we can find a way Aslan. Certainly, with the abilities of someone as _Talented_ as yourself…"

The subject of her statement shook his head while looking down. "I knew you were going to say that, Nesco." He sighed and returned his gaze to her. "We're being scryed upon more and more lately. Teleporting these people off would take days, and leave me, and by extension us, far more vulnerable than I'm willing to risk."

Nesco's smile didn't waver. She only spoke one further word. "Pegasus."

Aslan considered, then gave an embarrassed smile, indicating he had not thought of that. "Hmm," he mused, peering off at the shore through the light rain. "That should work, and the expenditure would be relatively minimal." He turned back to the others. "All right, everyone who wants to go ashore here, listen up…"

* * *

As preparations were made, Talass sidled over to Cygnus. "I'm happy for these people," she said quietly, "but some of them are going to have a terrible time trying to pick up the pieces of their former lives." The cleric shook her head sadly. "I wish we had The Rock with us here now. I'd give every one of them a piece to use. That would be an unselfish way to use up its remaining magic."

Cygnus pursed his lips together, not meeting Talass' gaze. "That's not an option anymore."

The mage knew the cleric's eyes were on him, but he still waited several seconds to compose himself before meeting her inquiring look. He didn't know how she, or any of the others, were going to take this.

"Before we left the Brass Dragon, I destroyed the chest with a _fireball. _Everything within, including The Rock, is destroyed."

Unable to help himself, Cygnus quickly looked away. He really didn't want to face one of Talass' legendary rages, or worse, one of her moralizing lectures, now.

When he did hear the voice of the priestess beside him again, Cygnus was surprised. Talass maintained a level, even tone, with none of its usual frostiness.

"Still worried about Nodyath, I presume?"

The wizard nodded. "Yes."

The cleric's next comment surprised Cygnus even more. "What about the _iron flask_?"

He shrugged. "Destroyed, along with everything else."

"Really?" Came the response. There was a slight pause. "Hmm… I would have thought destroying the flask would have set loose the demon within."

Cygnus shrugged again. "Apparently not."

There was nothing further from Talass. Cygnus became agitated. What was she thinking? What was she going to say next? He was torn between just turning to the cleric and blurting everything out about his sleepwalking and just walking away when he heard her voice again.

"That's odd. My _detect lie_ spell shows you're telling the truth."

Cygnus whirled around, the astonishment plain to see on his face. "What?"

Talass was smiling at him, but her expression was cold. Her holy symbol was still hung around her neck. It occurred to Cygnus too late that he had not heard any incantation. "Look at those eyes," the cleric said. "You walked right into that one, didn't you, Cygnus?"

Ashamed, a little angry, but still unable to formulate a suitable reply, Cygnus looked away again, staring as a pegasus took off from the ship's deck, carrying two riders. "The Rock was no loss," he mumbled. "It never took us to Nodyath. I don't think it worked anymore, anyway."

The wizard heard Talass' voice retreat as she walked away. "I hope you and Aslan know what you're doing, Cygnus."

Another image of Tad flashed through Cygnus' mind.

And then one of Thorin.

"So do I, Talass," He whispered. "So do I."

* * *

"Captain Thrumb! Are you all right?"

Elrohir had been the first to notice the elderly man put his hand to his chest, and lean against the mast, wincing in pain. When the old man had looked up again, Elrohir, Argo, Caroline, Nesco and Zantac were standing by him with concerned expressions. Talass, just coming up, put her hand on his shoulder. "I can aid you, good Thrumb, if you-"

The seadog removed the priestess' hand and shook his head at all of them. "By The Isles of Woe, woman! This old heart o' mine been a' thumpin' for years now! I ain't ready to take that plunge yet!" He regarded them all contemptuously. "Don't you all be all standin' there slack-jawed, now! By Osprem, if this were a right proper ship, you'd all be keelhauled for derelictin' yer duties!"

Argo chuckled, and smiled at the ferryman. "Well then, Captain?" The ranger asked. "Aren't you leaving with the others? This is your home, after all."

Thrumb stared hard at Bigfellow. "You lubbers," he said, then ran his hand up and down the carved legs of the mast, while gazing up its length. "Captain don't leave his ship while she's still afloat." He took in another deep breath. "Where she goes, that's where I go, too." He shrugged. "No sense cryin' about what's goin' to happen, or where you might end up. You see," Thrumb expounded, always glad to have an audience, "Lubbers think bein' a sea captain is like bein' master o' yer fate or somethin'."

The old salt shook his head with a bitter smile. "It's not about controllin' yer destiny. It's about acceptin' it, and bein' at peace wit it, even if it be a bad one." He looked from one face to another.

"You all should know that."


	67. Where You Need To Be

**6th Day of Growfest, 565 CY**

**Amoria, The Blessed Fields of Elysium**

Even before Tadoa opened his eyes, he knew something was very, very wrong.

This was not like the other times. For the past several days, these accursed elves had been trying to- well, Tad wasn't sure what it was they were trying to do, but it seemed to involve turning him away from the truth of the great Sleeping God.

The child had realized several days ago that he had new arms and legs. How this had occurred was something he spent no time thinking about. After all, since silken ropes constantly bound them now, what was the difference?

Ehlissa, Keasten, Oceanus and the old elf (Tad still had not heard anyone address him by a proper name) had talked to him endlessly as Tadoa struggled against his bonds, attempting to get free and escape the Tribal House. Their voices were nothing but a buzzing to him. Life was still nothing but pain, and the boy wanting nothing more than for it to end, preferably in the belly of the legless beast.

But now, immediately upon awakening, Tad felt uneasy. The air seemed thick to him, a cloying presence that was trying to bore down upon every pore in his body, and into his lungs, which tried to cough up something that refused to be expelled. He took a sniff. Something flowery. Some kind of herb.

Tad opened his eyes.

He was lying in a meadow. Small but vibrant purple flowers on stalks covered the ground like a carpet.

It was lavender.

The old elf stood about twenty feet away from Tadoa. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and he was gazing at the youth with a wry smile. There was no sign of the other elves.

"Now then, young Tadoa," he spoke. His voice projected well. It sounded less hoarse than it had been, but still trembled occasionally, as if from long, long use.

Tad just glared at him, pure hatred in his eyes. He remembered none of his earlier fear.

"We're going to try one more thing." The ancient elf's voice could not hide a note of finality. "We're going to set you free."

A finger gestured, and the rope binding Tadoa untied itself and coiled up by his feet.

Tad got to his feet as quickly as possible, but immediately started swaying. It had been a long time since he had last stood up, and his surroundings weren't making it any easier. The sun was too bright, the smell of lavender was too strong, and the air still didn't feel right. It was as if he was drowning again, but this time he wasn't looking forward to the experience.

Tadoa's head snapped around. The lavender meadow was in a slight depression, perhaps two hundred feet wide, and both elves stood in the approximate center of it. Other smells and sounds danced at the very limit of his perception.

"Where am I?" He snarled at the elderly elf.

The recipient of his question tilted his head. "Where you need to be, I hope."

Tad bared his teeth at the answer, and slowly started backing away him. The ancient elf made no move to stop him.

Tad turned and tried to run, but could only manage a half-stagger at best. His legs still weren't working well, but the boy pressed on. He had to get out of here. The lavender was too purple; the grass was too green, the sky was too blue, the air smelled too clean.

The child tripped and went down, but regained his footing and continued. He reached the crest of the meadow and looked beyond.

The ground sloped down gently to a clear, astonishingly blue river, perhaps thirty feet across. There were several people standing on both sides of the river. They were mostly humans, but Tad could also see elves, gnomes, dwarves, halfling, and other races he couldn't immediately identify, all mingling freely.

Those on his side of the wide stream seemed to be having a picnic of some sort. Several blankets and cloak were spread out on the grass, while the participants sat or stood, eating a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. Several children were chasing each other around a small grove of fruit trees.

A carved, whitewashed arch of stone served as a pedestrian bridge over the river. As Tadoa watched, a barge came floating slowly down the river, crewed by three humans. O One guided the flat watercraft along with a long pole, while the other two were moving around wooden crates stacked high on the deck. As the barge neared the stone bridge, the far end of the bridge suddenly uprooted itself from the riverbank and carefully, like a giant trying to avoid stepping on smaller creatures, swing over the river to carefully plant itself on the near shore. After the barge had passed, the bridge slowly swung itself back to its former position again. Even in his current state, Tad felt a small twinge of astonishment at the sight. The stone looked as solid and unyielding he had ever seen, but when the bridge moved, it flowed and bent as easily as supple cloth.

Tad looked. The barge was now putting in at a dock on the far bank, perhaps three hundred yards from where he stood. A small village nestled there, consisting of perhaps thirty buildings, most structures of wood, but there were a few of stone, and several mounds held what looked to be gnome or halfling burrows. People strolled among the buildings, talking and laughing. Several pitched in to help the barge workers unload the crates. Tad could hear several of them singing a worksong.

That's an offshoot of the River Oceanus."

Tadoa whirled. The old elf was standing behind him.

The mage gestured. "The elf who saved you was named after it."

Tad snarled again at him, but despite himself, turned back to the pastoral scene before him. That was when he noticed that several of those at the picnic had stopped what they were doing and were staring at him.

A human child, a girl of perhaps seven or eight dressed in a simple frock, walked slowly towards him. She had the markings of a terrible pox upon her face and arms, but seemed to take no notice of this at all. Her footsteps were as light and graceful as any elf, and in each hand she held a garland of bright yellow flowers.

"You look lost," She told Tadoa. "Would you like to come and play with us?"

Tadoa turned and ran…

He kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see anymore the beauty of nature, he didn't want to hear laughter and birds singing sweetly overhead, he didn't want to smell the intoxicating perfume of a thousand flowers. He didn't even want to feel the cool, soft grass underneath his feet, but he had no footwear.

After a minute of running, he stopped and opened his eyes.

It was as he feared. An explosion of color from an infinite variety of flowers slammed into his eyes. The fields seemed to stretch on forever, although he saw what looked like a forest perhaps a mile away to his right. He started to run towards it. A rabbit with golden fur and silver eyes bolted upright out of the tall grass in front of him, stared at the child for a moment, and then ran away as fast as it could.

Tadoa saw something in the sky above him. At first, he didn't turn to look up. He knew it would be some fantastically plumaged bird that would only add to the steadily growing ache in his heart. But as it came closer and lower to him, he changed his mind about that assumption.

It was some mixture of man and hawk. Instead of arms, it had great wings, and its body was covered in light gray feathers. The face was human, but the feathers curled around the head like hair, and formed a short crest. Bright gold eyes stared at him with an expression that, unlike everyone else's, was not benign.

Tadoa heard the voice of the old elf from an indeterminate distance behind him. He could not make out the words, but the avian creature abruptly banked away from the young elf, and flew off some distance, circling Tad from above.

A strangled cry escaped the elven boy's throat as he plunged onward towards the forest. This… place was starting to feel as if it would literally crush him, as if something insubstantial was trying to worm its way inside his heart.

"Great… Serpent." The words clawed themselves out of the child's throat. "Help me! Take me into the embrace of your coils. _Please, take this all away!" _

"SNAKE!"

Tadoa pulled up short. That had been the voice of the ancient elf. Tad was standing just a few yards short of the forest's edge. The voice seemed to come from his right.

"Tadoa, there is a snake here!"

The boy narrowed his eyes. Was this a trick? There _did_ seem to be an element of fear in the old fool's voice. Could Merrshaulk have penetrated this sickly sweet paradise? He hoped with all his heart that it was so, but still he was cautious.

Slowly, he started moving along the edge of trees towards where he had heard the elder elf's last shout. He ran from one tree to another, hiding behind each one.

Soon, he saw his tormenter. The old elf was standing near a tangle of moss-covered boulders at the very edge of the forest. A massive curtain of vines hung down from the nearby trees, partially obscuring the surface of the large rocks, and yet…

Yes! There it was! Tadoa couldn't see all of it at once, but there was definitely a large green snake, perhaps twelve feet long, slowly slithering on and around the rocks. It was facing away from Tad, flicking its tongue at the old elf, who stood motionless, regarding the snake with no outward expression at all that Tad could see.

The child took a deep breath and ran at full speed towards the snake.

"Great servant of the Serpent!" He shouted. "Please, deliver me from this wretched place! Take me in your dark embrace! _Save me!_"

The snake swung around, faced Tadoa and reared up.

For just a second, he was ecstatic.

Then the boy saw the great, rainbow-colored wings spread out from the serpent's back, and he knew it was all a lie…

He stopped where he was and threw his arms across his face, but the couatl's voice came crashing directly into his mind… his heart… his soul.

_LET WHAT IS WRONG BE MADE RIGHT_

_LET WHAT IS TORN BE MADE WHOLE_

_AND LET WHAT HOLDS YOU FAST BE GONE_

Those words tore into Tadoa, and like a punctured waterskin, what was inside began to come out.

He screamed and fell to the ground. His eyes were shut tight, but he could again see "Mirage" leaping at him, the reptilian eyes of the Emerald Serpent, his arms and legs being cut away from him. He could hear all of his precious childhood memories being polluted by the Serpent's smooth, convincing voice. He could feel the cold, dark waters of the Nyr Dyv close over his head…

NO NO NO NO NO NO…

The words faded away into a final scream as Tad writhed on the ground, his hands tearing up clumps of rich forest soil and hurling them away, his body rising and then slamming back down into the earth. His feet tore furrows through the earth until his toenails bled…

An irrelevant amount of time passed…

Tadoa was sobbing now more than he thought any mortal body could endure; a great heaving racked his body, slowly diminishing. Dimly, the young elf realized he was now sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor, although he did not remember how that had come about. His eyes felt red, puffy and raw. He could not see well out of them.

He felt a wooden mug being gently pushed into his hands now. Instinctively, he raised the cup to his lips and drank.

"Slowly, now," a voice said.

It was plain water, and yet it was heaven. The sweetest, clearest, coolest draught Tadoa had ever had in his entire life, and yet it was mixed with his own salty tears. It did not eliminate the turmoil within him, but it helped the youth begin to concentrate on it.

Slowly, Tad opened his eyes and looked around him. The couatl and the bird-like humanoid he had seen earlier were gazing down at him. Expressions of kindness, which the elf would have though impossible to reside on such inhuman faces, rested there easily. More words Tad could not understand came from his left, and the two creatures smiled and took off, flying higher and higher into the blue vault of sky. The boy's eyes followed them until they disappeared into a silver cloud above them.

Tadoa still felt weak and confused. Thoughts and feelings were still swirling around inside of him, but he knew that, however slowly, they were starting to subside. That long-lost feeling that he remembered as happiness was slowly starting to come back to his heart, and inwardly, he welcomed it as a young child welcomed presents at his birthday, smiling and squealing with delight as each new surprise was unwrapped.

He felt a trembling hand touch his left knee, and looked in that direction.

The old elf was sitting cross-legged beside him. A gentle smile was on that face, and tears ran down from those clouded eyes again, falling into the dried streambeds of lines that crossed that well-worn terrain.

This time though, they were tears of joy.

Tadoa inhaled suddenly from shock. He couldn't believe it. It was impossible, and yet there it was. One final present to be opened.

At long last, he recognized that face. He was almost ashamed of himself that he hadn't earlier, but he knew that his own eyes had been far more clouded than this ancient elf's would ever be…

"Grandfather?" Tad whispered.

The old elf nodded.

"Welcome back, Tadoa Falail," said Lemontharz. "Welcome home."


	68. Lemontharz

**3rd Day of Planting, 565 CY**

**Prindath, Amoria, The Blessed Fields of Elysium**

Tadoa had found the one thing in Elysium with the power to make him unhappy.

The knowledge that he would soon have to leave it.

The thought made the child quieter and more introspective than he had been these last four days. And now, sitting here at a table in a tavern in Amoria with his grandfather, Lemontharz Falail, one of the most powerful sorcerers who ever lived (per elven Rolex legend, at least), he wondered what would come next.

These past few days had been spent mostly wandering the unearthly beautiful landscape of Amoria with his grandfather. He saw fields, both pastoral and wild, each with a different but complimentary beauty. They strolled through forests untouched, climbed hills unblemished, and swam in rivers and lakes unsoiled. Although Lemontharz moved a bit more slowly than his grandson, the old elf seemed to take just as much delight in everything around him that Tadoa did, and that made the boy even happier. Some part of him knew that this was some type of therapy for his poor, abused heart and soul. He didn't care, though. He was happy, and so was his grandfather.

They talked. Sometimes for hours on end, and sometimes nothing more than a few short words over the course of an evening. Lemontharz had wanted to know everything, so Tad began from the last time he and the Elrohir party had seen the aged magic-user, seven or eight years past now. They had all assumed he was dead.

Tadoa told him about all the friends Elrohir had lost since then. The ranger Lucifer Doom and his brother, the paladin Damien; the wizard Dyonysus; the cleric Diana; the ranger Natas, the rogue Estel and most recently, Thorin's wife Hyzenthlay.

But he also told Lemontharz of the new friends and allies his lifelong companion had gained. Elrohir's wife and love Talass, Yanigasawa Tojo, Argo Bigfellow Junior and his wife Caroline, and now Zantac.

He told him of Elrohir's son Barahir and of Cygnus' son Thorin, born unnaturally in the midst of his mother's murder, and of the extraordinary actions that had been taken by those who cared to help save his life.

And at his insistence, Lemontharz had told Tadoa many tales as well. Some Tad remembered dimly from his childhood, others were new. But they were all as only Lemontharz could tell them.

Lemontharz told his grandson of his early life, growing up with his own father Arnear, shipwrecked on a deserted isle in the midst of the Passa Ocean, a thousand leagues from any other land. How his father had grown old and died a scant sixteen years before the young sorcerer had finally learned how to master the _teleport_ spell…

He told the boy of The Book of Rolex itself, the first written words and foundation for all elvendom there, and the great joys and unimaginable sorrows that had flowed from those who read, and wrote, in its hallowed pages.

The Authors of Wisdom. The great enmity between the Falails and the Starflowers. The "Worthy Winners." The Horn of Queen Desna. The Tragedy of Essetus II.

This all served only to whet Tadoa's appetite. When one tale was told, he would beg for another, and his grandfather would smile and oblige, but now it was time to return to the present… and to plan for the future.

Prindath was the small village he had seen earlier by the banks of the Oceanus River. Even at night, the tavern they were now in seemed cleaner and less rowdy than any the youth had seen before. It was not particularly quiet, however. The place was filled with people of all races, laughing, joking and occasionally singing. Tadoa now realized that most of the people here though were not living souls though, but petitioners. The spirits of those people, virtuous in life, who had come here to claim their final reward.

Tad envied them.

While they waited for their meal to arrive, the young elf saw out of the corner of his eye, his grandfather watching him.

"You know why we can't stay, Tadoa." 

Tad sighed and nodded, not really meeting his gaze. Lemontharz had told him why mortals could not dwell long in Elysium, about how eventually the lure became so strong that one _couldn't_ leave. The child suspected that even if that were not the case, his grandfather would still insist on their departure. The old elf had thus far spoken not at all of his plans for the future, but Tad knew it did not involve idyllic days here in the Blessed Fields.

The boy put on a game smile and turned his full attention back to his elder. "You haven't told me of those other elves, grandfather. Ehlissa and the others. Who are they?" 

If the old elf realized that his grandson was deliberately avoided the topic of their imminent departure, he gave no sign. He folded his hands on the table in front of him

and spoke evenly. "Keasten and Ehlissa are brother and sister. They are from the tribe of Alias of Welkwood, but live some leagues away, by themselves. They were currently passing through Willip to visit another sister, Kina, who is a member of the chapterhouse there. As for Oceanus, his tribe dwells a fair distance south, off the shores of the Kingdom of Keoland. He is on what he calls an "extended vacation." I suspect he may have had some troubles with his people, but it is not my place to pry." 

The aged sorcerer bent forward, the intensity of the gaze he leveled at his grandson increasing slightly. "I've spent the years since last you saw me Tadoa, much as I have the preceding ones. I have been traveling here and there among the Three Worlds, always keeping a low profile. Anonymity is one of my most useful tools, and I can ill afford to lose it. Ehlissa and the others know the little that I have told them, but that is far less than you know. And for now, it must remain that way." 

Tadoa frowned. "But why, grandfather? After all, the only reason you had to maintain secrecy was because of Kar-Vermin, and he is now slain." 

Lemontharz said nothing, merely straightened back up in his seat.

Tad's voice sounded faint to his own ears. "They _did _destroy him. They told me so." 

The magic-user sighed. Now it was he who had difficulty looking his dinner companion in the eyes. Eventually though, he did so, and when he did, his voice carried more of that hoarseness that Tadoa had first noticed when he met him.

"Elrohir and his allies are the bravest and truest friends one could ever wish for, Tadoa… but they are human, and humans don't always take the long road. They do not always see far enough. Perhaps they lack experience, or the triumph of the moment overwhelms them, but sometimes they forget… to see things through to the end." 

Lemontharz paused, as if he had forgotten something. Tadoa watched him bite his lip and shake his head, as if the old elf were having an internal debate with himself. He glanced back at the youth with a bitter smile.

"No. Strike that, Tad. Ignore what I just said. Inexperience is not a purely human failing. I've been guilty of far more shortsightedness than Elrohir and his friends will ever be." The sorcerer rubbed at his eyes. "I've failed far more at what needed to be done than they ever have or will." 

Tadoa couldn't believe what he had heard. "You?" He asked in amazement. "But grandfather... you're _Lemontharz Falail_, the greatest sorcerer who's ever lived! What could possibly have-" 

"I'm only this great and powerful sorcerer in those legends you place such stock in, Tadoa," the mage replied sternly. He glared at his grandson, who returned his gaze only because he was too frightened to look away now.

"Did I defeat the Invaders From Beyond, Tadoa?" Lemontharz asked. Did I save your mother and her two brothers, and all the other elves of our tribe?" The magic-user's voice grew even harder. "Did I ever figure out a way to stop the Neutral Forces?" 

Now it dropped to a whisper that Tadoa could barely hear, as the old elf dropped his head to his chest.

"Do I even have a prayer at saving the Three Worlds?" 

Tad didn't intend to whisper his own question, but he just couldn't bring his voice up any higher.

"Save them from _what_, grandfather?" 

Lemontharz lifted his head and gazed sadly at his grandson. It looked more to Tadoa that the elder elf was trying to find a way to express a difficult concept.

The sorcerer gestured with his hands. "Picture that couatl as you first saw it, Tadoa." 

Tad frowned, but Lemontharz was in earnest.

"Do it. Close your eyes, and picture it, as in trance!" 

Obediently, Tadoa closed his eyes, and concentrated. A whisper of uneasiness came back to him as he saw the green serpent slithering among the rocks and vines.

He could hear his grandfather's voice, as if from a great distance. "You could not see all of it at once, could you? You could not truly grasp what it was." 

Tadoa nodded.

"Open your eyes." 

The child did so. Lemontharz was looking at him intently.

"The god that Elrohir, Aslan and Cygnus worship tells a legend of a snake so large that it encircles the world, grasping its tail in its mouth." 

Tadoa gaped. He struggled to find his voice. A vision of the Emerald Serpent flashed momentarily through his mind.

"Could that possibly be true, grandfather? Which world is this that the legend speaks of?" 

Lemontharz shook his head. "The veracity of this legend does not matter. The point is that you cannot comprehend such a creature, can you? If you were at sea, and saw it on the horizon, no matter how far away you were, you could not comprehend the true form of what you were looking at, could you?" 

The boy nodded, slowly.

"Know, then," the sorcerer nodded. "Fate is much the same. With the right training, one can see a strand here, a strand there. And sometimes, if one is wise, lucky, or both," he smiled, "one can make a guess as to what a greater portion may reveal, and act accordingly." 

Tadoa looked confused. Lemontharz continued.

"I have studied the workings of Fate since shortly after I returned to my kin in Eschtren." He chuckled wryly to himself. "I thought that my interest sprung from my own heart, but I now suspect that it was destiny itself that drew me to destiny." 

The boy showed no expression. Lemontharz shrugged.

"Hmph. I thought that was rather witty, myself. No matter. Tad, my goals do not involve some never-ending battle against evil. Countless others already bear that lofty load. What I seek is mundane, though not incomprehensible." 

"What are your goals, grandfather?" Tad asked.

The mage smiled. "I daresay you will be quite disappointed, my young adventurer. I only seek to find what is best in all of us, and to draw it out to the surface. The desire to help others, a giving heart, the granting of mercy, forgiveness even when undeserved, the redemption of evil when possible and of course, that gentle or even not-so-gentle touch that heals body and soul." 

Lemontharz smiled at Tadoa with this last. The boy blushed and stared down at the table.

"Although it may not seem as such to an outside observer, that is really the plain truth of what I do," the old elf continued. "It is sad that such an unassuming goal has drawn the attention of such… hostile notice. It has however, and so my enemies and I have played this game for many, many years now. I sadly admit that I am not above using others as pawns in this game. My only defense is that I care as much for their lives as I do for my own. As to whether that defense will serve me in the afterlife, that is a question even I cannot answer… until that times comes." 

Tad furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "But grandfather… does the survival of the Three Worlds really depend on such things as the amount of goodness in our individual souls? Surely, we all have lived and died since time began with both good and evil within us." 

His grandfather nodded. "A very astute observation, my dear boy. Very astute indeed." He frowned. "For now, let us just say that there are certain forces in the universe who, discovering what I seek, may be… overreacting." He gazed again at his grandson. "You are wise beyond your years, Tadoa. I do believe I've made the right choice." 

Tad's fingers tightened involuntarily, pulling on the clean white tablecloth. There was something about that sentence that frightened him.

Their conversation halted momentarily as their meal arrived. Tadoa was served a slice of roast goose in a cranberry sauce, topped with goat's cheese. It was one of the Brass Dragon's special meals, and he had been craving one for quite some time now. Lemontharz seemed satisfied with a cantaloupe half filled with grapes, cherries and strawberries.

They ate slowly and quietly, saying little aside from snippets of small talk about how good the food was. Tadoa had noticed no money had changed hands. That was to be expected, he supposed. There was simply no need of it here.

Remembering only at the last possible second to swallow the food in his mouth, Tad resumed the conversation, hopefully on a safer track. "The sea elf, grandfather. Oceanus. My memory is very hazy, but I think he used some kind of magic. Is he a mage, too?" 

Lemontharz smiled while dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief. "No Tad, he is not. He was able to utilize a little item I had loaned him, however." The old elf looked thoughtful. "Oceanus has the kind of heart that I seek to replicate in everyone. He risked his life on short notice to save someone he did not know, from a threat he had no inkling of. I daresay I would have hesitated more than he did, had our roles been reversed." 

Tad was washing down his latest mouthful with a glass of wine. "Chic. Did Oceanus slay him?" 

His grandfather grimaced and shook his head. "Sadly, no. Unlike many of his fellow fiends, Chic seems to have a strong instinct for self-preservation. He fled, and Oceanus had more important things to worry about at that point than pursuit." 

The silence resumed for a while as the two ate. Tad occasionally glanced out one of the tavern's windows at the beautiful starlight evening that he knew was out there. It would not be too cold, or too damp. It never was on Amoria. Nothing was ever wrong on Amoria. It was the fulfillment of every one of Lemontharz's wishes, Tad thought. Everyone here enjoyed eternal happiness.

They just had to die to experience it.

Tad thoughtfully chewed another slice of roast goose. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the things his grandfather had said. Idly, he wondered where Lemontharz stood on the line between idealist, and deluded.

Somewhat ashamed of that thought, he swallowed again and said with a weak smile, "Well, I can't wait to see Elrohir and everyone else again. And they'll be absolutely ecstatic to see _you!_ They've always held you in such high regard, it's-" 

Tadoa stopped in mid-sentence. His throat suddenly went completely dry, and constricted, as if he had been poisoned. His eyes widened, and his right hand went instinctively over his heart, which had begun throbbing with a terrible pain which he couldn't believe could exist here on Elysium.

Lemontharz was looking at his grandson with a terrible sadness, every bit as pitiable as he had looked back in the Tribal House in Willip.

"I'm sorry Tad," the old elf said softly, his eyes again holding the boy's rigid. "But that will not happen. I can never again meet with Elrohir and his friends…" 

Tad knew it was coming, and it were possible, he would gladly have cast off the lure of Elysium forever at that moment, just to avoid the nightmarish words he knew he was about to hear.

And then Lemontharz spoke them.

…and neither can you." 


	69. Tears In Elysium

**3rd Day of Planting, 565 CY**

**Prindath, Amoria, The Blessed Fields of Elysium**

Tad sat very still. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. The look in his eyes though, was all too easy for his grandfather to translate.

"I know it sounds cruel, dear child, but the sad truth of the matter is that you now know too much."

"What?" Tadoa's voice filled with equal parts sadness, fear and confusion. "How can you say that, grandfather? How can I possibly know too much? I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" he shouted.

The tavern went quiet. Neither elf looked around at the petitioners that they knew were now eyeing them in curiosity.

Lemontharz again folded his hands on the table in front of him. "You know that I am still alive, Tadoa. You know what my goals are. I know to you that knowledge may seem insubstantial, but believe me, it is not. If I am certain of anything from my long studies of Fate, it is that things would go very poorly for Elrohir and his friends if you were to return to them with that knowledge." The old elf's mouth curved in another bitter smile. "And even if you vowed to remain silent, you know that your foes have other ways of finding things out, don't you?"

Tad was trembling. He stared at his grandfather, and he could feel an anger slowly building in him. The child pressed his eyes together tightly for a moment. This was not fair. He had already been through a lifetime of pain. He had already gone through a living nightmare few others had ever had to endure. He hadn't even _left_ Elysium, and it was already starting again.

And that made him even angrier.

"You didn't have to do it that way," he hissed at the sorcerer. "You could have brought me here, healed me and returned me to Oerth without my ever knowing who you were! Don't tell me you couldn't have!"

Lemontharz nodded slowly. "Indeed. It could have been done that way."

_"THEN WHY?" _Tadoa slammed his fist down on the table, rattling their plates and knives. The tears were starting again, and that only fueled his anger further. Tad was tired of crying, so he wiped his eyes angrily and glared as hard as he could at his grandfather. He could see the old elf's body trembling, and that gave the child a wicked satisfaction that he was aware of, but could not deny. Or at the moment, even wanted to.

"Was that fair to me, grandfather?" Tadoa asked, a note of pleading creeping involuntarily into his voice. "Was it?"

The elder elf slowly shook his head. "No, Tad, it was not."

"Then why-"

"Because I need you, Tadoa Falail." Lemontharz cut him off. "I need you."

Tadoa took a deep breath, and slowly sat back down on his seat. He never took his eyes off his grandfather, but he could see some of the other tavern patrons who had stood up with his initial outburst, slowly sit down as well. Their eyes remained riveted on the two elves, however.

Lemontharz still looked as if a strong push might send him toppling to the floor, where he would shatter into a million pieces. It struck Tad as ironic that the all-powerful Lemontharz Falail, who could take on an army single-handedly, was at the absolute mercy of a mere child.

_His heart perhaps, but not his will. _The thought steeled the boy's resolve. Just as he had once decided in the lair of the Emerald Serpent, he decided that he would not be a victim of the decisions of others again.

He threw aside the thought that his former resolve back then had swiftly vanished in that first blaze of agony. The child crossed his arms and kept his gaze up.

"You need me, grandfather?" he asked snidely. "You need another pawn?"

Lemontharz shook his head. "No, Tadoa. I need another king."

The statement hung in the air. Tad eyes dropped momentarily as he tried to think what it might mean, and he could feel his contemplation slowly begin to push out his anger. He made a conscious decision to hold on to some of his indignation, however.

When he looked back at his grandfather, Tad caught his breath. The old elf had stood, placed his hands on the table and leaned forward as far as he could toward his grandson.

"Look at me," he whispered.

Tadoa stared into his grandfather's eyes, and saw the cloudiness within them.

The child squinted. The cloudiness was not total; it seemed to cover perhaps only the top third of the sorcerer's eyes. Covered them… with a translucent rainbow of white.

Astonishment once again took sole possession of Tadoa.

Lemontharz nodded. "Yes, my dear boy. I am dying."

Tad tried to think of something to say, and failed utterly. His grandfather slowly sat back down.

"I do not know how much more time I have, Tadoa," he said softly. "Perhaps a year, perhaps several decades. But it is only now, in the twilight, when I finally understand that human expression. That phrase that stands so firmly as the very definition of the differences between us."

Tad still could not speak.

Lemontharz looked at his grandson, and a small but genuine smile appeared on his face.

_"So much to do, so little time." _

Before he even knew what he was doing, Tadoa had mirrored his smile. He had heard that phrase from Elrohir and his friends many times before.

As gently as he dared, Lemontharz continued. "You will stay with me for a short time Tad, while I instruct you in the rudiments of what you will need to know. Then, you will go with Keasten and Ehlissa. I will tell them just enough that they need to know. They will be able to teach you many other useful things, as well. From there… we will see. For now, it is time for both of us to move on."

Lemontharz leaned back and let his grandson think. Tadoa's mind was as confused as it ever had been, and considering the events of the past few weeks, that was saying a lot.

The boy debated his options (and he _knew_ he had them. He knew that Lemontharz would not literally force him to do anything he did not want to do). The old elf, damn him, was relying on Tadoa to make the right choice himself. A quick glance at his grandfather confirmed that expectation.

Tadoa Falail closed his eyes. His mind knew what he was going to do. He was just waiting for his heart to catch up.

He opened his eyes again.

"May I see them one last time, grandfather?" he asked, trying once again to hold back unwanted tears. "Just to say goodbye?"

The sorcerer considered for a moment. His eyes wandered, and then came back to rest on his grandson's face.

"I will give them a message from you, Tad," he said. "It will be third-hand, so it cannot be traced back to me." The old elf fumbled around in a belt pouch for a while, and managed to produce a crumpled piece of parchment, a small quill and a number of lengths of short copper wire. He spread the parchment out on the table and looked up at the youth. Tell me what you wish to say."

Tad took a deep breath and began. By the time he finished, he was crying again. His grandfather, having cast the needed spells, dabbed at his moist eyes, as well.

"Tears in Elysium."

The statement, uttered in the Common tongue, came from right beside their table. Tad's head snapped around to see a very tall elf eyeing them both.

The elf's hair was so bright red, Tad could swear that, if he looked at it out of the corner of his eyes, it might have been aflame. The elf's pupils showed the samebright red as well, but the irises were the familiar elven green. He wore a forest green leather tunic with an upturned collar. Around his neck was a thin silver chain, which was threaded through a disc of wood, perhaps six inches across.

Carved in relief on the wood were three moons. One full, one waxing and one waning.

The elf smiled grimly. "Even if I did not know you, Lemontharz of Rolex, it would be plain that neither you nor your young companion are natives here. Tears are only in their past, not their present."

Lemontharz bowed his head. "Greetings again, Exius of Arborea." The sorcerer then indicated his relative. "May I introduce Tadoa Falail of Rolex, my grandson. Tadoa, this is Exius, a firre from the Forested Glades."

The boy gulped. Firres were eladrins, spirits of the Upper Planes, revered by elves as far as he knew, on all three worlds. He responded, "Pleased to meet you, Exius," in a voice that sounded too child-like to his own ears.

The firre laughed, a joyous sound that rang throughout the tavern. "So formal! This one spends too much time with you, Lemontharz!" The eladrin turned back to the elder elf. "You two need to relax... live a little!"

Lemontharz returned the smile, but said nothing.

"I come to tell you the ship has just returned to the waters of Aquallor," Exius said. "I trust the mortals you loaned it to, appreciated the gesture?"

The mage nodded. "I have no doubt that they did. Again Exius, please render my heartfelt thanks to all those involved for its use."

Exius' grin widened even further, if that were possible. "I shall. And now if you'll forgive me, I'm going to go sample some Elysium brews, and compare them to our Arborean elixirs. An unfair comparison, to be sure, but the fun is in the trying!" With a wink at Tadoa, the firre moved off towards the bar.

"What ship?" Tadoa asked, still unconsciously speaking in Common.

"I have been watching over Elrohir and his friends for several months now," the sorcerer replied in kind. "Not often, to be sure, but here and there. When I discovered that they might need my aid, and that it might be possible to render that aid without my being physically present, I… called in some favors."

"Wasn't that tempting Fate?" Tad asked, just a hint of an edge in his tone.

Lemontharz seemed to consider an unusually long time before responding. "Perhaps. I had no specific knowledge that aiding them would do more harm than good in the long run, as I have in other matters," he said, once more staring intently at his grandson, before his eyes wandered again, and an easy smile graced his face. "But they are good friends, and good people. It is unlikely that I have will have such an opportunity to save them again. Once again, I found myself guided by one of those inexplicable catchphrases humans seem to love so much."

Tadoa raised an eyebrow. "And which one was that?"

The sorcerer's aged face and clouded eyes could not hide the unmistakable hint of mischief Tad saw there as Lemontharz replied.

"What the hell."

There was silence for a while. Tad was still trying to sort this all out. He had already decided he would go along with his grandfather's wishes. He remembered that spiritual aching he had experienced back at the Brass Dragon Inn, shortly before his kidnapping. There seemed to be some sort of connection to his current condition, although he couldn't even begin to try analyzing it, even in his own mind. Not yet.

But something told him that what he _had_ to do was also what he _should_ do.

The child took another deep breath, filling his lungs with the delicious air of Elysium, almost as wonderful as the food and drink here. He concentrated on calming his mind and body, and was relieved to feel the anger and tension slowly start to slip away again. It was only a beginning he knew, but for now, it was enough.

When he opened his eyes again, his grandfather was again fumbling with his belt pouch, and extracting a large and quite beautiful blue-white gem from it that Tadoa quickly recognized as a sapphire. Lemontharz held the gem in his left hand just above the table. His right hand was alongside, palm up, with the fingers splayed up and outwards, as if he were holding an invisible platter upon it.

Tad gave his relative a wry look. "I had no idea Prindath was so expensive. Perhaps we should eat outdoors more often."

It was only with great difficulty that Lemontharz was able to avoid bursting out into open laughter. As it was, it took him several seconds to regain his composure. When he did he returned his grandson's smile, although the mage's held a touch of sorrow.

"You always had the most wonderful sense of humor, Tad. Just like your cousin Robin."

That caught the child off-guard for a moment. "My uncle Triton's son? The half-human?" Tad considered. "I never really knew him."

He was surprised to see that Lemontharz was now frowning. "Robin was half-human, Tad," he said sternly. "He was not _a_ half-human, anymore than his father Triton was _an_ elf , or his mother Liona was _a_ human. We are not defined by our race, any more than we are defined by the color of our skin, the gods we worship, or the foods we eat."

Tad glanced down, embarrassed. As was often his way, he tried to subtly redirect the subject away from his failure. "Robin- you took him along when you first went to scout out Aarde, didn't you?"

The sorcerer nodded.

Tad swallowed hard. "He's dead, isn't he?" Something suddenly seemed to click into place. "He was going to be your replacement, wasn't he? But he died, so now it's me? And if I die, you'll try someone else, won't you?"

"Yes, dear boy. I will do what I have to do until the moment that I myself die." Lemontharz again looked frail to his grandson's eyes. Those clouded eyes again regarded him, moist again now. "How I wish I had the time to tell you everything, to help you understand, and not thrust you into this position unprepared. I am… so sorry, my dear boy… I am so sorry." He tried to smile but looked away, his eyes blinking rapidly. "So much to do, so little time…" he whispered.

Tadoa surprised himself. He leaned forward, took his grandfather's trembling right hand in both of his, and gave him his best nonchalant grin. "Ah, grandfather…" he said.

Lemontharz looked at him questioningly.

"What the hell."

This time, neither of them bothered to control their laughter…

When Tadoa was just about done getting his wind back, he heard his grandfather mumbling something he could not understand. When he looked across the table again, he understood instantly that it had been an arcane incantation.

Nothing remained of the sapphire except some shiny dust on the tablecloth. In the aged sorcerer's right hand however, a large oval mirror balanced, somewhat precariously. Lemontharz grabbed it by the frame just as it started to slip, then gently laid it out on the table between them, Tad moving plates out of the way as needed.

It was made not of glass, but of polished silver, beaten very thin. It was about two feet long and almost four feet wide. It sported a thin frame, made out of a metal Tad could not identify immediately. A silver alloy, perhaps. It sported a design of varied leaves and branches. Tad ran his fingers along it. The boy knew little of the crafts involved in making such an item, but he knew a masterpiece of work when he saw it.

"You wanted to see them one last time." Lemontharz's voice was so soft, Tadoa barely heard it.

The child gasped and looked up sharply. His grandfather gave him a sad smile and waved his hand over the mirror's surface. "Keep in mind, this mirror was not designed for cross-planar viewing. I do not know how long it may last…"

The old sorcerer might have said more, but Tad didn't hear it. He was staring down, openmouthed, as his reflection began to ripple, and then dissolve. The mirror turned smoky…

And remained smoky.

Tad frowned and was about to question Lemontharz about this, when he began to see movement in the smoke. He leaned forward, squinting his eyes.

Gradually, he began to discern a large, circular table take shape. He knew instantly it was a tavern table, and less than one second later he realized it was not one of the Brass Dragon's. Nine figures were sitting themselves down around the table. Other figures moved in and out of the scene. Slowly, Tadoa began to hear voices, although he had already recognized his friends. The view was from almost directly above the table, although when someone spoke, the sensor seemed to swoop a little down and around, so that their face was visible. They seemed to be ordering a meal.

The young elf frowned. A lot of smoke still remained in the picture, and it was clearly inside the tavern he was looking at. From time to time, one of the seated figures would wave his or her arms, as if trying to blow it away.

Tad could feel the lump beginning to grow in his throat…

"We should have gone elsewhere, Cygnus!" Elrohir exclaimed between coughing fits.

His friend rolled his eyes, although only half-heartedly. "The Billet was packed Elrohir, and frankly, I don't trust anyplace I haven't been in before." The wizard swept an arm around. "The smoke from that street fire should dissipate soon enough, and besides," he continued, his voice rising, "perhaps the fine staff of the Willow Tree will GIVE US A DISCOUNT FOR NOT ABANDONING THEM LIKE SO MANY OF THEIR OTHER CUSTOMERS HAVE!"

A voice came from off to the left, from where Tad guessed the bar was. "Why not? Smoke goes away, unlike high prices. Tell you what- if you guys double your prices again at the Brass Dragon, this meal's on me!"

The magic-user scowled, but Talass, sitting to his left, only smiled grimly at him. "Seems like you're not the only one who's always looking to get what you want for the cheapest price, Cygnus."

"How would you like a fire _inside_?" Cygnus mumbled, but he fooled no one. Argo, sitting to the mage's right, clamped his hand on the wizard's shoulder and shook it.

"Ow!" Cygnus exclaimed, swatting the ranger's hand away and rubbing his collarbone. "I'd gladly appreciate your healing my shoulder though, Talass, from the mauling Argo Strongfellow here has just given it!"

Argo winked at his wife, sitting to his right, and then smiled as their drinks arrived. "Count your blessings, my friend," he said to Cygnus. "At least we won't have to endure the presence of the Slave Lord all the way back to Chendl!"

Elrohir frowned. "I'm still not sure that was a wise idea, " he grumbled, pulling a long drink of ale. "Having him sent on ahead. It seems that whenever we rely on someone else to do something for us, something goes wrong."

"I'm sure there will be no difficulties," offered Aslan, who was sitting to Elrohir's left. "The Mayor's office said Sir Charlt would handle it, and I put my trust in him."

"Ah, yes. Success guaranteed by the Royal Order of Pompous Blowhards," cut in Argo, with a wicked grin. "You renew your membership yet, Aslan?"

The paladin gave Argo the look of disdain that he knew the ranger was just waiting for before sampling the wine he had been served.

"In any case," managed Zantac after several hearty coughs, "am I correct in assuming we will stay here in Willip tonight, leave at sunup, stay over the Brass Dragon tomorrow night, and then it's back to Chendl?"

Caroline, to the wizard's left, nodded. "Is there a problem, Zantac?" she asked, more out of curiosity than irritation.

The red-robed mage shook his head, but his face was grim. "No, as long as I don't run into anyone from the guild while we're here. I'm sure Zelhile would just to love to-"

"Sweep you under the rug?" finished Cygnus with a smile.

Zantac grimaced. "Don't _you_ start, beanpole."

Tad smiled as he watched his friends and listened in on their conversation. Their camaraderie. He was going to miss that more than anything. He was about to give in to despair again when he remembered Elrohir's father and his companions. They too had shared that special bond of friendship, and had allowed Tadoa a special place inside their circle. Now, as he watched Elrohir and the others in the mirror below him, Tad was able to, if only a little, place it all into perspective. He, Tadoa Falail, was going to live a long, long, time compared to a human's lifespan. Even if he were to return to them this instant, he knew that it would not last forever. He risked a glance at his grandfather, but Lemontharz was still staring intently into the mirror, his expression unreadable.

"What _about_ Tad?"

Tadoa's attention was pulled back down to the conversation below, as surely as if someone in the Willow Tree had snared it with an extradimensional lasso and yanked hard.

The elf frowned. The questioner was a young human female, sitting between Zantac and Tojo, that he did not recognize. She was perhaps Argo's age, with short brown hair and a somewhat olive-toned complexion. She bore a longsword in a scabbard on her hip, and her longbow leaned up against the table.

Elrohir sighed, looked down and interlaced his hands together in front of him, almost as if he were in prayer. Tad, looking down, realized his hands were folded in exactly the same way. The child let them drop to his sides with a look of embarrassment.

"We've discussed this among ourselves, Nesco," Elrohir said. "We have a job to do. It may or may not be completed when we arrive at Chendl, but it most certainly is not until we get there. Now, we may be forgiven for this…"

The ranger's voice started to crack as he glanced upwards. Tad flinched involuntarily, as if Elrohir could actually see him. He couldn't of course, but the young elf could see the emotion in those deep blue eyes.

"… or we may not," he continued, "but we've all decided we're going to live with the consequences." The ranger took another deep drink of ale and went on. "Tad may still be alive, or he may not-"

"He is."

The voice had come from off to the right. The sensor did not move, so Tadoa could only watch in frustration as he watched nine heads turn towards the new speaker. He squirmed in his seat with frustration.

"Who is that, grandfather?"

The old elf smiled at him. "Have you forgotten her already, my dear boy?'

Tad's eyes widened, and he looked below just in time to see the young woman in her gold and white surplice move into view. The boy chided himself for not remembering.

"Jinella!" It was Talass who first greeted her fellow cleric, raising and taking her hands in her own. They bowed slightly to each other, smiling.

"Blessings upon the valorous." Jinella's smile encompassed them all. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"With news like that, feel free anytime," replied Elrohir, smiling in return, before a state of anxiety crossed his features. "But how do you know? Have you seen him? Is he with you?"

The others leaned forward expectantly. Jinella merely brushed her hair back from her face and gave them a sad, if kindly look.

"Alas, no. I do not know where he is, only that he is safe, and he brings a message to you."

Tad glanced up at Lemontharz, who returned his gaze, lifted an eyebrow, and then returned his attention to the scene below. Jinella was unfolding a scroll. Tad noticed that her hands were trembling.

"Just a short while ago," she began, "two elves arrived at the Valorous Temple. They would not identify themselves, but claimed they had received multiple _sendings_ from an individual they would not identify."

Several of those around the table frowned in skepticism, but Jinella raised a hand.

"A _zone of truth_ confirms their tale. Now, I am certain they know more than they said, and my church is attempting as we speak to find out the underlying facts here, but I am also certain that the message is true, and these are the free and uncoerced words of your young elven friend. I have written it down here as I heard it."

The priestess coughed several times, and then began reading from the scroll.

"To all my dearest friends, I, Tadoa, bring you this final message…"

_Huh?_ Tad's head snapped up to stare at Lemontharz. He had deliberately put _Tadoa Falail_ in the message, in a hope that hearing his seldom-used family name might put some of them, such as Elrohir or Cygnus, on the right track. His grandfather had been ahead of him however, and had obviously censored that out. Rather than face any look Lemontharz might give him, Tadoa just frowned and returned his attention to the mirror.

No one at the table said anything. Tad could see Caroline reach out and squeeze her husband's hand. The young elf could hear his heart pounding in his chest. Jinella continued.

"Sometimes, things happen to us, and there is no time to explain. Know that I have been rescued from the clutches of the Emerald Serpent, and am now as safe as any of you."

Cygnus gave a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt, but Tad had chosen his words carefully. He did not wish to give them any false impressions.

"Talass."

Startled at being singled out, the cleric could only stare at Jinella, wide-eyed. The priestess of Heironeous smiled at her with her eyes as she continued reading.

"You taught me about justice with your faith, and about love with your family. I will miss you always."

Talass looked like she was trying to speak, but couldn't. She rubbed at her eyes, mumbling something about the smoke, but wasn't fooling anyone, and she knew it. The priestess of Forseti cleared her throat, and smiled at Jinella as if she were smiling at Tadoa himself.

"Bless you, my child. Bless you always."

Jinella turned to Cygnus.

"Cygnus, I will miss you more than words can ever say. Know that Thorin is safe…"

Tad looked up in alarm briefly at his grandfather. He had not bothered to verify the truthfulness of that statement before putting it into the message, but Lemontharz showed no reaction, so Tad could only hope it was true.

"… and say goodbye to him for me. As a friend, I could think of no elf who would be more loyal than him, or you."

Cygnus stared down at his drink. When he looked up, Jinella's eyes were still on him.

The wizard cleared his throat. "Thank you, Tad. My the All-Father's kindly eye watch over you always." He coughed and looked down again, as if he were angry at himself for not be able to think of anything more profound.

Everyone else at the table held their breath, wondering whom Jinella would address next.

"Argo Bigfellow Junior."

Caroline could feel Argo's hand tighten in hers.

Oddly, a blush was now rising in Jinella's face. "Err… you have always embraced a free spirit Argo, and that will always help me soar when troubles cloud my path. You taught me how to have fun through seeing your smile, and… and… and about sex from watching through the peephole in your cabin wall."

The table exploded in various laughs, guffaws, _oh my gods_, and other exclamations. Poor Caroline turned beet red, and would have slunk under the table if her husband's hand had not been clamped firmly around hers. The ranger's face had a big, beautiful smile, devoid of embarrassment and anything else other than love.

Jinella managed to croak out the last of it. "I think you still need a little work."

The tumult doubled in volume. Zantac pounded the table, mixing laughter with coughs. Elrohir's chuckles brought tears to his face. Cygnus' smile went from ear to ear. Caroline threw back her head and howled with laughter. It wasn't that it was true, it's just that it was funny, and it was… it was _so_ Tad. Even Talass couldn't keep the grin off her face.

Argo had on a pie-in-the-face expression no one had ever seen the ranger wear before. Just for once, the master of the witty quip and quick retort was speechless.

Aslan just couldn't help it.

"I could bring over some carrots, Argo…"

Argo's laughter shook the rafters of the Willow Tree. The others, not getting the reference, stared patiently as Argo nearly fell off his seat in a paroxysm of mirth. The ranger was about to recover, saw Tojo gazing at him with his usual blank expression, and went right back into another fit of laughter. Only Jinella was glad it took for the time Bigfellow spent to regain his composure, as she used it to push her hair back away from her face again and beat down the blush in her own cheeks before continuing.

"Caroline Bigfellow."

Tears of laughter still streaming down her face, Caroline gasped. She had a feeling this was going to be hard to take.

"You taught me how to fight, and if I should ever find that love that everyone says I will one day, I will know how to do it right, body and soul, thanks to you."

Caroline's tears turned to those of sadness. She could only get out a "Thank you," before leaning into her husband's shoulder and giving a soft wail. Argo enfolded his wife as best he could and let her cry. He looked about to join her himself, and the mood around the table turned solemn again.

Jinella waited a bit, and then resumed. "Zantac."

The wizard looked up, surprised. He hadn't known Tad that long, only about a month, and hadn't expected to be included in this. Jinella of course, already knew the message, so she favored the Willip mage with a smile as she read.

"What a wonderful person you must be to impress both me and my friends in such a short amount of time. I know what you've given up in order to stay with us, Zantac. I only hope that I can find that kind of selflessness in my soul someday."

Zantac's face nicely matched his robes. This time, he didn't mind Argo's hand on his shoulder. The magic-user stared back at Jinella.

"I had the best to learn from," was all he said, then buried his face in his ale mug.

Nesco watched as Jinella's eyes met hers momentarily, and then moved towards Tojo.

The ranger held up her hand. "Wait!" she said.

The others gazed at her puzzled. Cynewine took a deep breath and looked around her. "I did not know this Tadoa you speak of, of course, but with your blessings, I would like to propose a toast."

There were no objections. Nesco held out her cup of mead.

"To Tadoa," she said. Tad, looking down, was surprised at the depth of emotion in her voice. How could this person who had never met him be so sorrowful for his departure?

Nesco answered his question with his toast. "You picked the best people in the world to call your friends. Thank you for sharing them with me."

A chorus of _Here, Here_ and _To Tadoa _accompanied nine glasses clinking together. After the mugs were set down again, Jinella continued.

"Yanigasawa Tojo."

Nesco could feel the samurai on her right take a deep breath. His violet eyes danced around at the others. Aslan, sitting on Tojo's other side, knew the samurai's nervousness was not in anticipation of anything that Tadoa might have to say to him, but rather in the response the others would be expecting out of him in return.

Tojo's eyes settled serenely on Jinella's. The cleric took her own deep breath and continued reading.

"You are the most honorable person, elf or human, that I have ever known, Tojo-sama," Jinella said. "I revere Tojo the honorable samurai, but I do not love him…"

Tojo blinked at her.

"…I love Tojo the man. I love Tojo, with that great big, wonderful heart. I know it's there, Tojo. Give me a sign. Let it show."

There was the exact expectant hush about the table that Tojo had been anticipating. The samurai hesitated for several seconds, knowing that all eyes were upon him, and then nodded at Jinella.

That was all.

Nesco was confused. "Err, Tojo," she began. "Aren't you going to-"

Tojo fixed a baleful eye upon her, and looking away, Nesco could see that the others, disappointed as they might be, were not about to press the issue. Cynewine stared down at the table, aware of her _faux pas_ if not the reason for it.

_Maybe I don't know these people as well as I thought._

"Aslan."

The paladin was biting his lip. Elrohir was puzzled. Aslan looked as if he was trying to keep from bursting into tears. Then the realization hit the party leader.

_He still blames himself for what happened._

Aslan managed to achieve and maintain a neutral composure as Jinella began.

"You are a noble paladin, the most powerful of psionics, and most of all, a true and loving friend. Do not blame yourself for what happened, Aslan. It was Fate, which even you cannot control. If anything, accept my apology. I could not save your beloved Mirage, and we will both miss him always. If you take away one thing from this Aslan, let it be this. No force can stop you- except yourself. Do not let bitterness take over your heart. Your responsibilities are great, but you have shoulders broad enough, and a soul strong enough, to bear them. Bless you always."

The paladin's hand clutched his glass so tightly, Elrohir reached over and gently touched Aslan's arm. The paladin smiled, released his hold on the glass, and looked back at Jinella.

"I… I will always try to make you proud of me, Tadoa."

He quickly looked away. Talass smiled as he heard the paladin mumble, "This accursed smoke…"

Argo nodded. "Yeah. I'll miss him, too."

Jinella at last turned to Elrohir, who sitting only five feet from her. The cleric smiled sweetly down at him and began.

"I don't know what to say, Elrohir. If I had a thousand words and a thousand years, it still wouldn't be enough. You were not only my companion, you were the father I never had."

Elrohir blinked in surprise. He had never thought of himself as a father figure to Tad.

"You make me proud to be who I am. Say goodbye to Barahir for me. When he is old enough, I know I will see him again, and when I do, I will tell him about Elrohir… the best friend I ever knew."

Tadoa wiped the tears from his eyes. They were falling onto the surface on the mirror, making the image swirl…

No! It wasn't his tears. The image was starting to fade. Tad looked up in panic at his grandfather, but Lemontharz merely whispered, "We were lucky it lasted this long, Tad. It's time to go now. We have a lot of work to do."

"All right," the child whispered, but he held his eyes riveted to the scene below, determined to wring every last drop of this out and into his heart, where he swore he would treasure it forever. Below, a smoky image of Jinella rolled up her scroll and gave the party Tadoa's last words.

"All of you, take care…" the cleric whispered, her own voice starting to go now.

And in two different taverns at the opposite ends of the multiverse, tears fell down two different cheeks as two different lips uttered the same words…

"I love you guys."

The sound faded. Tad could just make out the Elrohir party getting up to leave, refusing the plates of food that were now arriving at their tables, but dropping coins onto the table for them. Tad smiled as he thought he saw Zantac stuff a loaf of bread in his robes.

And then, just before the image faded completely, Tadoa Falail saw Yanigasawa Tojo staring at him.

Not at him of course. That was impossible. He must have spotted the sensor. Yet Tad stared into those eyes, and he thought… he thought…

The Land Legs Road was crowded, and still reeked of smoke and burnt (now soggy) wood. People were bumping into and around the party as they swirled around them.

Elrohir gave up on trying to keep everyone together. "We'll meet up at the stables!" He shouted, and was able to see a few heads he recognized nod in acknowledgement.

The ranger would've taken a deep breath, if the air hadn't been so foul. He had expected their first meal on land after so many weeks to be memorable, but nothing like _this_. No one was hungry anymore. They'd just get new horses at the stables for the long ride to Chendl, then head to the Lord Mayor's residence, where they would-

Elrohir frowned. He had thought he was the last one to leave the Willow Tree tavern, but now he could see Tojo slowly turn around to face the doorway and make his way out. The ranger frowned as the samurai emerged into the sunlight.

"Tojo?"

The samurai had been about to walk right past his party leader, but stopped and eyed him with his standard passive blank expression. "Yes, Errohir-san?'

Elrohir frowned. "Was there someone else inside? Someone you recognized?"

Tojo raised an eyebrow.

Now feeling rather foolish, the ranger continued. "I mean… I thought I saw… I guess it was the smoke and all, but it looked like you were _bowing_ to someone in there. A pretty deep one, too."

They stared at each other for a silence for a few moments.

Elrohir was pretty sure he saw a smile curl at the edge of Tojo's mouth, but the samurai simply shook his head.

"No, Errohir-san. No one… in there."

Tojo swept by his party leader and walked briskly towards the stables. Elrohir sighed, took a last look inside the tavern, and followed his friend.

They all had a lot of work to do.


	70. Back In Business

**4th Day of Planting, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

_The Adventurer's Guild is back in business_, thought Elrohir wryly.

The Elrohir and Sir Dorbin parties were sitting together again in the main room of the inn. As many tables as needed had been crammed in close so that all nineteen individuals could have dinner together. Separate conversations were flying across the table like stray arrows, some more pointed than others. Some people were staying apart from the general fray, occasionally dipping a toe into a nearby discussion before deciding whether or not to join the melee.

Elrohir smiled at Dudraug as his faithful cooshee, his eyes level with his master's now that he was sitting down, licked his face repeatedly, eager for attention after their long time apart. The ranger rubbed the elven hound's head between his perpetually upright ears, but couldn't keep his mind off the subtle change in the Sir Dorbin party since he had last seen them. In general, they seemed just a little less optimistic and less cohesive than they had been earlier. On the other hand, Elrohir mused, if the fantastic tale he had heard from Aslan and Cygnus weeks ago was true, their home was now 600 years in the past. That could forgive a lot.

That was Elrohir's home too, of course, as well as that of Aslan, Cygnus and Tojo, but the former two had indicated to him that they had suffered no sleepless nights over it. Like their party leader, they now considered the Brass Dragon their home.

Tojo, on the other hand, had refused all attempts to talk about it.

The ranger ran his hand through his hair, took another swig of ale (his second for the evening) and refocused his attention on Sir Dorbin. The knight was looking at him patiently. Elrohir gave him a weak grin.

"Forgive me, Sir Dorbin. It's been a long day. I didn't quite catch that."

The fighter smiled patiently. His first glass of wine remained mostly full. "You were talking about Jinella. The information she had given you before you left Willip."

"Ah." Elrohir shook his head, trying to make the requested memories fall back into place. They did so, albeit a bit shakily.

"According to Jinella, the two elves who came to the Temple of Heironeous were named Keasten and Ehlissa. They were visiting an older sister of theirs named Kina, who is a member of the Elven Tribal House in Willip. Kina said that they left Willip immediately after delivering their message. She said that these elves are from Welkwood, but that they live alone, by themselves, elsewhere in the forest. She said that she thought Kina was holding back something, especially when she claimed not to know exactly where her siblings lived, but Kina gave her no leave to cast any truth-detecting spells."

"Foiled by morals again," smirked Aiclesis. "It's too bad. Several of us just returned here from Willip yesterday. We just missed meeting you. We could have been of help." The elf frowned into his cup. "Corellon knows we're not much help to ourselves these days."

Sir Dorbin scowled as Aiclesis downed his second glass of Celene Ruby, but said nothing. He then turned to Aslan. "And this other elf you mentioned- Sohar? Kina said that he was actually the Emerald Serpent himself?"

The paladin nodded. "Jinella states that Kina said she received this information from others in the chapterhouse, but said little else. She surmises that Tadoa was, however briefly, in the Tribal House sometime last week. Sohar has not been seen since then, so it is likely he knows his cover has been breached. Jinella says that the members of the Emerald Serpent are all rumored to be masters of disguise. He'll probably show up somewhere else, with a new name and face." Aslan looked thoughtful. "If we survive all this, perhaps the use of my Talent in Willip may lead to some clues."

"But… you said Tad was no longer being held by them," put in Fee Hal.

Aslan frowned at the squire. "An evil organization remains thriving in a city of good people," he stated slowly, as if he considered this self-evident. "Are we to withhold action against them merely because one of our own is no longer imperiled?"

Fee Hal's eyes narrowed. He had clearly drawn offense at the statement, but a quick glance at his master's stern eyes told the youth there would be no support for any harsh words on his part, so he sullenly let the matter drop and picked at his chicken stew.

"So, Aiclesis," asked Talass. "You've been to the Tribal House. Is there anything you can add to this?"

The elf, currently accepting a third refill of Celene Ruby from a serving girl, assumed an overly-thoughtful pose. He then smiled at the cleric.

"That Kina sure is a cutie. I think she has her eye on me. We Aarde elves are something special, you know."

"Indeed. Extra full of yourselves." The comment came from Monsrek, who had extracted himself momentarily from a conversation he was having across the table. Aiclesis gave him a hard smile, then returned his attention to Talass. "And what do you suggest, my good lady? Should I seduce poor Kina just for information?"

"No!" retorted both Talass and Aslan.

"Yes!" replied Argo and Unru.

Caroline stared at her husband, who merely shrugged at her. "It's not like they both wouldn't be getting something extra out of it."

Mrs. Bigfellow shook her head. She didn't like Argo's flippant acceptance of such a notion, but there were just too many other things in her head swirling for attention. She returned to her study of Cygnus.

The wizard had a sheet of parchment, now stained with both food and drink, spread out on the table in front of him. With Zantac sitting next to him, he was hunched over, running his finger along the scrawled words written on its surface. Caroline knew this was the copy of Tadoa's last message to them that Jinella had given to them at Cygnus' request. At first, Caroline had merely assumed that Cygnus wanted it as a tribute and memento to their lost member, but the callous way he was using the parchment as a placemat had swiftly destroyed that notion. She frowned as she watched Cygnus' lips moving, silently.

"Cygnus, what-"

The magic-user held up his left hand, cutting her off. A little miffed, Caroline turned back to her dinner, forcing herself to be patient. This was not her best quality. She managed another minute before looking up again to an identical scene. She was about to interrupt again, decorum be damned, when Cygnus finished whatever he was doing with a satisfied grunt and sat back up straight in his chair again.

"Three hundred and ninety-two words!" He pronounced with a rather self-satisfied smile.

Caroline couldn't possibly imagine what the significance of this was, but everyone else seated nearby immediately began doing arithmetic in his or her head.

Zantac was first. "Sixteen _sendings_."

Torlina whistled. "Can that really be?" She shook her head in wonderment. "Even with a recalling spell or two in place, you'd have to be an astoundingly powerful mage to pull that off!"

Monsrek smiled. "The gift of _sending_ does seem to come a bit easier to us priests than to you arcanists, but still…" He drummed his fingers on the table and took another sip of ale. "Still, that's beyond the faith of anyone I've ever known."

Cygnus and Zantac locked eyes.

"An improved version?" Asked Cygnus. His fellow magic-user nodded.

"That'd be my guess. In theory, it wouldn't be all that difficult to research, but you'd still have to be a master, a sixth-tier wizard, to manage it. But hell, even the Guildmaster is only fifth-tier." He cast a wry look back at Cygnus. "Have any ultra-powerful friends we should know about?"

Cygnus's eyes strayed back to the parchment. "How about whoever saved us back in Highport?"

The silence that followed was so complete, it even drew the momentary attention of everyone else in the room.

"I know that look, Cygnus," Argo said, while currently fending off Grock's attempt to pilfer his sliced beef. "Let's have it."

Cygnus however, frowned and shook his head. "Nothing that I'm prepared to say out loud right now." He began to roll up the parchment. "Let me think on it."

_Yes_, he was thinking. _Let me think before I make a fool of myself for saying something this outlandish_. The wizard looked over at the far side of the mass of tables.

"Aiclesis!" he called out.

The rogue was currently resting his head on the table, facing Cygnus. One bleary eye opened. Cygnus decided to get this in before the elf was any further gone.

"If you do decide to, err… have a date with Kina, I may have one or two more questions for you to ask her."

The eye closed. There was no other response.

Cygnus sighed. _I'll remind him again before we leave_, he thought.

The wizard was lost in his own thoughts, so he did not hear the tone of concern in Nesco's voice.

"Brigands?"

Wescene nodded soberly, a fact made easier by the fact that her glass of Aleeian wine remained untouched. "There is a dilapidated house about a half-mile northwest of here."

"The farmer who owned this land before us had built it for one of his grown children," Argo stated. "It's technically on our land, but we don't use it. What makes you think the tracks you saw there were brigands?"

The elf slowly drew her hands back through her ebony hair while replying. "There's a fair number of them, for starters, going back and forth to the north. Their footwear varies, from leather footwear to mailed boots. They're hunting as they go, judging from the bones of local fauna that are piled up in the house."

"But still," Nesco mused, "what makes you think they're bandits?"

"I found a number of solitary tracks that lead away from the house in proscribed routes, then return to it. I'm guessing they were made by sentries or scouts. To me, that says either soldiers or bandits."

Argo frowned. "There's a bit of a ridge in that area, a hundred yards or so southeast of the house. From on top, on a good day, you can see the inn from there. Did it look like anyone had been to that ridge?"

Wescene eyed him steadily. "For an extended period of time."

Bigfellow played with his food for a moment, then sighed and set the plate down on the floor, where Grock inhaled it within seconds. When he looked up again, Wescene was still staring at him.

"I think you're being watched." The elf said. Her green eyes seemed to wander for a moment. "When we were in Willip, we heard criers from the Earldom of Farlyow. He is putting out a call for mercenaries. Apparently, he is having problems with caravans through his territory being attacked by bandits. I wonder if there is a connection."

"Not to worry. We'll stay on top of it," announced Sir Menn, with all the confidence produced by downing several large mugs of ale with little to no accompanying food.

Argo smiled benignly. "I don't doubt it, good Sir Menn. And thank you again for your help; past, present and future."

The blonde knight smiled and nodded in response, then grasped his head with his hands to steady it, his neck muscles apparently having forgotten their ability to do this task.

"Now please," Aslan put in after waiting for a suitable lull, "tell us again about the horses' tails."

Sir Menn seemed confused. "Pardon?" He asked, his voice slurring slightly. "I know they can speak, Aslan, but they don't seem to be much for story-telling."

Sir Dorbin leaned forward. "Call it a night, my friend." He then turned his attention to the paladin. "Aslan, you've told me that your Talent confirms our suspicions that it was Nodyath who-"

"But… I _am_ a knight!" protested Sir Menn loudly. Several loud groans from the assemblage preceded Sitdale getting up and gently but firmly leading Sir Menn away from the table. Sir Dorbin, after a look at Fee Hal that made his squire roll his eyes, continued the conversation.

"…was responsible, but I have little else to add other than I know he continues to spy on us. Do you have any idea why he would switch from trying to kill your steeds to lopping off their tails?"

"Sympathetic magic."

Numerous heads turned. Flond, who even sitting at a full square table managed to give the impression of being all alone, spoke dully, not looking at anyone in particular. The wizard rested both elbows on the table, and his rather weak chin sat nestled in his connected hands.

He shrugged. "Creates a link between the item stolen and a spell cast using it as a material component. Mind control, perhaps, or maybe a type of scrying, like you said their previous owner once had over them."

Aslan shuddered inwardly. Their previous owner…

He glanced over at his companions, but none of them seemed to have any obvious reactions to that statement.

Except for Caroline. Aslan had a brief glimpse of the young woman's face going ghost-white, before she saw the paladin watching her and turned her face away. When she looked back, it was more-or-less back to normal. Her husband, still talking to Wescene, had not noticed.

"Well then," said Sir Dorbin with what he hoped was a concluding tone, "You will all be leaving tomorrow for Chendl?"

Elrohir nodded. "Yes. And considering that we have at least some knowledge that Tadoa, wherever he is, is safe and sound," the ranger looked around at his friends, looking unsuccessfully for dissent, before continuing, "we expect King Belvor to order, or at least request, our return to The Pomarj. We have decided that we will comply."

Dorbin smiled. "We will, of course, continue to look after The Brass Dragon in your absence."

"We cannot thank you and your allies enough, Sir Dorbin," Elrohir replied. "You have aided us, and continue to do so, more than we warrant."

The knight waved a hand dismissingly. "You give us a base of operations, and your full hospitality. You incur no debt to us. If anything, it is the other way around. Besides, now we have another quest to fulfill before our departure besides the death of Nodyath. We seek a way to return to our own time in our own world."

Elrohir could only nod sympathetically, and shrug helplessly. "I wish you every success in that, Sir Dorbin."

Zantac shook his head and smiled bitterly. "I'm sure that at least is a subject that the Guild library could assist you in, good sir. I would utilize it for you, but I'm sure Zelhile has probably revoked my membership by now."

"He hasn't," Torlina said quietly.

Both of Zantac's eyebrows rose skyward. "How would you know that?"

Torlina's expression was set in a tense mask. "Because the Guildmaster told me so."

The red-robed wizard seemed momentarily at a loss. "Err... forgive me, Torlina, but why in the world would Zelhile even talk to you about that?"

"Because I joined yesterday."

Now everyone's attention was riveted on the two wizards.

"What?" Zantac whispered, slowly rising to his feet.

Torlina seemed equal parts embarrassed and defensive. "Actually, it doesn't take effect for two weeks. That's when I move to Willip, into my quarters in the tower. The Guildmaster knows I still intend to return to Aarde, but I guess he thinks that will take long enough that he considered it worthwhile to take me on."

_"Torlina, are you insane?"_ Zantac's voice was rising rapidly in volume.

"Why? You joined!" Torlina had also stood up now, and having apparently found her courage, was glaring back at the Willip wizard.

_"I was an idiot! What's your excuse?"_

Sir Dorbin shot to his feet, as did Cygnus. "Torlina can take full care of herself, Zantac!" The knight's commanding voice seem to actually point itself straight at its target, whom Cygnus had grabbed by the shoulder from behind. Both stimuli seemed to have the desired effect. Zantac raised his hands, indicating he would not pursue the matter further. He pulled himself free of Cygnus and headed towards the upstairs, muttering about turning in for the night.

"Zantac."

Torlina's voice was again quiet and unassuming. It was only that fact that turned Zantac around at the foot of the stairway. He gazed at her without speaking. She took a deep breath and continued, her voice still mild.

"When I was at the guild, I saw your friend Martan. He was speaking with that woman, you know," she snapped her fingers, "the one with the hair?"

"Aimee," replied Zantac dully.

"Aimee," Torlina nodded. "That's the one." Her nose wrinkled. "That one, I don't like. But anyway, he came rushing over to me, and said he had some important news he wanted to tell you."

Zantac's curiosity overrode his anger. "Did he give you any details at all?"

Torlina shook her head. "No. But he seemed to think it was very important. When I go back, I'll see if he'll tell me. May I have your permission to say that I speak for you?"

The mage hesitated, and then nodded. Torlina smiled.

"Thank you, Zantac." She tried on a shaky smile. "So… any advice for me?"

"Yeah," Zantac replied, as he turned around and headed up the stairs. His voice trailed down behind him.

"If Zelhile asks you to shampoo the rug, don't do it."


	71. Kingus

**9th Day of Planting, 565 CY  
The Viscounty of The March, Furyondy  
(About 120 miles NW of The Brass Dragon inn)**

_Oh no_, Cygnus thought.

The mage held out his hand in front of him, palm up.

There it was. One drop, and then another.

The wizard turned his face up to the featureless, gray sky above just in time to get a big fat raindrop in his right eye.

"Aahh!" He cried out in frustration, pulling up the hood of his dark gray traveling cloak over his head. The horse under him shook its head, as if in agreement of Cygnus' opinion of the weather, but kept up its gait.

"It's just rain, Cygnus." Nesco, riding alongside him, shrugged. Her hood had already been drawn up.

Cygnus grimaced. "Is it just me, or has this been the rainiest year this far since we've been here?"

"It's just you," came the voice of Zantac from behind. "Besides, what are you complaining about? I've got saddle sores I don't think even Talass could heal. I doubt you have that problem. You're such a twig, your horse probably doesn't even knows it's got a rider."

Riding up ahead. Argo Bigfellow turned to his left and grinned at Aslan. "Are we there yet, father?"

The paladin sighed but did not reply. He had to admit; he was feeling rather tired and uncomfortable himself. It was perhaps an hour until sundown, and he knew from their last trip on this road that they would find no inn tonight. Making camp sooner than later appealed to him as much as anything did at the moment. He looked around at the grassy plains all around them. There were a few scrawny looking trees far off to the south, but it was debatable whether it was worth the detour to head for them.

"Elrohir!" Aslan called out to their party leader, who was riding with his wife in the lead.

The ranger turned his head around.

"Let's call it quits for today, Elrohir."

The ranger glanced over at his wife. Aslan could tell they were discussing something, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Elrohir then looked back at the paladin.

"I know there's no inn nearby, but I seem to remember a roadside shrine to Fharlanghn about a mile up the road, and Talass agrees with me. Good as place as any for stopping."

Aslan nodded and conveyed this news to the rest of the group. There were no objections, and they rode on…

As usual, it was Tojo who made the initial observation.

"Other traverrers," the samurai noted, pointing at the wooden shelter up ahead.

Cygnus sighed as he squinted through the rain, and saw four horses tied to the large oak tree that grew beside the shelter. The road up ahead curved to the left, and with the shelter on the road's left side, only its rear wall was visible from their present position.

The shelter was perhaps twenty feet long, eight feet wide and ten feet high at the front end, sloping down to about four feet high at the rear. A small annex attached to the shrine's left side was typically left filled with nonperishable food and essentials (flint, blankets, etc) by the clerics of Fharlanghn who passed through.

Cygnus looked back at Zantac, whose grimace mirrored his won. Neither wizard had prepared a _shelterdome_ spell, in order to memorize more combat-oriented spells. Normally, Cygnus put up with the realities of traveling with little more than grumbles that his companions had long ago learned to ignore as little more than background noise. Zantac, while ill at-ease on a horse, seemed less likely to complain. Although he never made a move to volunteer with any of the chores involved with setting up or taking down camp, Zantac would always pitch in when asked. But only if asked.

Cygnus generally refused to do so. "Isn't that what rangers do?" He had inquired when the subject was first broached to him. When a cooked rabbit was handed off the spit to him that first time, and he had bit eagerly into the seared flesh only to gag on the vastly undercooked meat beneath, he had voiced his anger at his friends with little hesitation.

"If you don't like it, you can always _fireball _it," he was told. "Isn't that what wizards do?"

In the years since, both sides had more-or-less come to an uneasy truce on the matter, and now they each considered themselves smugly superior for putting up with the other side's obvious failure to understand just how these things worked.

When the party followed the road around to the left, Cygnus was not the first to spot the _shelterdome _off on the right, across from the shrine (In fact, it wasn't even Tojo- it was Talass), but he was probably the first to tense up. He was always leery of meeting other magic-users on the road, and the existence of the _shelterdome_ indicated a good chance that a wizard of at least what the Willip Wizard's Guild called "second-tier" was present, and could be studying them right now. Cygnus knew that from inside, the opaque, dark gray surface of the _shelterdome_ was as transparent as glass.

The center of the twenty-foot hemisphere was situated only thirty feet from the edge of the road. As the party approached, Elrohir signaled for Talass and the others to stay back. Her wife rolled her eyes but complied. _Whatever helps make him feel like a leader_, she thought.

The cleric looked at the rest of the party as they pulled up alongside her. "Never much saw the point in those," she offered, pointing at the _shelterdome_. "You get used to them, then where are you when you don't have one?" She shrugged. "Frankly, I'm surprised Sir Dorbin's party uses them."

"Yeah. They probably have this irrational fixation with comfort, and actually being able to sleep." That came from Zantac. Although Cygnus had been just about to put forth a similar opinion, now he could remain silent and let his fellow mage bear the ice storm.

Talass' cold stare did indeed send a shiver down the red-robed wizard's frame. "And if we're ambushed at night? What are you going to do- invite our attackers in for tea?"

Zantac crossed his arms. "Come on, Talass. Attacked- here in the middle of Furyondy?"

"It's happened before, Zantac. Our being attacked where we thought we were safe." The priestess then turned back to watch her husband, apparently unwilling to continue this conversation. Zantac looked over at Cygnus and shrugged.

Elrohir pulled up even with the shrine and dismounted. The horse snorted and blew steam through its nostrils, unhappy at being out in the rain, which was now increasing in intensity. It was a fine animal, but Elrohir still missed riding on White Lightning. They had discussed bringing her and Perlial along, but the uncertainties generated by Nodyath's recent actions had led them to err on the side of caution again.

Their steeds of course, had not complained. They never did.

A quick glance into the shrine's alcove revealed it to be packed full of hardtack, a waterskin, and various sundry items. Clearly, the quartet camped here were not hurting for supplies. The ranger turned back to the _shelterdome _just in time to see a cloaked figure emerge through the magical field and slowly approach him.

The figure was just over five feet tall, and was fairly slender. She (Elrohir guessed it was a woman by her walk) was wearing leather armor underneath her dark green cloak. She walked cautiously towards him, but her hands made no move towards either the short sword in her scabbard, or the composite bow slung over her shoulder. The figure stopped at the side of the road, about ten feet from Elrohir. The ranger could see green eyes peering at him from underneath the hood. Elven, perhaps, he considered.

Elrohir raised a hand, palm outward. "Greetings!" He called out.

The figure did not reply, but after a moment, the hood bobbed up and down.

_Not the friendliest sort, is she? _The ranger thought, but then dismissed that. Many travelers, through brutal experience, had learned to be wary of strangers on the road, and most were not nearly as powerful as Elrohir and his friends.

He decided to try again. "Ill weather for traveling. Hope it lets up by morning."

The figure continued to stare at him.

_Well, I'm not getting any drier standing here_. Elrohir decided to move things along. He pointed towards the shelter. "You seem to be well-supplied, although we have extra. If you lack anything, please feel free to ask. We're all brothers and sisters on the road," he added, employing one of the priesthood of Fharlanghn's favorite phrases. "We'll be setting up nearby."

The voice that came from under the hood was definitely feminine. Soft, but a bit reedy.

"We're fine, but thank you for your offer."

Elrohir motioned for the others to come forward and dismount. "Argo, get the tents up to the right of the shelter. Nesco, take care of the horses. Aslan-"

The paladin grinned. "I think we all know the drill, Elrohir. In the meantime…" he finished with a nod back towards the cloaked figure. When the ranger looked back, he saw that two other people had emerged from the _shelterdome_.

One was clearly a warrior of some kind. A male human, of average height and weight, he seemed about Elrohir's age, perhaps a few years older. He wore plate mail but no helm, with a thick, red hoodless cloak behind. He carried a spear, and also sported a bow over his shoulder, a longbow in his case. The rain plastered his long brown hair over his high forehead as his hazel eyes quickly took in the new arrivals, and then darted over to his companion.

"Any problems, Saxmund?"

The figure shook her head, but said nothing further.

The other figure was a few steps behind. This one was a few inches taller than Saxmund, but otherwise appeared very similar, and moved with the same easy grace that the woman had. Neither armor nor weapons were visible. This one pulled down its hood to reveal the features of a smiling, male half-elf.

This one was effusive as Saxmund was curt, bowing low to all of them. "Hail and well-met, fellow travelers! I am Aelfbi Gemblossom, and these are my friends Saxmund and Garoidil! We're delighted to have such company on what seems to be shaping up to be a miserable evening! Is there anything we can assist you with?"

Elrohir noticed Saxmund and Garoidil now both wore polite smiles, but clearly neither seemed delighted with the Elrohir party's presence. The ranger was frowning to himself now, though.

_Gemblossom_. He had heard that name, long ago, but couldn't remember where, and his position as party leader did not allow for the luxury of reflection right now. He smiled back just as he noticed Garoidil shoot a questioning glance at Aelfbi.

The half-elf smiled at his companion, while fingering a locket of a golden heart hung around his neck. "We have nothing to fear from these good people," he said, but Elrohir caught his subtle emphasis on the word _good_.

_He's a priest_, the ranger realized. _A cleric of Hanali Celani, the elven goddess of love!_ That thought put his mind at ease as he turned and pointed out his companions, who were all involved in either making camp or huddling under the shelter to keep dry.

"They'll come up later, but may I introduce my wife Talass, Aslan, Argo Bigfellow and his wife Caroline, Nesco Cynewine, Tojo, Cygnus and Zantac!"

The three nodded, although Elrohir saw Saxmund squint and stare at the shelter, where currently Cygnus and Zantac were huddled. Saxmund pulled her hood down, revealing bright red hair, cut fairly short. She was no elf. The woman frowned, putting a hand over her eyes as she continued to stare at the shrine with an intensity Elrohir found a little disturbing, if not outright rude. Garoidil put his hand on Saxmund's shoulder and said something to her the ranger couldn't catch. Saxmund began slowly to follow her two companions back towards their _shelterdome_, but her eyes remained riveted on the shrine's interior.

Inside, Cygnus and Zantac looked at each other. Zantac was the first to shrug and grin.

"Not my type. She must have a thing for toothpicks."

Cygnus scowled at him. "I had _my type_ once already, Zantac. She's dead now."

Zantac was silent as Cygnus gathered up his backpack and bedroll that he had taken off. He could see one of the tents was just about set up, and he didn't like being under the gaze of that woman. He wasn't feeling particularly sociable in any event. He'd make a brief appearance later on if the others demanded it, but he'd just as soon-

The wizard tripped on a tree root as he exited the shelter and went headfirst into muddy, wet grass. His backpack went flying, and his spellbook fell right into a big puddle with a _splash_.

_"DAMN IT!"_ He shouted out in frustration.

Saxmund, Garoidil and Aelfbi whirled around. The latter two gaped at each other in amazement, but Saxmund began running at full speed, directly towards Cygnus.

The wizard's anger was fading fast, even as Zantac helped him to his feet and picked up his items for him. Saxmund did not slow down, and Cygnus suddenly realized that whatever Saxmund was doing, she wasn't coming over to help him.

Before he could think up a plan of action however, Argo and Tojo had stepped squarely into her path. Neither drew weapons, but their intent was unmistakable.

Saxmund pulled up short and held up her hands. "I'm not going to hurt him!" She said irritably. "I just want to see him!"

Argo's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Saxmund shook her head. "I can't explain. Please, just let me see him." She was already slowly walking around to Argo's right. Bigfellow nodded to Tojo, and the two followed, too close for Saxmund's liking, but the woman had apparently decided not to protest further.

Garoidil and Aelfbi slowly came up, as did the rest of the Elrohir party. A fair-sized crowd was now closing in where Cygnus and Zantac stood, and Cygnus didn't like this one bit. He felt Zantac squeeze his shoulder, and oddly, took some comfort in that. He took a deep breath, and waited.

Saxmund walked right up to Cygnus, her expression one of growing astonishment. She moved her face to within a foot of his, her eyes open as wide as they could go. Her two companions had joined her now, and their faces mirrored theirs.

"It can't be," muttered Garoidil. "It's got to be a trick of some kind. One of Gasbabble's tricks."

Elrohir suddenly caught his breath. Talass looked over sharply at him.

_I know that expression_, the ranger thought. _I've worn it before._

But before he could say anything, Saxmund turned her face back towards the shelterdome and screamed out.

"KINGUS!"

Cygnus winced. This petite woman could really shriek. He opened his mouth to reprimand her- and heard his own voice shout back from the shelterdome.

"WHAT IS IT? DAMN IT SAXMUND! YOU KNOW I CAN'T LEAVE THE-"

_"TO THE HELLS WITH THE SHELTERDOME! GET OUT HERE- NOW!"_

And Cygnus watched himself emerge from the _shelterdome_, the hemisphere vanishing behind him.

He was dressed differently. He wore a black tunic and britches, and was in the process of throwing a worn blue hooded cloak over himself. He muttered and cursed as he watched all of their belongings get soaked.

"Garoidil, Aelfbi," he said as he approached. "Get our stuff into the shrine, will you? What's so important that-"

He stopped. Now it was Cygnus who slowly moved to stand directly in front of himself.

Identical. Even to the amount of stubble currently on their chins.

There was no sound other than the implacable downpour. The first human voice to be heard was Argo Bigfellow's.

"So, Kingus," the ranger said amiably. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Elrohir, Aslan, Argo, Cygnus and Tojo were currently crowded inside the shrine with Kingus and his companions, save Garoidil, who was setting up a small tent at about the spot where the _shelterdome_ had been. Occasional mutterings and curses from the fighter came drifting their way, but he had refused all offers of help, even from his own allies.

The rest of Elrohir's party was currently in their own tents. It was uncomfortable crowded under the shelter, and far from totally dry, as the wind occasionally blew cold droplets under the roof.

No one hear wanted to miss any of this conversation, however.

Elrohir and the others had begun first, explaining the concept of the Three Worlds and the counterparts to Kingus and the others. This was all new information to the new arrivals, whom had known they were on a different world than their own, but had no inkling of the web that held the different worlds together. They had never even heard of Aarde.

As Elrohir and company had guessed, Kingus (whom Cygnus was shocked to learn was a sorcerer and not a wizard) and his companions were indeed from Rolex. Apparently, for a reason they would not disclose, they had gone up against an illusionist with the odd name of "Gasbabble", who turned out to be a lot more than they could handle. Gasbabble had banished them to the astral plane, where they had been stranded for an indefinite period of time before coming across the _Mary Celestial_. Like everyone else who had boarded the astralship, they had escaped in one of the steelspheres. The last one in fact, if their report was true.

Elrohir shook his head. "Unlike Argo, I believe in coincidences, but this strains every notion about Fate I've ever had. I thought traveling between the Three Worlds was difficult, but it seems not to be."

Bigfellow held up a finger. "I think it's neither coincidence nor common, Elrohir. I think I may actually have an explanation for this."

Aslan smiled. "Argo Bigfellow Junior, Master of the Mysteries of the Universe, will now favor us with his theory. Refreshments to follow."

Argo flashed his famous pained smile at Kingus and his friends. "I lay no claims to special knowledge in these matters. I can barely hold my own in the simplest matters sometimes. Many claim I'm just a foolish braggart-"

"Not true. Only those who know you."

The ranger turned at Aslan's comment, and gave a gracious nod of acknowledgement, then continued. "Hear me out on this, though."

The others waited patiently as Bigfellow collected his thoughts.

Looking at his friends, he began. "We encountered the _Mary Celestial _in the astral, and when left in one of the steelspheres, we landed on Rolex, correct? This was not our doing; we had no way of guiding the sphere."

They nodded in agreement, and Argo continued. "Next, Nodyath and his allies also come across the _Celestial_ by pure chance in the astral. They have no more influence over the ship than we did, yet their steelsphere takes them to Oerth."

"Nodyath!" exclaimed Kingus.

The others looked at him. "Nodyath, the raider?" The sorcerer continued. "It is said the strange energies of the Devastation gave him vast and terrible powers. They say no one can stand up to him." Kingus looked at Saxmund and Aelfbi, and the three were momentarily silent.

"But you never meet Nodyath." Tojo put in. A statement rather than a question.

Saxmund shook her head, but Aslan turned to the samurai. "How do you know that, Tojo?"

He received a raised eyebrow in return. "They not panic when see your face, Asran-san."

"Oh, I don't know," Argo jumped on the straight line. "I panicked the first time I saw Aslan's face, and I'd never even heard of Nodyath then."

Aslan's mock ire turned to Tojo rather than Argo. "I swear you feed him those lines deliberately, Tojo."

The samurai gave a look of false effrontery. "Arways mean what I say, Asran-san. Not understand… 'feeding rines'?"

The paladin sighed. "Never mind."

"In any case," cut in Elrohir. "Argo, please continue."

"Now, our new friends here also happen to encounter the _Mary Celestial_ when thrown into the astral, and also wind up here," Argo went on. "Now, none of us have any idea who first built the _Celestial_, but it seems to continually sail the region of the astral plane that's near, for lack of a better word, the Three Worlds. I believe that astralship may have originally been designed for that very purpose."

"Hmmm," Kingus mused. "But if that is true, we took the last steelsphere when we left. The ship to us gave the appearance of being abandoned long ago. If your theory is true, even if we were able to return to the astral plane, the _Mary Celestial _could no longer help us get home."

"Our steelsphere landed within a great forest- the Vesve," explained Aelfbi. "Shortly after seeing two moons in the sky, we knew we were a long way from home." A smile played across the half-elf's lips. "Luckily for us, we were able to locate a nearby village of woodsmen called Ironstead. They directed us to a patrol of the Knights of the Hart."

"Nesco's order," Aslan said softly.

Aelfbi looked surprised. "Really? I did not know that. Anyway," the cleric continued, "we offered our services to them as scouts and skirmishers. Apparently you have even worse problems with orcs than we do back home. After a while, we were able to accumulate enough money to have a _divination_ cast for us on how to find our way back home."

The priest looked intently at Elrohir now. "It said, _The Brass Dragon can show the way._"

Elrohir smiled at his allies as Aelfbi went on. "Naturally, we had no idea how to proceed with that little piece of information. But, oh, a little over two weeks ago I'd say it was, our unit rotated commanders. The new one overheard us discussing our problem and said there was an inn called the Brass Dragon several weeks journey to the southeast." He grinned at the others. "He said it was run by _strange people_."

Argo returned the grin. "This new commander. He wouldn't happen to be a Ranger Lord, would he? A knight by the name of Sir Damoscene?"

Kingus nodded. "That's the one. I remember because he was the only one we'd met here who worships the Olympians. Garoidil was quite happy."

"Myself and Nesco, as well," said Argo.

"You should come back to Hellas, if you ever get the chance," Aelfbi replied.

Argo looked thoughtful, but was silent.

Other topics of conversation were introduced, but Cygnus, currently sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, rested his head on his knees and looked again at Kingus and Saxmund.

While he and his counterpart of course shared many similarities (Cygnus remembered he had once thought his counterpart would turn out to be a power-crazed, manipulative bastard), the wizard had known right off that they were not going to be close friends. Like Cygnus, Kingus seemed guarded about many aspects of his personal life. Most disappointingly, as far as Cygnus was concerned, was that Kingus absolutely refused to give out any information at all about his personal life.

His eyes had been hard. "Don't even ask, Cygnus," Kingus said. "Don't even ask."

Cygnus frowned as he thought. He had hoped to unravel just a few questions he had always had about his own grandfather, but it seemed that Kingus had been dealt a hard hand in that department, as well. _Maybe_, the wizard thought ruefully, _he is a manipulative bastard after all. After all, a lot of people say the same thing about me._

_Are they wrong, Cygnus?_

Cygnus furrowed his eyebrows. That last thought had been his own, but he didn't like the specter it raised. He returned his gaze to the pair in front of him, but only out of the corner of his eye. For the most part, Cygnus and Kingus just couldn't look each other in the eye for more than ten seconds or so. It just got too uncomfortable staring at your own face like that.

Saxmund was another matter. The young woman sat next to Kingus, their hands clasped in a way that clearly suggested an intimate relationship. Cygnus noted that she would stare at him, and then look over to Kingus, as if trying to imagine in what ways the counterparts might differ. Although she looked nothing like Hyzenthlay (and Cygnus had thanked Odin for that. He would not have been able to handle meeting Hyzenthlay's counterpart), Saxmund had seemed almost wistful when Cygnus had mentioned his son Thorin.

The mage tried to clear his head and rejoin the conversation. "So," Kingus was saying, "this priest in Willip- Lancoastes. You say he has the means to send this Sir Dorbin and his friends back to Aarde. Are you certain he could send us home to Rolex, as well?"

"Yes, but that may not be your biggest problem," Elrohir said cautiously.

Saxmund frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What year was it was you left Rolex?" the ranger asked.

"Which calendar?"

"Old elven. The original."

Aelfbi answered as if he thought the question slightly bizarre. "5549, of course. What else could it be?"

Cygnus looked grim. "The elven calendars are the only equivalent ones on both Rolex and Aarde. That's the same year Sir Dorbin and his crew left Aarde." The mage concentrated on Elrohir. "I'm afraid it may be as we fear. They may have left Rolex before the change."

"What change?" Kingus asked, a growing note of concern in his voice.

His counterpart turned to him. "That getting back home is more a question of _when_ than _where_. You may be six hundred years too late."

The three of them went white. Aslan began explaining about Tovag Baragu, but Cygnus watched as Argo slowly got his feet.

"What is it, Argo?"

The big ranger frowned back at him. "Caroline had to… take care of business. She should have been back by now…"

Argo Bigfellow looked around him, trying to use all his skills and experience to see through the rain, and not let his eyes be distracted by the ever-falling drops. Garoidil's tent was now up, and the fighter undoubtedly sulking inside for some reason Argo didn't know, and didn't care about. Three other tents were set up near the shrine. He looked at the one that was his. Caroline might have just decided to crawl back inside and go to sleep- she'd said she hadn't been feeling well, but that didn't feel right to Argo. His wife would have stopped back at the shrine just to tell him. He headed towards it anyway, just to check it out, when he saw her, far off to the left.

She seemed to be kneeling on the grass about a hundred yards out, and was bent over, her face almost touching the ground. Argo was off like an arrow.

He slowed down as he approached, however. The ranger's nose told him before his eyes did that Caroline had been throwing up. Argo clamped down on his instinct to simply ask what was wrong. He knew his wife.

Argo walked slowly around Caroline, so that she could see who it was by his boots, and then slowly lowered himself down to his knees in front of her, just a little off to the side of the pinkish mess she had deposited on the grass.

"Hey, there," he said softly.

Caroline looked up at him. Her smile was weak, but genuine, and it helped put Argo at ease a little. He said nothing, merely waited.

"You're going to send Kingus and the others on to Willip, right?" She asked. "Have them stop at the Brass Dragon first?"

Argo was puzzled. This wasn't what he had been expecting, but he nodded. "Sure. Seems reasonable to me. You?"

Caroline nodded. "Very," she whispered, and then looked back, into Argo's auburn eyes. The ranger knew his wife was about to say something very hard for her, even if he had no idea what it might be.

Mrs. Bigfellow turned and spat out on the ground a few times, and then looked back at Argo. She was not meeting his gaze now, though. "I think… I should go back with them, and stay at the Brass Dragon."

Now she did meet his gaze, and saw the surprised look she had expected to see. "I'm not a coward, Argo. You know that!" Her voice was louder than she intended, but fine control of any portion of her body was a task beyond her, right now.

Argo held up a hand. "Don't be foolish, my love. We both know you'd take on a Titan for me. What's the real reason?"

Caroline's brown eyes danced around, and with a shock Argo knew that Caroline wasn't exactly sure of what the reason might be. Only that it was important enough for her to voluntarily tear herself away from the man she loved.

Unable to articulate clearly, Caroline seized upon emotion. "I mean, you have to be happy about this, right? I know you worry about me. I almost got killed back in Highport! I couldn't even defend myself against one lousy ogre! You're afraid I'm the one in Talass' vision, aren't you? I'm the one who won't come back!"

She started sobbing. "Dammit…I'm always crying… I hate that!" The tears did not stop, however.

Argo scooted closer and put his arm around her shoulder. "Let me tell you something, love," he whispered in her ear. "I don't believe in Talass' vision."

Caroline looked at him in surprise. "You don't?" She managed.

The ranger shook his head. "If anyone of us dies, Aslan will _teleport_ them back to Chendl to be raised, just as the king promised," he said, and then shrugged. "And if it's Aslan who dies, then… I seriously doubt any of us will be coming back. So you see, Talass' vision of only one person dying can't be true!" He smiled at her.

Caroline returned the smile, again somewhat shakily. She knew he was trying to distract her, but that was all right. It allowed her to try and say what she had to say again.

"I just feel that I should be at home," she began, gesturing hopelessly with her hands. "If I can't focus completely in battle, I'll be nothing more than a liability; to myself, you and everyone else!" She nestled her head against his chest, and let the sobs subside. "Admit it, Argo," she said softly. "You're glad I won't be in harm's way."

Argo lifted his wife's chin, to stare directly into her eyes. "I'm happy that you were able to tell me something that I know was very difficult for you, and that you have the courage to follow through." His expression showed no trace of mirth now. "I have nothing else to be happy about right now, and frankly, I don't think you'll be out of harm's way at the Brass Dragon."

She searched her husband's eyes.

"Tad wasn't."

Caroline nodded and put her head down again. "I'll be all right there, love, but…" and here she hesitated, "I know you don't put much stock in dreams, but I've been having them, too. A lot, lately."

She looked back up at him. Argo asked the question with his eyes. Caroline shrugged helplessly.

"Nothing I can remember clearly. They're dreams about life… and death."

Now it was the ranger's turn to shrug and smile weakly. "Well," he said, "that about covers it all, doesn't it?"

Caroline did not answer, but squeezed her husband tightly for all she was worth. She fought to keep the sobs from starting up again.

_No_, she thought to herself. _That's the problem. It doesn't._


	72. Purposes Of The Gods

_Res Nailo: Thank you for your review. In point of fact, you did post a review early on in this story's history. To answer your question, this is (at least in part) a Greyhawk story, not a Dragon Lance one, so it would fall to the auspices of the Publishers of Living Greyhawk, current holders of the bulk of Greyhawk licenses, to review this work for possible publication._

_However, it is a moot point. First, they are not looking for new Greyhawk work at this time. Second, this story starts in the middle; a big no-no for ANY work. Third, so many of the character names are blatantly stolen from other literature (Elrohir, Aslan, Hyzenthlay, Thorin, etc) that I'd have to change every one, which I don't want to do. Fourth, it's about ten times too big to even have a prayer at being published. And fifth (and most importantly), I have a personal reason for not wishing to do so. Thus, it shall remain for the free eyes of readers only._

_I can't find your email address in your profile. Is it still there?_

_Richardc269: Thank you as well for your review (which has generated this latest chapter). I wouldn't be adverse to a bit of elaboration. You state you like the story. What about it specifically- the characters, the style of the prose, the plot (not likely)… I'm always looking to improve, and want to know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong._

_Again, my gratitudeto you allfor your patronage of this (little?) tale._

**14th Day of Planting, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Caroline Bigfellow walked out the front door of the Brass Dragon and smiled.

Her first night home had been surprisingly restful. She already missed her husband terribly, but everything inside the young woman was telling her that she had made the right choice.

It was a beautiful morning. A little cool, but there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun felt good on her face. As she began to walk around the inn towards the stables, she frowned as an itch began on the upper half of her right arm. She couldn't reach it without removing the shoulderplate and arm coverings of her leather armor, so she just rubbed her arm against the stone wall of the inn. It wasn't an ideal solution, but the itch abated enough that she could ignore the remainder.

Caroline had actually been eager to get out of her armor for the first time in over a week. Sir Dorbin however, had included Bigfellow in his newest idea, that of sending members of his party out in different directions from the Brass Dragon as counterspies, to be on the alert for anyone watching the inn. Caroline had been a little miffed at his instant inclusion of her into his plans without asking for her permission, but when she realized that she'd be able to ride Sequester every day as part of her patrol, it hadn't seemed so bad. And of course, Caroline still felt indebted to Sir Dorbin for the role he had played in helping her and Argo get back together, and for his continuing stewardship of their home.

The Kingus party had opened up a little on their trek back to the inn, and Caroline had discovered several things about them.

First of all, although they seemed to lack the boisterous and constant banter of Elrohir's or Sir Dorbin's band, Kingus and his allies were just as devoted to each other as anyone Caroline had met. Saxmund, who had not admitted to being a thief, but only of possessing "certain skills," had first come across Garoidil over a decade ago when she had been cast into a Hellasion prison, where he had been one of the guards. After her release, they had formed a close, if platonic, friendship.

Aelfbi of course, was all too happy to talk about his youth in the Shelem woods of Weralt, and of meeting the young human sorcerer Kingus shortly after leaving. They had traveled together a few years before hooking up with Saxmund and Garoidil.

Kingus himself remained aloof, but polite. Actually, he pretty much was behaving exactly as Caroline thought Cygnus would behave in the same circumstances. Aslan and Elrohir's counterparts seem to have ended their similarities at the physical, but Cygnus and Kingus seemed a lot closer to each other than anyone could have guessed.

Somewhat disturbingly, Caroline had discovered that Kingus was on a mission of vengeance. His half-sister Kayla had been murdered on the order of a group of priests known as The Pact who ruled the Prelacy of Darien, another nation on Weralt. Details were sparse, but Kingus apparently had an elaborate plan to trigger the downfall of these clerics, but needed large sums of money to put his plan into operation. It was that reason that had caused his band to accept the mission from the Hellasion Senate to bring down Gasbabble. That, of course, had not gone according to plan.

Still, Caroline thought, the others bore watching, as well. At one point when they had been alone together, Aelfbi had, in a roundabout way, asked about Cygnus' family history. She couldn't tell the cleric anything about that subject because she knew nothing about it, but looking back at it now, Caroline suspected that Aelfbi might have been acting as a proxy for Kingus in that regard. He wanted to get information without giving up any in return, and it was only Caroline's ignorance that had foiled him, not her caution. That bothered her.

She walked into the stables, grabbing a horse brush off its nail on the wall as she did so. The skinny boy of about ten was working there currently. Caroline couldn't remember his name. Despite the good pay, the Brass Dragon still suffered a constant turnover in their help, and Caroline could never remember any of their names. She flashed her smile at the youth, and could practically see his knees knocking as he stammered out a greeting, before returning to cleaning out the stalls, much more clumsily than before. Caroline grinned to herself. It was cruel of her, she knew… but it felt good, too.

She walked up to Perlial and White Lightning, whose large brown eyes lit up at her approach. The horses maneuvered instinctively so that Caroline could walk between them and brush one and stroke the other.

"Hello, my friends," she smiled at them.

"Thank you for coming back, Caroline," said White Lightning. "We missed you."

Caroline chuckled. "I missed you too, girls, but I have to admit I didn't come back only to see you."

Perlial bobbed her head. "We know," she added huskily, "but we are still grateful."

Bigfellow leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in White Lightning's ear. "So, hear any good gossip? Who's mounting whom here in the stables? Anyone getting fresh?"

White Lightning tossed her mane while Perlial actually managed to roll her eyes.

"I thought you were asking about human gossip," Elrohir's steed asked. The horse couldn't actually laugh, but her happiness was evident in her voice. "I'd be quite the outcast here if I told you of our own matters, but all seems quiet. Sir Dorbin and his friends… they come in sometimes to talk to us. I have heard about Kingus and his friends." The mare shook her head. "Even after seeing Nodyath, the notion of these counterparts is hard to accept." The horse's eyes grew thoughtful. "I wonder sometimes, if Perlial and I have counterparts, somewhere back on Rolex."

Caroline was surprised. She'd never considered the matter, so she certainly didn't know the horses had. "Even if you do," she smiled at White Lightning, while brushing her glossy coat, "you just can't beat the original."

Perlial looked as thoughtful as a horse can. "If they do exist, they're probably thinking the same thing."

Caroline chatted with the steeds for a few minutes more on mundane matters, and then moved over to the pegasi. She loved pampering Sequester, and suspecting the winged horse enjoyed it just as much, although she put on an almost-convincing act of tolerating the attention.

Caroline hugged the steed around her neck, and felt the breeze on her back as Sequester flapped her wings. "I'll be back in a few hours girl, and then we can go riding," she whispered to her mount. Caroline brushed her for a few minutes, spent a minute or so with Gylandir so the other pegasus wouldn't feel neglected, and then headed out back into the sunshine. The stable boy gave her a nervous grin as she passed.

Caroline looked around. She hadn't been up for all that long, but the common room of the Brass Dragon had been crowded, and uncomfortably warm with the combined body heat of the Sir Dorbin party, the Kingus quartet, staff and guests. Caroline considered being lazy and grabbing a quick nap back at her cabin before heading out on her patrol.

That was when she saw Kingus standing over by Aslan's cabin.

Caroline frowned. Kingus had been inside with the others. He must have come out shortly after she had, but what was he doing there? Her brow wrinkled with confusion until she realized he was standing by the cabin's rear wall.

The memorial to Hyzenthlay.

Caroline took a deep breath, and started walking towards him.

The air was cool and still. The grass was lush and green from the recent rain. A lone hawk circled above.

Kingus looked up briefly as Bigfellow approached, and then returned his attention to the metal plate in the ground below as the young woman came up alongside him.

**HYZENTHLAY**

**Beloved of Cygnus**

**From Death, Life**

The sorcerer again eyed Caroline, who had to look away. That familiar face with unfamiliar thoughts behind those eyes, was just too much.

"I am sorry for his loss," Caroline heard. She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement.

There was a pause. "Did she die in childbirth?"

Caroline, who had been watching the hawk above just to give her something to focus on, now turned back to Kingus.

Still looking for free information, Kingus? 

Her indignation gave Caroline the courage to face the sorcerer directly. Her mouth a thin line, she muttered, "You might say that."

Kingus stared at her a moment, and then, somewhat surprisingly, gave a small, self-satisfied nod. "I understand. I will not pry. I am glad you realize that some information must remain private."

_Is this just a trick to get us off his back?_ Caroline wondered, her indignation now asking her for a field promotion to anger.

"That story is for Cygnus to tell, not me, " she said curtly. "Why are you so afraid to talk to him about your family, Kingus? No one on this world knows you. I can't think of any conceivable way it could come back to hurt you. I know nothing about Cygnus' past, but I know he thinks you could help him. He's… my friend." The words tumbled out, more emotionally than Caroline would have wanted. "I don't have a lot of friends, Kingus, and sometimes I have trouble keeping the ones I do, so I want to keep them happy."

Cygnus' counterpart said nothing.

"Please tell him, Kingus," Caroline continued. "Cygnus said that knowledge itself is neither good nor evil, only the purposes for which it can be used."

Kingus was silent for a while, studying the memorial. Then he looked up again at Caroline.

"I'm sorry Caroline, but that's not true. Some knowledge carries with it an intrinsic evil all its own. I think… I think Cygnus knows this as well. I don't see how he couldn't."

_So, you're calling him a liar now? _Caroline decided she was officially feeling angry. She said nothing, but could feel the flush climbing up her neck towards her face. She considered just heading towards her cabin when Kingus spoke again.

"If I haven't mentioned it before Caroline, I do wish to extend the gratitude of myself and our companions to you and the others. We will be heading off to Willip tomorrow, and I think it unlikely we shall return. Our return would not have been possible without your aid."

Caroline frowned, but her anger leveled off. She turned back to the sorcerer. "But what if Lancoastes cannot return you to your proper time, Kingus? Will you still elect to return to Rolex?"

The mage nodded. "Yes. We have all agreed that that the… sooner," and here a thin smile played over his lips, "we can return to our world, the better we will feel."

Caroline peered at Kingus, and on impulse decided to turn up the heat just a little.

"Why not? I'm sure that after six hundred years, The Pact will be long dead, and your mission of vengeance completed."

Kingus stared at Caroline. His face was cold and calculating, but at least it looked familiar now. Bigfellow had seen Cygnus wear that mask many times.

After a short pause, Kingus spoke quietly. "I'm somewhat surprised that you've never been lured by the desire for vengeance, Caroline." His eyes narrowed. "Surely, you've had tragedies befall you in your life that called out for it."

Caroline shrugged, and gave her best imitation of her husband's smile. "I admit, self-control is not what I'm best at, but I feel that vengeance beyond the immediate and the passionate is best left in the hands of the gods."

It was here that Kingus surprised Caroline. The magic-user sneered, his face contorting in disgust. "I put no trust in the gods. They are cruel, and have no sympathies for mortals. If perchance they should aid us, it is only for their own purposes, which can shift in an instant."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You keep odd company for a man with that philosophy, Kingus."

The sorcerer's face relaxed somewhat, managing a cynical smile while looking off into the distance. "You mean Aelfbi? Hanali Celani will harm no mortal, a rarity among gods of any race. I do not worship Lady Goldenheart, but I respect her, unlike her fellow deities."

Caroline shrugged and eyed her and Argo's cabin. The bed inside beckoned her. A quick nap inside sounded a lot better than a theological debate with a man from another universe. "To each his own, I suppose. I'll stick with Zeus, myself."

The sneer returned to Kingus' face. "Ah yes, the Olympians." He snorted. "Worst offenders of the lot. Mortals killed and used by them at a whim. The Republic of Hellas has worshipped them for thousands of years, for all the good it's done them." He voice changed to mockery of the liturgy of Zeus. _"Accept thy lot children, for such is the will of Almighty Zeus, Hurler of Thunderbolts!" _He turned an angry face to the clear blue sky above.

"Where you watching when they killed Kayla, Almighty Zeus?" He yelled. "Were you watching when my mother was raped in her cell? _Were you watching when most of my world died?"_

There was a loud _snap_, like the cracking of a gigantic whip.

The _boom_ of the thunderclap that followed was so intense that both Caroline and Kingus were forced to bend down, their hands clasped tightly over their ears. Perhaps it was the echo, but the sound seemed to last longer than it should have, the reverberations only fading away slowly, grudgingly.

Caroline wasn't proud of it, but as they slowly stood up, Kingus' astonished expression gave her a sense of smugness.

_So there_, she thought, turning her gaze upwards so the sorcerer wouldn't catch her bemused smile. There still wasn't a cloud in the sky, but the hawk above seemed to have been momentarily disoriented by the blast of thunder. It recovered, circling slowly, much lower now. For a moment, Caroline thought the bird was staring directly at her…

And then it disappeared.

Caroline's breath caught in her throat. She glanced over at Kingus, but the mage hadn't seen it. He was busy looking off at the Brass Dragon. Coming around the side of the building now were his three friends, as well as several members of the Sir Dorbin party. Some were looking up, both others saw the two standing by Aslan's cabin, and started to head towards them.

"Garoidil will never let me live this down," Kingus was muttering, but Caroline only half-heard him. She looked up at the sky again, almost frantically now, but it was devoid of answers as it was of clouds.

_What was that, Almighty Zeus?_ She was wondering. _Was that a rebuke? A demonstration? A warning? And why now, and what of that hawk? Was it from you? What did it vanishing like that mean? Did any of this even come from you?_

Caroline gulped as the others drew near. She wished she had something to tell them, but even more, she wished her husband were here.


	73. Battle At The Brass Dragon

_Lucy Wanabe: Thank you for your comments. Extra thanks for plunging into the story at this late date. There's a lot to catch up on, I know, but please feel free to email me if you have any questions about anything. As I've stated many times before, this is NOT an easy read._

**16th Day of Planting, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Sequester sped through the fog.

The pegasus didn't particularly like it. She preferred to be able to see far out in front of her, but Caroline kept her steed on a level course with a combination of coaxing, flattery, and a strong hand on the reins. The young woman loved the exhilarating feeling of the cold mist flying past her, and, just for now (she told herself), she would satisfy her indulgence.

The fog was starting to burn off. Now, at mid-morning, its bottom half rested a good thirty to forty feet above the ground, and it was no more than twice that in thickness. If Caroline had been on her daily patrol of course, keeping inside the cloud would have been sheer folly. However, her patrol was not due for several hours. This morning, she was just having fun.

The events of two days ago had not been forgotten from her mind, but no catastrophes had befallen her or anyone else at the Brass Dragon, so after informing Sir Dorbin of everything she had seen and heard, Mrs. Bigfellow had filed the incident away in the back of her mind pending any new developments. Dorbin had looked grim at her news, but had said nothing. Caroline thought the knight looked grim an awful lot these days, but she could hardly begrudge him that. She knew full well this early ride on Sequester was therapy to ease her own troubled mind.

_But what the hell, it's working_, she thought to herself with a smile.

Kingus and his three friends had left yesterday for Willip, the same day that several of Dorbin's party had returned to the inn. At present, all ten of them were together inside, having been convened by their leader for some important discussion. Caroline's presence had not been requested and for that, she was grateful.

Caroline leaned forward and Sequester responded. The pegasus lost altitude, just enough to exit the cloudbank. Caroline caught side of the road to Willip underneath her. She had a quick glimpse of Dudraug and Grock running at a slight angle to the highway. The cooshee held a small dead animal of some kind in his mouth, which the smaller dog obviously wanted a piece of. The elven hound, with more playfulness than spite, kept running off at sharp angles, with the tan wardog only a few steps behind, barking for all he was worth.

The young woman smiled at the canine display of exuberance. "Stay on him, Grock!" Caroline shouted, and then banked her steed in a long, shallow turn to the right, staying just below the fogbank. When she could see that they were now oriented northwest and parallel again to the road, she coaxed Sequester once more upwards into the cloud for the final flying sprint towards home…

The fogbank was dissipating more rapidly now, so Caroline let the pegasus drop down at what she guessed what about the halfway point towards home. The inn grew larger and larger as she approached. Bigfellow began to run through the day ahead of her.

She'd get Sequester stabled, then take care of her and the other animals for a while. There were no guests currently staying at the Brass Dragon, so she wouldn't be needed at the inn to fill in for anybody. If Sir Dorbin's Oerth-shattering meeting was over or just wrapping up, she'd see if there were any administrative details as far as inventory that needed taking care of. Caroline did not usually bother with the logistical end of running the inn, but with Tad gone, it seemed like it was up to her to keep a hand in on things. She had a nonsensical vision of Sir Dorbin staging a coup, proclaiming that the Brass Dragon now belonged to them by squatter's rights. She smiled again. Not very likely. Caroline knew how much they all wanted to get home. It seemed likely that between Torlina's joining the Wizard's Guild in Willip and gaining access to their Library, and Dorbin's close ties to the Valorous Church there, it would only be a matter of-

_Horses?_

Caroline frowned as she came in. She was going to swoop around the inn to the backside, where the stables were, but she noticed five horses simply standing together in a knot about twenty yards in front of the main door of the inn. Caroline brought Sequester down about thirty yards east-southeast of the animals. The steeds eyed the winged horse and its rider as they landed, but made no move otherwise. That in itself was a little unusual, thought Caroline. They must be well-trained animals.

When she had dismounted, Caroline spoke softly but firmly to Sequester. "Go back to the stables, girl. I'll be along in a moment." The pegasus eyed Caroline soberly for a moment, then turned and trotted off around the back, as Bigfellow began to walk towards the front door.

She confirmed that these animals had not been in the stables when she had taken out Sequester a half-hour ago. Although she was not as experienced a horsewoman as many of her fellow party members, Caroline could see that these steeds seemed to be in good shape. Their deep breathing and the sheen of sweat told her that they had just recently arrived, and had been ridden fairly fast and hard. Not to the point of near-death though, as the late Dak had pushed his mount. Caroline's frown deepened. Why would arriving guests not stable their horses? Were they that cheap as to seek to avoid the five gold wheatshaffs stabling fee? Even if they were just here for a quick drink, it seemed cruel not to give their faithful steeds the rest and food they surely deserved. _If they're really that stingy_, Caroline thought ruefully, _they've come to the wrong inn._

Then the door opened, and the staff began to run out.

No. That wasn't right. They weren't running. They were _fleeing_.

Caroline picked up her pace, ignoring the horses now. She could see five young men and woman, their cooks and servers. She did a quick calculation. If the stable boy was still in the stables where he should be, that left the barkeep and one more server inside. What was going on? Had tensions between Dorbin's allies finally boiled over? No, that didn't make any sense. None of this did. The staff began yelling and screaming at Caroline, but she didn't hear them. She had just caught a glimpse of the common room through the open door.

There was a battle going on.

She drew her sword and broke out in a dead run. It couldn't have taken her more than a few seconds to reach the inn, but when she entered the common room, all she caught was a glimpse of a black-robed figure's back disappearing down the stairway to the right of the bar. The one that led downstairs, to the Brass Dragon's storeroom, and the servant's quarters.

There was a tremendous racket coming from down below, but Caroline stopped in the middle of the common room and looked around. She didn't want to overlook anything that might (literally) come back at her after she headed down the stairway. _Sweet Athena_, she thought furiously. _Dorbin's party of ten and at least five attackers down there? They'll be so crowded, no one will have room to turn around!_

The common room was not trashed completely, but it was a good portion of the way there. All of the tables in a line from the main doorway to the bar had been overturned, and numerous chairs lay either on their sides or splintered into pieces. Still, Caroline saw no one, so she drew a deep breath that she knew would not be enough to steady her nerves, tightened her grip on her sword and headed towards the stairway.

As she passed the bar, Caroline heard a shriek of terror from her left.

She stopped and looked. The last server, a girl of maybe thirteen, was on her knees behind the bar. She had put her head down and covered her face with her arm as Caroline came by, emitting a small cry of pure fear. Now, as she slowly looked back at Caroline, a small whiff of relief came to the girl's face, but then vanished back into the panic that had been there previously.

It took one second for Caroline to note that the child's hands were covered in blood, and one more to see the reason why.

The serving girl was bending over the barkeep. The man had been slashed across the throat. Now he lay on his back, semi-conscious. A serving cloth had been pressed against the wound, but it was now saturated with blood, and small regular spurts of dark fluid were squirting around the sides.

"Help him, please!" The girl yelled.

Caroline was beside them in an instant, kneeling down and resheathing her sword. One part of her mind told her that if Dorbin and his friends couldn't handle a band of thugs half their size, she wouldn't be of much extra help down there.

The other part of Caroline's mind was calling her a coward.

She gritted her teeth and ignored that part as she examined the bartender. The man's eyelids flickered above his blond handlebar mustache. Caroline realized this man had been with the Brass Dragon for over two years at least, longer than all of their other help put together, and she still didn't know his name.

Now, it looked like she might only learn it at his funeral.

She grabbed a dishcloth, and laid it out on the ground to her right, then grabbed the nearest bottle of liquor she could reach, pulled the top off and soaked the cloth in it, and then pressed it firmly over the older cloth.

The serving girl looked close to being in shock. "They… they… came in," she wailed.

Caroline looked up at her from her ministrations. The barkeep was unconscious, but kept twitching.

"They… they were looking for…" the girl continued. The bartender moaned. Caroline didn't see any other wound on him, but the one he had taken was bad, and very probably mortal. "Keep this pressed on," she told the server, then took off her backpack and started rummaging through it.

Below, the sounds of combat continued. On the edge of Caroline's consciousness, she heard a scream.

The child had her eyes shut tightly now, her hands pressing down on the soaked cloths beneath them. "There was yelling… and then the fighting started… Sir Dorbin… he said that… you were down below-"

Caroline, having found the tiny wooden container she was looking for, glanced up sharply as she removed the lid.

"Me?"

The girl opened her eyes again. They were full of tears. She nodded, barely able to speak.

"Dorbin… he had everyone run away…down the stairs… he… they… they followed them down there. "We… we were behind the bar… as they went past… the one in black… the one with the scythe… he looked at me, and…"

Caroline spoke as firmly as she could. "Listen to me," she said as she swabbed up the white paste that was inside the container with her finger, "I want you to lift up the cloths for a moment, all right? Okay, now! Do it now!"

The child, who was used to following orders, obeyed instinctively, her panic retreating for just a moment. Caroline caught a brief glimpse of the wound. It was a remarkably clean slice, thin but deep. She smeared the paste across it as best she could. The barkeep groaned, coming to the edge of consciousness. Caroline grabbed the man's hand and squeezed it.

"Hang on," she whispered. "Just hang on."

"What is that?" Asked the serving girl. "Is it healing magic?" The hope in her voice was so heartbreaking, Caroline had to fight to keep her own tears from starting. That was a luxury she just couldn't afford right now.

She shook her head. "It's not magic. It's something my husband brought back with us when we left the Lone Heath. It can help… with certain wounds."

Caroline closed her eyes. _Yes. The wounds caused by bug bites. That's it. That's all I have. That's all I can do._ She took over the pressure on the wound, and told the girl to find as many dishcloths and rags as she could, and soak several of them in water.

More muffled sounds came from below.

"Jack…" The girl was talking now, as unsteadily as ever, but she just didn't want to stop. "He... grabbed me and threw me behind him… and the man, he… he…"

"It's all right." Caroline cut in sharply. "I can see what happened." She looked down at the pale face below her.

_Nice to meet you, Jack. Please don't die on me. I swear to Almighty Zeus, I'll never forget your name again. Just please… don't die._

It wasn't going to work, and Caroline knew it. Unless Monsrek or Wescene or someone else with a healing spell came up within a minute or so, Jack the bartender was going to leak the last of his life away on the floor behind the bar of the Brass Dragon Inn. Caroline just didn't know enough of the healing arts.

Ironically, as she could feel herself losing the battle against her tears, Caroline's thought was not that of her husband.

_Aslan, where are you? You always heal us. Please, make a miracle happen like you always do. Come back here. We need you. We need you now. I'm sorry I ever made you unhappy. Please, come home._

She opened her eyes and rubbed them clear. There was no Aslan, only a serving girl, trembling violently with fear. Shaking violently, she held out a soaked rag. Caroline snatched it and laid it over Jack's forehead.

Below, the sound of combat continued. Caroline removed the cloths over Jack's wound, and slapped on another dry one. "Keep feeding those to me," she told the girl, who nodded wordlessly.

The barkeep was no longer moving.

Caroline knew she was going to need something for both her and this girl to focus on, or they were both going to become hysterical. Caroline could see that she too knew Jack was losing his fight to live.

"The attackers!" Caroline barked at her. "What did they look like?"

It was several seconds before the girl could focus herself enough to reply.

"There… there five of them. One of them kind of… kind of reminded me of Tojo. He had-"

The floor underneath them shook. A low roar sounded below. Both of their heads turned towards the staircase leading downstairs as the rumbling came out into the common room. It was followed several seconds later by clouds and clouds of a brown, foul-smelling smoke.

_Fireball_, Caroline thought. _Oh, my sweet Lord._

There was now more yelling then ever, but now there were running footsteps, as well. Footsteps coming up the stairs. Caroline had just enough time to yell to the girl to keep pressing clean cloths down over Jack's wound, before rising to her feet and drawing her sword again.

Two figures burst through the smoke. Neither were part of Sir Dorbin's party.

The one in front was a large man, dressed in plate mail that seemed on the verge of falling off into pieces. Beneath his helm, Caroline caught a glimpse of a heavily bearded face, with a old scar running down his left cheek. It now had numerous new ones for company. He held a large, bloody battleaxe in both hands.

Directly behind him was human so short, at first Caroline mistook him for a very tall halfling. Perhaps four inches short of five feet, he had thick, slicked-back black hair. Clad in leather armor, he held a short sword in one hand that was covered in blood. He too bore the sign of numerous fresh wounds.

The first man hadn't turned to his right. He hadn't seen Caroline.

But the second one did. His dark eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened with astonishment. His left hand grabbed the weapon belt of the large man in front of him.

"It's her!" The short man yelled, pointing his bloody weapon at Caroline. "It's one of them! Bigfellow's wife! They are here, Sbalt! They're here!"

_They?_ Caroline thought. The question in her mind wouldn't formulate itself.

Sbalt turned to eye her. Venomous hatred spewed forth from his eyes at Caroline, but then more sounds of running footsteps came up the stairs. Sbalt glanced back at the smoke still issuing through the open doorway, then grabbed the small human by his right shoulder and nearly threw him towards the main door.

"No time!" He bellowed. "Go! Go!"

The runt, still recovering his balance, gave an instinctive snarl at Sbalt, then turned to Caroline.

"You can't hide behind others forever, bitch. We'll be back for all of you."

He then turned and ran out of the inn. Limping slightly, Sbalt followed just as two more figures burst out of the smoke. Caroline's hope that they might be part of Sir Dorbin's band were dashed yet again.

The first was the figure that wore black robes over chainmail armor dyed a deep red. He carried not a scythe, but something similar; a short wooden rod, from which a slightly curved, single-edged blade protruded. His eyes registered Caroline, who now stood in a defensive stance, but they just as quickly moved off her to his companion; a human dressed in the robes of an arcanist. Between their overall general condition, the smoke and the bloodstains on them, it was impossible to determine what color they might originally have been. The mage, unlike his companions, bore no battle wounds but for the peeling of some flesh on his hands and arms. Burns.

"They're coming, Frill!" Shouted the man in black. "Stop them!"

Frill turned back towards the doorway and started casting. Caroline almost took a step forward to stop him, but the figure in black was clearly standing ready to intercept any such an attempt. As Caroline listened to the shouting voice of Sir Menn heading up the stairs, she cried "Look out!"

She hoped that her shout might disrupt the magic-user's incantation, but that did not seem to be the case. The two turned and ran, occasionally coughing from the smoke, without another look at Caroline. The young woman had seen no visible effect from Frill's spell, but she suddenly heard Sir Menn cry out. Then there was the unmistakable sound of the armored knight tumbling down the stairs. From the accompanying voices, it sounded like he had taken one or two of his comrades back down with him. Then, she heard Flond's voice.

"He's _greased_ the staircase!"

"Dispel it!" came the roaring voice of Sir Dorbin.

"On it!" came the voice of Monsrek. "Flond, the smoke!"

"I know what to do- shut up!"

A blast of strong wind suddenly blew through the open doorway, dissipating the smoke to a tolerable level. Caroline saw a steady light coming up from below, and suddenly Sir Dorbin emerged into the common room.

He was a sight. Blood and fire both had made their mark on him, but he paid attention to neither. The gem set into his helm was illuminating the knight in a soft circle of white light. Flames were running up and down the blade of the sword he held in his hand. Caroline stared. She had heard of such swords, but did not know that Dorbin carried one. Rage equal to that she'd seen on Sbalt's face was fixed firmly on the knight's. He glanced over to his right, and took in the scene.

"Sir Dorbin-" began Caroline hesitantly.

Dorbin did not acknowledge her, but twisted his head back to the staircase. "Monsrek!" he yelled. "Your healing is needed! The rest of you, follow me!" He turned back to Caroline and pointed his weapon at her. She gasped as she watched the blood coating the blade slowly sizzle away.

"Stay here!" he shouted at her, and then he was heading out the door. Fee Hal was perhaps seven or eight steps behind him. The squire seemed in better shape than his liege, but the glare he shot at Caroline as he passed froze her blood.

She didn't know why, but there was _hatred_ in that look. The youth was gone before she could even begin to think of asking him anything, though.

Flond was next, helping along a man who looked somewhat like Unru. He was a little heavier than Caroline remembered him, though, and his face was rounder, and now sported a mustache and goatee. It suddenly occurred to Caroline that this might be Unru's true appearance, but something was clearly very wrong with him.

Unru's face was a blank mask. Flond was pushing him along, the latter making no effort to resist, but showing absolutely no reaction to anything about him.

"Flond!" Caroline managed as the pair passed her without a glance. "What happened?"

Flond, his brown hood down around his shoulders, turned back, but did not stop his movement towards the outside. "He's been _feebleminded!"_ The mage shouted back, a half-scowl upon his face, as if the urgency of the combat situation did not permit him the luxury of a full one.

"Can you cure him?" She cried out.

The reply came back faintly as the duo disappeared outside.

"No."

Bigfellow caught her breath. This litany of horrors was happening too fast.

Sir Menn, limping badly on his right leg, came up next, Wescene helping him along. A stream of colorful profanities were issuing nonstop from the knight. The elf turned to Caroline as they passed. Her expression also bore the marks of someone who has just been through Hell, but at least there was no malice there.

"Monsrek is coming up. Stay with them, Caroline," she said, indicating the barkeep and the serving girl. Then, they too were gone.

Monsrek was next. He took in the situation at a glance, then came and knelt down beside Jack. He spoke quietly.

"You can put away your sword, Lady Bigfellow. Sitdale alone remains down below. Our enemies have fled. One lays dead."

Caroline thought she was going to faint as she resheathed her weapon and steadied herself against the bar. She thought that Monsrek might be too late as she heard Jack give out a terrible groan, arch his back, and then lay still again, but Monsrek seemed satisfied.

"He will live, given adequate care. Do not move him for now. Keep him comfortable," he said to the serving girl, who nodded mutely. The cleric reached out and clamped his hand on the child's shoulder. "Brave girl. Jack owes his life to you. Be sure to tell him that."

The server managed a half-smile, then turned her attentions back to the unconscious bartender. Monsrek stood up, wincing with pain.

Caroline's mind was whirling. Something the cleric had said.

_Sitdale alone remains down below…_

Faces swam through Bigfellow's mind. She tried to put names with them. She knew only that something was terribly wrong. Even more wrong than what her eyes had already shown her.

Sir Menn's voice came from outside.

"Monsrek! They're getting away! _They're on horseback!"_

This statement, so self-evident, seemed to Caroline a bizarre thing for the knight to shout out, but it apparently had some special significance to Monsrek. The older man immediately headed for the doorway as fast as he could.

"Stay here, Caroline," the priest told her over his shoulder. "They might try doubling back on us."

Caroline nodded dumbly. She still, as usual it seemed, understood little of what was going on, but she knew it had something to do with the little human's threat… and Fee Hal's look.

Then just as Monsrek reached the front door, one small piece of what was missing came back to her.

"Monsrek!"

The cleric turned around, but his expression made it clear Caroline only had seconds to speak.

Caroline swallowed hard. "Aiclesis… Torlina. Where are they?"

Monsrek said nothing. His face showed nothing.

She started trembling violently, but she just couldn't stop the words tumbling out. "Monsrek… where are Torlina and Aiclesis? Were they not here when-"

"They're dead, Lady Bigfellow," Monsrek said quietly. "They're both dead."

He left the inn. Caroline stared at the open doorway for a while, listening to the sounds of racing hoofbeats grow fainter and fainter. Then she looked at the open doorway that led below. A little smoke and some heat continued to come from below. It wasn't hard to imagine that all the eternal misery and pain of the Lower Planes were right down there.

It wasn't hard to imagine at all.


	74. Aftermath

_Deverien: Thank you for your comments. I do understand your frustration, and I assure you my decision to restrict postings was not made lightly. As I have mentioned, this story is already posted elsewhere, where people can read and not comment on it to their heart's content. I have duplicated it here on fanfiction for the sole purpose of garnering additional feedback. I want to know what people like and what they don't. I want to know what works and what doesn't. I have given my thoughts on numerous other stories here, for good or ill. I only ask for honest reviews in return; the more specific, the better._

**17th Day of Planting, 565 CY, The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Caroline didn't want to look at Unru, but she couldn't help herself.

The young woman had sneaked into the Brass Dragon's kitchen to whip herself up an evening snack, but nothing she saw seemed to appeal to her. Only one of the servers was on duty, a young man about her age, who seemed quiet and forlorn.

Caroline couldn't blame him. She herself had spent most of the day locked inside her cabin. She hadn't wanted to talk to anyone.

That was all right, though. No one had come knocking.

Now Mrs. Bigfellow just sighed and took a piece of beef jerky. Chewing morosely on the peppery, tough strip of dried beef, she had poured herself a glass of the Dragon's cheapest wine and walked back into the common room

Flond and Unru were sitting at one of the tables. Flond had given Caroline no more than a cursory glance when she had come in, and not even that now. He was slowly holding up a bowl of cold porridge up to Unru's face. Those wide simple eyes regarded this wonder, and then he sniffed at it. A wide smile broke over that bronze-skinned face, and he dove in face-first.

"No," Flond said with (Caroline thought) surprising gentleness. The wizard put the bowl back down on the table and with a napkin, dabbed at Unru's face, helping clean up what the latter's sweeping tongue could not reach. Unru looked at his friend with a hungry, hopeful expression, and his eyes went back to the bowl.

Caroline stood, rooted to the spot and watched.

Flond reached out and tousled Unru's coal-black hair. The first smile Caroline had ever seen on the mage's face riveted Unru's attention as well as her own. Flond took a spoon, put it in Unru's hand, and slowly guided him through the proper motions. He was whispering something to his friend, who apparently understood some of it. Unru began eating, a bit sloppily, but obviously pleased at himself for remembering this crucial skill.

_Amazing. He's like a father_, Caroline thought.

Then he remembered that Flond, alone among the Sir Dorbin party, actually was one.

_Is he thinking about his own son?_ Caroline wondered. _Did he ever do this with him?_

She pushed that thought out of her mind. That was none of her business. The idea of a child of her own again clamored for her attention, but she ignored it and continued to watch the scene before her, slowly taking a sip of her wine.

Flond turned in his chair. His usual scowl was back, the smile gone as if it had never existed. His brown eyes raked her over harshly.

"Something you need?"

Caroline gulped down another swallow of wine and gestured towards Unru. "You said you couldn't heal him. What about at Willip?"

Flond gave a barely noticeable nod. "We'll be taking what money we've saved up for our return trip home and applying that towards the price of the healing. It's not enough yet, but we'll make up the difference."

Caroline hesitated, and then inclined her head towards the door. "The, uh… the fire is still going strong out there." She shrugged. "If you'd like, I could take over here for a while, if you'd like to go outside and… um, and…"

Flond let her dangle, then turned away from her with a sneer.

"That's not going to change anything, will it, Lady Bigfellow?"

Caroline took a deep breath, and tried to keep the anger from rising up inside of her. _I was just trying to help,_ she thought. She wanted to snap out at Flond, ask him if he really enjoyed being such an irritant, or was just hiding behind his cynicism. At the last moment, she knew that wouldn't really help anything, either. She had offered. There was nothing else she could do here.

"I'm sure there isn't, but if you do think of any way I could help, I'll be… outside."

There was no response. Flond was now helping Unru to drink out of a wide-lipped goblet.

"I know it must be hard, seeing him like this," Caroline said, as loudly as she dared, "but I know you'll get him healed. You people… look out for each other."

She had just opened the door when she heard Flond's voice behind her.

"The wrong wizard died."

She glanced back. Flond was not looking at her. He was watching Unru eagerly drain his juice, watching as some dribbled down the illusionist's chin and into his goatee.

Caroline bit her lip and walked out of the inn…

The pyre was a good quarter mile off, but Caroline could sense its warmth from here. It certainly seemed larger than it needed to be, but she surmised it was just not for practical purposes. As she approached, watching the flames lick upwards towards the stars and listening to the roar of the blaze, she saw Sir Dorbin and his allies.

The six of them were not standing together as they had been earlier, but were now spaced around the conflagration in a circle. Each one was standing quietly, apparently absorbed in his or her own thoughts.

Bigfellow approached Wescene, who was closest. The elf turned as Caroline approached.

She looked utterly haggard. Her black hair, straggly and dirty, cascaded carelessly over her face. Numerous bruises and small cuts were visible on both her face and arms. As Caroline understood what had been told to her, Monsrek possessed a ring that enabled him to control the actions of animals to a degree. They had pursued Sbalt and his minions, but had never able to get within range of Monsrek's ring. As their attackers pulled away, Monsrek and Wescene, both enabled of tracking skills, continued to trail them. The trail had led southwest, towards the Earldom of Farlyow. However, when their quarry had unexpectedly turned back upon them, the two clerics had been forced to flee for their lives, and had barely escaped.

Caroline managed one of her weak smiles and offered her mug. "Swig of bad wine?"

The elf began to shake her head, then apparently reconsidered and took the cup with a smile even feebler than Caroline's. Wescene drained it with one motion, then handed the mug back to her with a nod of thanks. They both turned their attention back to the pyre, Caroline noticing the two figures lying at its heart. They were almost totally consumed by now.

"We'll recover their ashes, and take them with us back to Aarde," Wescene said.

"That seems like a good thing to do," Caroline heard herself say, and then instantly berated herself for it. She sounded like an idiot to her own ears. Wescene however, merely nodded.

"Aiclesis wanted so badly to return home, more than any of us," the elf said wistfully, and then shook her head. "I don't know why. I don't even know if he did." She tried a smile at Caroline that failed. "Sitdale knew him better than I."

Wescene turned her attention back to the fire. Caroline looked to her left. Going clockwise, Sitdale was the next person in "line."

With a start, Caroline realized she had just been given a message. Wescene wanted privacy, but had given Caroline someplace useful to go without offending her. With an embarrassed glance and a final meaningless murmur, she began to walk slowly towards the half-elf…

Sitdale grinned sadly as Caroline approached. "Ah, do I know my love?" He asked. "She thinks I will open up about Aiclesis more to her proxy than to her." Caroline opened her mouth to protest, but the half-elf shook it away.

"No need, dear Caroline. I'm merely keeping my mouth going to avoid the silence. Pay no attention to anything that comes out of it. All the others want their moments alone with our fallen friends, so I indulge them." He eyed the cup in Caroline's hand. "Any of that left?"

Caroline shook her head with an embarrassed smile. "No. I'm sorry." She gestured back towards the inn. "I'd be happy to go and-"

Sitdale cut her off. "Not necessary. I'll get some myself, shortly. Right now, I'm glad enough for the company." His pale face hardened momentarily. "The solemn position of party miscreant now rests upon my shoulders, at least until Unru can share it with me again."

Caroline tried something safe. "I know you'll get him healed."

The half-elf nodded. "Oh, we will. Of that, I'm certain."

The two of them stared at the flames for a while. Caroline had to strain to hear Sitdale over the roaring and crackling when he began speaking again, unexpectedly. It was not about Aiclesis, however.

"Dorbin had led them downstairs by bringing us down there. He told us we had to protect you, even though we knew full well you weren't there. It was a ruse to save you. It worked. They fell for it."

Caroline was silent. A silent pang of guilt tore at her heart.

"We had just made it into the storeroom when they caught up to us. It was the largest room down there, but with fifteen of us…" Sitdale shook his head, his gray eyes seeing past the fire. "I've never been in such a chaotic, confused melee in my life. Instructions, orders, commands, yelling, screaming, weapons striking everywhere…" He hesitated. "Everywhere." He looked directly at Caroline now, refocusing.

"They were powerful, Lady Bigfellow. More powerful than we were expecting. Their mage, Frill they called him- he pulled out a scroll early on in the fight. We saw it, but we just couldn't get to him. We outnumbered them two-to-one, but the space was just so crowded. I kept firing arrows at Frill, but that monk- he just kept knocking them out of the air. Unru had just finished shining himself up, and was about to do what he does best." He raised an eyebrow at Caroline. "You do know he was- _is_ an illusionist, don't you?"

She nodded. "Someone told me. I forgot who." Sitdale smiled in return.

"The best, Lady Bigfellow. The best. He can do these creative things that usually leave us with little more to do than mop up." The half-elf's face grew sober. "I guess they knew that, too. When I saw Unru's face go blank, I knew what that bastard Frill had done, but I couldn't spare him any time. They were hitting us hard." Sitdale looked down at the ground. "The little human- I didn't hear him called anything but "The Runt"-I thought he was just a warrior, but he was just like Aiclesis." He looked back at Caroline, to be sure she knew what he meant. Her expression indicated that she did, so he continued.

"It was so crowded in that small room, we didn't think that any of them could possibly able to slip around us. But that Runt… he was trying hard. It's like your blade couldn't see him, he was so fast, so slippery. He had stabbed Sir Dorbin, and…"

The half-elf stopped abruptly. Caroline waited.

"I'm sorry, Lady Bigfellow," Sitdale whispered. "I thought this would help me feel better, but I seem to be mistaken once again. Please forgive my inexcusable rudeness. Please tell Sir Menn to finish this tale for you. I-"

His breath caught in his throat. Caroline made some more soothing murmurs, then walked away quickly so Sitdale could at least think she hadn't heard him start to cry…

Sir Menn stood with his arms crossed. Still clad in his plate mail, he gazed stoically at the fire. Although Caroline knew the Dorbin party had healed themselves as best they could, she saw the knight was still putting most of his weight on his left leg.

She knew she shouldn't do this, but Caroline's curiosity drove her on. "Good Sir Menn…" She began.

The knight looked slowly over at Bigfellow. Although his face was flushed from fires past and present, his manner seemed remarkably calm. His eyes went, not to Caroline's face, but to the mug she still held in her hand.

Caroline noticed the empty bottle of wine at Sir Menn's feet.

She smiled apologetically and turned her cup upside-down. Sir Menn acknowledged this, with a slight look of regret.

"Difficult to face such a loss, eh?" the knight commented.

"Yes," Caroline agreed, somewhat warily. "Even more difficult for their closest friends."

Sir Menn nodded, but said nothing.

Caroline took a deep breath. "Sitdale was telling me the story of the battle, " she said. "He said The Runt had stabbed Sir Dorbin… and then he asked you to finish the story for him."

She saw the knight's bleary eyes briefly switch over to Sitdale, who was now walking slowly back to the Brass Dragon, before coming back to rest on Caroline's face. He nodded. "I see," he said with a deep breath. Caroline waited.

"I'm sure Sitdale mentioned what a- what a nightmare it was. Despite our numerical superiority, we couldn't flank them. One-on-one, their skills exceeded ours. I say that with no little shame, but it's the truth. That little snip of a man had stabbed Sir Dorbin in the side with what we assumed was a poisoned blade. I… couldn't help. I was fighting that accursed monk. He kept trying to grab my weapon, to trip me up. His hands were everywhere."

Sir Menn looked down longingly at the bottle on the ground, and then over at the inn. Catching Caroline seeing this, he grew embarrassed and plunged back into the tale.

"Torlina," he smiled. "Usually, she hung back in battle, but I guess she knew she didn't have that luxury this time. She was amazing, that girl. Casting even while ducking, weaving and dodging." The knight wiped away a sudden tear. "I was so proud of her…"

He closed his eyes.

"I forget the spell's name, but Torlina was a master at it. She was standing right behind Sir Dorbin. She crouched down, and cast. A thin ray of fire shot out from her hand, went right between Dorbin's legs and caught that little Runt right in his little…" Sir Menn opened his eyes again, a vicious smile creasing his face now. "God, how he screamed. Dropped his sword and everything. Dorbin and Aiclesis were on him then, and I thought that he might go down, but that monk… _that damn_ monk!" The knight snarled, catching Caroline by surprise.

"He was… like lightning. He leapt straight up- I still can't believe he didn't hit his head on the ceiling- and went flying right over my head. I swung, but I was… too slow. His feet landed right on Torlina's shoulders. Even as they were both going down, I saw him grab Torlina's head in his hands, and then he…"

A loud _snap_ came from the wood piled in the fire. It wasn't the first one or the last one Sir Menn and Caroline had heard, but it was the only one that they really paid attention to.

"Thank you, Sir Menn. I'm sorry… about your loss." This time, Caroline Bigfellow needed no urging to leave. Now, it was her tears that she did not want anyone to see or hear…

She had composed herself as best she could, but Caroline still seriously contemplated skipping Fee Hal on her circuit around the pyre. She couldn't deal with any hatred at this point. Still, she thought that her snubbing the boy might validate whatever bizarre notion he already had about her, so she put on her standard feeble smile and approached the squire.

She stopped short just as she was about to speak, however.

The youth had clearly just stopped crying himself. His expression as he turned towards Caroline bore only sadness now.

"I… I am sorry, Lady- Caroline," He said with a slight stammer. "I had no right to hold you responsible for any of this. That was my grief you saw. Please, forgive me."

To Caroline's astonishment, the young man walked over to her, and knelt at her feet, his head down.

"You have shown us nothing but kindness," the squire said to the ground beneath him. Monsrek said that you saved Jack's life. I'm sorry… I didn't know. I thought the staff would be safe. I didn't think that priest would bother taking the time to attack an innocent… I didn't know until I saw him below… until I saw the symbol of the Reaper on him."

The youth looked up to Caroline, his face glistening. "I couldn't stop them. I couldn't take even _one_ of them down. Torlina, Aiclesis… I couldn't…"

Fee Hal's shoulders shook as he sobbed. Torlina watched as his tears watered the grass below, dry from the fire's proximity. She looked away uncomfortably and waited.

_He's only two years younger than I am_, thought Caroline. _What can I say to him? Why can't Argo be here, or Aslan, or Elrohir? They'd know what to say. I don't. I want to make him feel better, but I can't. I'm just like him, _she realized. _Now_ _that Tad's gone, I'm the child in a party of adults._

With a visible effort, Dorbin's squire composed himself.

Since she had absolutely no idea what else to say to him, Caroline decided to stick to her only line of conversation so far. "Fee Hal," she asked as gently as she could, "what happened after the monk killed Torlina?"

Slowly, Fee Hal stood up, and took several deep breaths. He then turned back to Caroline and continued the story, pantomiming occasionally.

"The monk…he was back on his feet in the blink of an eye." The squire's eyes grew distant as he saw the scene again, and something that might almost have been a cruel smile played on his young face. "But Dorbin… I took one look at him, and I knew that _somehow_, he was going to win. He threw his shield at the monk. He batted it away, but it caused him to step back a pace, and Sear was already moving."

"Sear?" asked Caroline.

Fee Hal nodded. "Sir Dorbin's _flametongue_ longsword. He stabbed the monk in the stomach. It wasn't a mortal wound, but as the monk tried to back up, Dorbin just stayed with him, so the monk grasped the flat of the blade with his hands and started pushing back towards Dorbin." The young man's face clearly showed his astonishment, as he looked again at Caroline. "His hands… they wouldn't burn."

There was a moment of silence.

"Then Sir Dorbin… he screamed," continued Fee Hal. I thought at first maybe The Runt had stabbed him again, but he took hold of Sear's hilt with both hands… _and he lifted the monk straight up over his head by the sword!"_

Caroline gaped at him. She couldn't possibly imagine that being true, but Fee Hal was still going.

"I don't know if Torlina or Flond had shined him up earlier… I don't know, but the monk couldn't believe it either. Me, I couldn't believe any of what I was seeing. The monk… the blade had gone in a little deeper, but he never cried out, or said anything. He just grabbed onto the blade even tighter. I saw at least one of his fingers come off and fall to the floor, but he kept pushing, and pushing. He was pushing himself straight up now, towards the ceiling, pushing himself off of the blade."

Fee Hal caught his breath, caught up in the moment.

"Then, I saw the _gem of brightness_ glowing. You know, the ruby that Dorbin wears on his helm? You've seen it. He almost never uses it, because it's only got a few charges left. But he yelled, and a white beam of light flashed out from the gem… and hit the monk right in the eyes." Fee Hal's voice, loud now, dropped dramatically. "Then, the monk screamed. The first time… and the last. His threw up his hands to try and protect his eyes… and he slid all the way down the blade. I was fighting the dark priest by then, but I saw it, out of the corner of my eye. Aiclesis and Sir Menn skewered the monk even before his body hit Sear's pommel. He was dead. I thought… I thought that might be the worst of it. It looked like the other four were trying to pull back. Sirs Dorbin, Menn and Aiclesis between them… they were all over Frill. They kept hacking away at him, but he had some kind of ungodly protection upon him. He couldn't cast, I never saw him cast, I never saw him reach into a spell pouch or anything… but somehow he managed to do it anyway."

The squire stopped, and bent down, putting his hands on his knees. Caroline thought that maybe he was going to be sick, but after a few moments the youth straightened up again and looked her squarely in the eye again. His voice was quieter, the gestures absent.

"_Fireball_. Point-blank range, at Aiclesis. He had a flask of alchemical smoke that he always carried in his backpack, and I guess the blast set it off. We couldn't see anything, but I knew that Aiclesis… that he…"

Fee Hal turned away to look again at the blaze. He was silent for a while, and then spoke one more time.

"We'd never lost before, Caroline. I didn't think we… we ever would. Not like this. We were valorous. Every one of us. We were strong. We had righteousness on our side. I… I don't understand how we could lose."

"Neither do I, Fee Hal," Caroline murmured, but it wasn't really true. She didn't have the squire's undying loyalty in moral conviction. Caroline didn't believe that the heroes always won. She'd always thought herself a realist.

It was only now that she realized that being a realist didn't diminish the pain one damn bit, so if there was a point to being one in the first place, she'd forgotten it.

She left the youth there, staring into the flames…

Caroline could see Monsrek eyeing her as she approached.

Like Wescene, the cleric looked a mess. Dirt and dried blood covered patches of his hands and face. He seemed somehow more gaunt than usual, but then Bigfellow realized that the cleric was not wearing his chainmail armor underneath his blue cassock. Monsrek's smile, still radiant even when shaky, somehow shone out from his tired face.

Argo has received my _sending_, Lady Bigfellow," he said as she approached. "Your friends are now apprised of the situation here." He raised an eyebrow at her. "Your husband wishes to know if you want him to have Aslan _teleport_ him home."

Caroline shook her head. She had been expecting that. "No. They have a job to do. Tell him I will be fine." She cocked her head at Monsrek and crossed her arms. "And am I going to have to beat you with a stick until you start calling me Caroline?"

The priest started to bow, but stopped halfway down, and straightened up, wincing with pain. "Forgive me my foolishness, Caroline." He looked at his hands, covered in dirt and then smiled again at her. "I told you I was just a dirty old man. Now it's plain for all to see."

Caroline started to laugh, but something cut it off in her throat. She gazed at Monsrek, who returned the look, the smile evaporating off his own face.

"Monsrek," She said softly. "Why did all this happen? I know it was me they were after- but why?"

The cleric took several deep breaths and began.

"Please understand, Caroline, that what I am about to say is part conjecture. I was able to speak briefly with the monk's corpse, and we have received some information from… other sources." Here, Monsrek's lip quivered as he glanced into the bonfire. "Still, there is much we do not know." He looked back at Caroline, his jaw set.

"They did not come only to kill you, Caroline, but your whole party."

Bigfellow's brow furrowed. "But… but the others weren't here! Why would they have risked such an assault without first confirming that? It doesn't make any sense! Would Sbalt really have-"

Monsrek cut her off. "Sbalt did not lead that group, my dear. That monk did."

Caroline gaped at him.

The priest nodded, continuing. "His name was Dangerous Hands. He was a member of the Emerald Serpent."

"Sbalt's fellow prisoner, back in Willip?" Caroline asked. "The one that Elrohir, Aslan and Tojo saw?"

Monsrek nodded. "The same. As Wescene had surmised, the Brass Dragon was indeed under surveillance, but only intermittently, no doubt due to our increased security measures. These five were aware of your mission to Highport. They were also aware that you were returning via sea, but did not know the specifics of your return to Furyondy. They received information three days ago that you and Cygnus had been spotted back here. Apparently not knowing of your intent to continue on to Chendl, they assumed you were all present."

Caroline shook her head again. "But Cygnus wasn't here three days ago! Three days ago, I was-"

And then it hit her.

Bigfellow's eyes grew wide. The empty mug dropped to the grass as both hands flew to her mouth.

"Nodyath," she whispered.

Monsrek said nothing.

"That hawk- it was Nodyath, wasn't it? Kingus! He saw Kingus talking to me, and assumed he was Cygnus! He went back and told them that-"

She couldn't continue. _You knew, Lord Zeus,_ she thought. _You pointed my enemy out to me yourself, and I still didn't recognize him! _

Monsrek read the dawning horror and guilt on Caroline's face. "Do not berate yourself, Lady Bigfellow," he said quietly. "You acted quickly, and told us what you had seen. Sir Dorbin and I had discussed the possibility that the bird you saw was Nodyath, but we had no idea a strike team of assassins was at that moment awaiting the word to attack. We thought Nodyath was our only concern." He looked thoughtful. "It seems both sides were acting on misinformation."

"But why does the Emerald Serpent want us dead?' Caroline asked hoarsely, her eyes glancing back to the inn. "Do they think that we are somehow responsible for Tad's escaping their clutches?"

The cleric shook his head. "That I do not know, my dear. I do not know. But I know we must discover the truth, and soon."

Caroline looked back over at him.

The cleric's smile was now mirthless. "I think we have all seen just how deadly ignorance can be…"

Sir Dorbin had not appeared to notice Caroline as she slowly approached him. Still clad in his bloody plate mail, the knight stood still as a statue. His dark blue eyes seemed alive with a red fire, but it was only the reflection of the inferno before him.

_And within him_, Caroline knew. She knew she was not the most perceptive of people, but the knight's grief seemed to radiate off him in palpable waves.

As she came up, Dorbin began speaking. His eyes did not waver from the fire, however.

"I assume you've been brought up-to-date, Lady Bigfellow. That's good. We're pretty sure that our assailants are hiding out somewhere to the southwest, in the Earldom of Farlyow. I'd not be surprised if they are the ones causing such grief for the merchant caravans passing through there. Once Unru is healed, we will regroup, and organize a counterattack. I'm certain that-"

"You loved her, didn't you?"

Sir Dorbin went silent.

Caroline couldn't believe she'd just blurted that out, butit hurther to listen to the knight talk with all the emotion of an animated skeleton.

To her surprise though, Dorbin nodded. "Yes," he replied softly. "Yes I did, Lady Bigfellow. We had spoken some weeks ago. No one else but Monsrek knows this, but we planned to retire once we returned to Aarde. I would turn over leadership of the party to Sir Menn, and the two of us would return to Celtia. We would marry, and have children…"

Sir Dorbin swallowed hard. His eyes lost their ability to stay focused on the flames. They turned upon Caroline now.

"Why do you bring up my pain, Lady Bigfellow?" He hissed at her. "Do you think me made of stone? Do you think I do not realize what we… what _I_ have lost?"

Without warning, Dorbin strode right up to Caroline, grabbed her head in his gauntleted hands and forced it to turn towards the funeral pyre.

"Look!" The knight commanded. "_Look!"_

Caroline couldn't help but look. Those hands were starting to hurt her, but Sir Dorbin released his grip just as she started to struggle.

"Everything that is good and pure and noble lays within that fire, Lady Bigfellow, burning to ashes! My heart's true love is gone; one of my oldest and dearest friends is gone; the trust of my teammates is gone; _the world that I knew is gone!"_

Caroline stared at him. Dorbin's expression was so full of pain now, it seemed almost animalistic.

"My Talent, my leadership, my faith… everything that I have always relied upon has failed, Lady Bigfellow!" The knight's voice rose rapidly in volume. "Tell me, what are we to do now? I admit it- I do not know! I cannot get us home to our own time, I cannot fulfill my sacred duty of preventing rogue Talents from propagating, I cannot protect the lives of my own allies, nor those of you and yours! What do we do if the four survivors return before we are ready- and Nodyath himself leads them?"

He grabbed Caroline by the shoulders and shook her.

"_WHAT DO I DO?"_ He screamed at her. _"WHAT DO I DO?"_

Caroline fought her own instincts and did not struggle. She merely looked into Dorbin's eyes. After a few moments, she saw his expression come into focus again. He released her and just stood there, his head hanging down.

She leaned in close to his ear. As usual, Caroline Bigfellow spoke the words that came into her head unbidden.

"You go to your friends, Sir Dorbin," she said into his ear. "They have not forsaken you. They know your pain, just as Argo and the others know Elrohir's pain when he feels he has failed. You go to them, not just for tactical advice, but to share your grief. And then, you all pray."

Dorbin raised an eyebrow. Caroline smiled.

"When I thought I had lost my true love, a very dear friend told me that it is in the relationships between us that the gods make their true miracles manifest."

The knight was silent for a moment, and then turned his head away.

"It was a fool that told you that, Lady Bigfellow," he whispered into the night. "A fool that had not experienced what he so blithely gave counsel on."

Bigfellow shrugged. "If it was a fool who spoke, it was a fool who listened. All turned out just as the friend had predicted. Are you so sure there was no wisdom there?"

Caroline could barely hear Dorbin's reply.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore, Caroline."

She walked around the knight, so that she stood in front of him again, and smiled, putting her hand on his left shoulder.

"That doesn't make you a fool, Sir Dorbin. It makes you a mortal."

Dorbin's eyes flickered to hers. He said nothing, but slowly put his right arm around Caroline's shoulder, and gently steered her around so that they were both facing the pyre again.

They watched the flames until they died.


	75. Before The King, Again

_Dragonmuncher: Thank you very much for your incisive comments. I'll be sending you a personal reply addressing your questions (and complaints), but I do wish to state publicly that I am unable to post the direct link to this story's original home on the WotC website. Every time I try, it is immediately deleted. Anyone who wants the link, please email me directly- I'll be more than happy to supply it to you. Of course, I'd be just as happy with more critiques like Dragonmuncher's right here. I'm quite garrulous, and love to converse with both fans and critics. Either way, thank you allfor reading. Now back to the show. _**22nd Day of Planting, 565 CY**

**The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

"All Hail His Most Royal Highness and Pious Majesty, King Belvor IV of Furyondy!"

Sir Davos Rahldent's voice again rang off the marble walls of the throne room. The group standing before their liege bent down on one knee. Each regarded the floor below them, their individual thoughts swirling silently in their heads.

_Well, here we go again…_

_Let justice be done…_

_I should have gone back to Caroline…_

_I can't believe I'm back here again. I must be crazy…_

_We're rested. We're ready to go. We have to do better this time…_

_Please, Your Majesty. Please make the right decision…_

_My knees are killing me, and my stomach hurts. If I vomit on the floor, will they make me clean it up?_

The octet slowly rose back to their feet. Thankfully, no long vows of fealty or ceremonies were required of them this time, other than the respect always shown one liege. King Belvor's hazel eyes regarded them all. He tapped the thin mace he held lightly into his left palm a few times, apparently deciding beforehand exactly what he was going to say. Then he spoke.

"My thanks goes out to all of you," the monarch began. "My good and loyal subjects. You have proven your valor, and made your lord's will manifest. For that, I humbly thank you." Belvor actually bowed his head low to his audience. His underlings and officers, apparently taken by surprise by this, followed suit after a confused moment.

"Now then," the king resumed, still smiling. "I have been told that you have been briefed on where we stand. That foul slaver you sent here, Blucholtz by name, has given us… what information he knew. Justice was then carried out, swiftly and surely."

He directed his gaze towards Talass as he said this, but the priestess of Forseti seemed uncharacteristically troubled, though she kept the accepted smile on gratitude upon her face. She could only hope to herself that it was indeed justice that had been carried out, and not vengeance. Talass remembered all too well how many times she or Nesco had come within inches of slaughtering their aggravating prisoner like a pig on Freeday. She sighed. It didn't matter now. Blucholtz was dead. She could do nothing about it but look to the future.

"The Slavers' Stockade remains in the hills of the Pomarj. If it does not fall, it does seem inevitable that these accursed flesh peddlers will resume their ways, if they have not done so already." The monarch leaned forward slightly, his face turning serious. "You have already proven yourself in my service, good people," he said intently. "This task must be done, but your king no longer commands you to do so. I have been told that you have without coercion or thought of reward volunteered to return and finish the task you have started."

Belvor leaned back on his throne. "This news warms my heart. However, I wish to make it plain to you that you need not accept this yoke. If you desire to return to your home, you may do so without fear of any malice or ill-thought from your liege. I can assemble another party for this task, if need be. I ask only that you speak your true hearts to me."

Elrohir looked around at his friends. The expressions he saw ranged from acceptance (oddly enough, from his wife as well as from Aslan), to a resigned sigh (from Cygnus). Argo bit his lip, but said nothing. Elrohir turned back to the king.

"Your Royal Majesty," he said with as steady a voice as he could muster, "We stand ready and eager to go forth."

Belvor smiled. "So be it. Due to your previous success, the Royal Council has once again agreed to sponsor you on your mission. Once again, the Valorous Temple of Chendl shall aid you by whatever means in their power." The king's hand swept towards High Priest Garaeth Heldenster. The High Priest nodded briefly, but kept his face carefully neutral.

Elrohir faced the cleric and returned his acknowledgement. "Thank you, your Grace. I pray that, once again, we will find no need for your services, but knowing they are there will strengthen our resolve." The ranger caught Aslan's look of admiration out of the corner of his eye. It confused him momentarily, but then he realized with a start that this was probably most eloquent he had ever sounded.

_Maybe I'm starting to actually sound like a party leader_, Elrohir thought. _That would be nice. My team deserves someone who won't embarrass them._

"So then," continued King Belvor, "it remains only to decide which representative of the Crown shall accompany you on your return journey."

Nesco's head shot up. With some surprise, Elrohir saw a look of near-panic on her face that her fellow ranger was trying and failing to conceal. "My Lord?" She managed to croak out. "I would have thought that…" Cynewine trailed off.

The king inclined his head as he regarded his servant. "You have been away from your home for two months, Nesco Cynewine," he stated. "I would not assume for you such a decision."

The two of them locked eyes.

"Your service is equally welcomed to this court wherever you may choose to provide it," Belvor finished, with a slight smile.

Nesco's sigh of relief was louder than she would have wished. A nervous smile broke out on her face as glanced at the others.

"I choose to stay with them once again."

Elrohir saw Nesco's eyes searching their faces, and realized what she was looking for. He gave her his best smile, and the others (save Tojo, of course) quickly followed suit. The ranger returned it, then glanced down at the floor again, blushing.

The king nodded with approval as he stood up and began the descent down the marble steps. "So be it. Retire to the staging area, and leave when you are ready. Know that the good wishes of this land, and its ruler, go with you." He bowed his head once more. "May the Archpaladin and all your gods watch over you."

Sir Rahldent opened the door that they had exited through on their last visit as King Belvor moved off to talk to Heldenster.

The group moved into the corridor outside the throne room. Nesco, bringing up the rear, was surprised to find a familiar figure standing there. Apparently waiting for her, he wrung his hands together; his middle-aged face was covered in more worry lines than Cynewine had last remembered.

"Comitello!" She said with a delighted smile that the he returned in kind. The aristocrat moved forward, took Nesco's right hand in his, and kissed it softly.

"Nesco Cynewine! Always an honor and a pleasure!" He beamed. Nesco could see the rest of the party stop about ten feet down the corridor and turn back. She saw Aslan raise an eyebrow.

"A family friend," she explained, a bit embarrassed. "Go ahead. I'll be along shortly!"

After a moment's hesitation, and several glances between them, the seven moved on. Nesco turned back to Comitello, whose face was now much more serious.

"Lady Cynewine," he began. "I cannot express enough my relief when I heard news that your mission was a success, and more importantly, that you were safe and sound. Of course," he added hastily, "your family shares these sentiments many times over."

Nesco's smile took on a grim overtone. "I know you well enough to know that you are always honest with me, Comitello. I also know my family. What's going on?"

"Ah, will my friendship with Nesco ever cease to cause me problems?" Comitello asked with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

The ranger was about to retort _Ask your wife_, but held her tongue at the last moment. Right now, she needed all the allies she could get.

The court functionary returned his gaze to Nesco's face. "Officially, I am here of course to report back to your father on your status." All traces of a smile faded from Comitello's face. "Unofficially, Lady Gella wishes you to return home. She did not say as such to me, but I believe she wishes young Joseph to obtain, shall we say… a bit more experience?"

Nesco pursed her lips. _I should have seen that coming_, she thought. "And my father?" She asked.

Comitello shrugged. "Sir Alexor says that you are old enough to make your own decisions in these matters."

She considered. If she returned with the others to the Pomarj, Cynewine knew her father was going to suffer from both his wife and his son, and had no real allies among his surviving children save Nesco herself. She hated to leave him like this. If it hadn't been for her father, she wouldn't have gone on the first expedition.

She sighed to herself. _Then again, if I returned home, what could I say to him?_

Nesco steadied her nerves, and looked her friend squarely in the eye. "Comitello, please send my deepest regrets to my mother, but there is unfinished business at hand, and our Lord and Majesty Belvor IV has requested that I serve where I believe that I can do the most good. Right now, that is down south in the Pomarj."

The noble nodded. His eyes flickered down to the floor, then came back to meet Nesco's. "I shall indeed, Nesco. But please… take care of yourself."

She smiled back. "I shall indeed, my friend," the ranger said, clasping Comitello's shoulder in her hand. "I'll be back at the family table soon enough."

Comitello smiled weakly, glancing at Nesco's hand as she removed it. He seemed about to say something, then just bowed to her and headed back into the throne room. Nesco continued down the corridor to rejoin her friends.

_Unfinished business indeed_, she thought. _More of that than you can ever know…_


	76. The Fortress

_Dragonmuncher: Thank you again for your most recent comments. Again, as an aside to all, while I continue to hope for comments from all of you, I will provide the link to the full story to anyone who requests it via email. Thanks again to all of you. _**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj  
(120 miles south of Highport)**

The fortress sat in the moonlight.

Elrohir bit his lip, and stared. The ranger, currently crouched down behind a large boulder, rubbed his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to wipe away the fatigue. A quick glance to his left showed the other six members of his party were also watching from behind cover. Elrohir scanned the night skies above him.

There was still no sign of Aslan.

Nine days of travel through the Drachensgrab Hills were over. Their destination lay a scant five hundred feet or so south of their present position. The slavers' trail, currently about fifty feet to their right, wound down the slope they were presently perched atop to end at a that marked the only visible entrance to the stockade.

There were no forks in this packed dirt trail. It led straight from Highport to here. Its sole purpose was to help keep the fortress supplied.

Elrohir took a deep breath and rubbed his hands together, watching the little puff of steam escape from between his lips. It was cold tonight, no question about it. The ranger tried to straighten his back without exposing too much of himself. His legs and back were hurting, although he was sure the rest of his party were as tired as he was. Well, they had at least a while longer to rest, and Elrohir hoped they were taking advantage of it. They would take no action until Aslan returned from his reconnaissance. At that point… well, at that point it would be up to Elrohir again. He was making the decisions here.

The ranger frowned and again turned his attention back to the structure before them.

The fort sat atop a low hill. Actually, despite its conventional rectangular shape, it would be more accurate to say that it _sprawled_ over the uneven surface of the hill. The stone curtain wall which faced north was set about halfway down the hill, with the earthen rampart that constituted the rest of the building's perimeter climbing at perhaps a twenty-five degree angle up the slope until it more-or-less leveled out, continuing for what Elrohir guessed was about three hundred feet. Argo had already returned from a circumnavigation of their quarry, and had reported that the south facing wall ran straight and contained no other entrances.

While the curtain wall was three stories tall, its top was currently below where the party was, due to their position atop a higher hill. They could see past it, catching a glimpse of an open courtyard sloping up the hill, and ending at a solid-looking gatehouse, four stories tall, which controlled access into the fortress interior.

There were figures visible atop both the curtain wall and the gatehouse, but from this range, and in this light, nothing could be made of them. Elrohir, not for the first time, cursed himself that as one of the Hidden, he had not been blessed with his mother's keen elven eyes.

Still, he reflected. They were all here. They had made it…

Right from the beginning, Elrohir had determined that this time, it was going to be different. In his mind, they all had made a royal mess of things at Highport. They had not prepared adequately. That would not happen this time, he had vowed.

Per his instructions, Aslan and Nesco had again been the first to _teleport_, returning to the same wooded campsite they had used last time. Although there had been signs it had been reused since their last visit, it had once again been empty upon their arrival. The following morning, Aslan had gone back to Chendl and returned with Elrohir. The trio had then headed southwest until they had found the trail. Every night, and every morning, Aslan would return for another party member. During the day, they had traveled, so that by the time the whole party was together again, they had already passed the plains of the northern Pomarj and entered the Drachensgrabs.

Another idea of Elrohir's that had born fruit was having Aslan spend the majority of his time in the form of a bird. The paladin scouted ahead of them on the trail about a half-mile or so, while one of the rangers covered their rear in a similar fashion. This way, they could gain the terrain benefit of taking the trail through the hills, and still have enough advance warning of any fellow travelers to be able to hide off road.

This had happened twice. The first time, four days out from the campsite, it was a caravan of unknown goods heading northwards. It consisted of two horse-drawn wagons, each with a pair of orc drivers. A bearded human in a dull gray cloak, who seemed to be the leader, rode alongside them. The party had counted eight goblin guards on foot, but there had been two unidentifiable creatures that had consumed most of their attention. They seemed wretched creatures, more of a mistake than a true species.

They were perhaps five feet tall, but walked hunched over. They had gray, scaly hides, pointed ears and large, bulbous eyes that seemed to shine in the dark. Their hands seemed overly large, with long, thin fingers. Each sported a tail, but one carried what looked to be a stinger on the tip, while the other seemed prehensile. They wore loincloths and leather belts, and nothing else. The two never left the human's side, their heads swiveling back and forth, apparently on the alert for an ambush.

No one in the party could identify the creatures. Argo and Nesco had suggested an attack, confident that they could take the caravan without difficulty. Besides, they argued, they might obtain valuable information from the man. Elrohir, after talking to Aslan, had vetoed the plan, however. Cleaning up after the battle in order to leave no trace of it would take longer than he wanted to spend. Thus, with some grumbling audible behind him, Elrohir had watched as the caravan rounded a hill and was lost to sight.

The second encounter, the following evening, had been more nerve-wracking. Nesco had come rushing up from behind, ordering the party again up the slope and out of sight. Soon, the sounds of a large group approaching came from the north.

It was a shipment of slaves, heading towards the fortress. Six carts, all pulled by oxen, carried nearly forty slaves of varied race, age and gender. An equal number of hobgoblins, plus perhaps a dozen kobolds, trudged along as guards. It seemed that there was no one hobgoblin as leader, but rather several. Unable to understand their guttural language however, the party was unable to pinpoint which ones.

This time, it was Aslan who wanted to attack, but he was universally opposed by everyone except Talass in this. The paladin had been slow to concede this point however, until Tojo had motioned everyone to be quiet, pointing down from their hiding place towards the slave train passing by.

One of the hobgoblins was holding a leash. Attached to the far end was another wretched-looking creature. This one was even smaller than the others, perhaps three feet high, with dark blue, oily-looking skin. Its features somewhat resembled a distorted goblin face. Unlike the two previous monstrosities they had seen, this creature kept up a never-ending stream of unintelligible whining and gibbering.

Until it abruptly stopped and turned its large head directly at where the party was hiding. Its bulbous nose began sniffing frantically, and then it set up a high-pitched keening that had Elrohir and the others clutching at their ears.

The octet swiftly backed off, further into the hills, but the hobgoblin had apparently dropped the leash and let the creature loose. It clambered swiftly up the broken and uneven rocks towards them.

Aslan had motioned the others away. "Go!" he hissed, and then moved so that the creature could see him, but the hobgoblins could not. Aslan had then _polymorphed_ into a goat, of which they had seen several in these hills, and then dashed past the humanoid at an angle, exposing himself briefly to the caravan's sight. Although he couldn't understand them, the paladin had heard some laughter among the hobgoblins, and then what sounded like the creature's handler calling to him. It squatted there a moment among the rocks, shaking its head violently and squealing, but the hobgoblin had pulled a whip from his belt and cracked it in the air. The misshapen creature had grumbled, and then, to Aslan's surprise and consternation, disappeared and instantly reappeared by its handler, who picked up the leash and then pulled it back to the caravan.

The party watched in silence as the caravan was soon lost to sight ahead of them.

Aslan, once again himself, eyed his party leader sourly. "You know what this means, of course," he had said. "The Highport operation is back in business." The paladin crossed his arms and stared down the trail. "Our expedition there was a complete waste of time," he said bitterly.

Elrohir had been unable to think of anything to say, but Nesco had.

"Not at all," she said softly.

Aslan regarded the female ranger through narrowed eyes. "You have something to say which contradicts what we've just seen with our own eyes, Lady Cynewine?"

Nesco nodded. "I'm sure Cheriken would, or Ethily, or Captain Thrumb. Besides, you're drawing conclusions that may not be accurate, Aslan," she offered, motioning back towards the north. "They may have just reestablished their operation. That may have been the first shipment of slaves heading to the stockade in two months." She shrugged. "Just because we didn't know about this stockade when we went to Highport doesn't invalidate what we did there. We're all still alive," she smiled, "and once we take out this Markessa and her subordinates, our task will be over."

Aslan sighed, and looked off.

"I'd better get back to scouting," he mumbled, and before Nesco could say anything else, a horned owl was flapping its wings and rising up into the starry sky. It wheeled around and flew off to the south.

Nesco looked around. No one else had seemed particularly swayed by her words, either…

"Nesco!"

She looked up. Elrohir's hissed command had shaken Cynewine out of her sulking reverie. Equal parts embarrassed and annoyed, she crossed the distance between her and their party leader in a kind of crouching walk, joining him behind the large boulder.

"_What?_" she asked, more harshly than she had intended.

Elrohir stared at his fellow ranger for a moment. He had been signaling Nesco using one of the hand signals they had developed over the past several days, but she had not responded, apparently lost in a daydream of some kind. Elrohir had devised the signals so as to make better use of _invisibility_ and _silence_ spells this time around, to counter for their woeful lack of any kind of stealthiness…

While the two mages had no problem with this idea, they had resented their team leader's pointed inquiries as to exactly how many of these spells they could memorize at one time, and had then made several suggestions as to their entire inventory. The previous morning, Zantac had finally erupted.

"Don't tell me about spellcraft Elrohir, and I won't tell you how to swing a sword! Okay?"

The ranger had shaken his head. "No, it's _not_ okay, Zantac! That's what went wrong last time! We all have our individual skills, but we don't use them together as a unit. Not nearly as much as we need to!"

"You were the one who split us up in the temple! Listen Elrohir, I didn't leave one tyrannical Guildmaster only to have another-"

"Look Zantac," Elrohir cut in, trying hard to keep his voice from rising, "I'm not saying we're still not going to make mistakes. I'm just saying we can still work together without having to go overboard on rules and restrictions. Argo!" Elrohir swung his head around. "Back me up on this, Bigfellow. Tell him how we've made it work before."

His fellow ranger however, said nothing. He bit his lip and looked back and forth between Elrohir and the wizards. He then turned away without a sound, looking at the rugged hills around them.

Elrohir had sighed. _This, I don't need_, he had thought, and then walked over to Bigfellow.

"Argo," he said, hoping the sympathy in his voice overrode the tension he was feeling, "Caroline will be all right. You haven't received any more _sendings_ from Monsrek, have you? You know he'd keep us informed of any new developments."

"Unless he's dead now, too" Bigfellow replied, his voice uncharacteristically thin. His auburn eyes met and held his friend's gaze. "We should send Aslan back to the Dragon, just to be sure. One extra day won't kill us."

"You've been obsessed with this every day since we left, Argo," Elrohir replied, feeling himself starting to lose the battle here." If Aslan came back and told us everything was fine, you'd be all right for today, but what about tomorrow- and the day after that? Come on, Argo, we need to-"

"Obsessed?" his fellow ranger interrupted. His eyes grew wide, and then a visage of real anger began to appear on Bigfellow's face- something that Elrohir never liked to see. "Of course, I'm obsessed! She's my wife, dammit- she's my _soul mate_! Without Caroline, I'm just a sad, pitiful, walking bag of flesh, carrying an obnoxious talking sword and cutting down other fleshbags!"

"Then why did you leave her behind?" Elrohir knew he was shouting, but he just couldn't deal with this any more. "Or why didn't you stay home with her?"

"I don't know!" Argo shouted back, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration. "She wanted to stay, and I thought she'd be safer at home, and that she'd resent me if I stayed for being overprotective of her! I know she thinks that!" He paused briefly, and Elrohir could see his fellow ranger struggling for control.

"I don't know why I'm feeling this way, Elrohir." Argo's voice dropped to a hoarse, near-whisper. His eyes held none of the confidence Elrohir had grown so used to seeing there. Argo turned and began to walk away. Elrohir felt the anger start to rise in him again until he saw that Argo had merely stepped behind a boulder about ten feet away and crouched down behind it, so that the others couldn't see him. Bigfellow put his arms over his knees and dropped his head to his chest.

Elrohir glanced back. Talass was looking at him. For once, he could actually read the expression in his wife's face. He gave her a slight shake of his head to keep her back. Cygnus and Zantac were seated some distance off, their spellbooks on their laps. Nesco was talking quietly to them. Elrohir couldn't make out the conversation, but both wizards raised their arms, showing off the golden bracers on their arms that he knew gave them some measure of magical protection. Nesco ran her hands over both sets of bracers. She looked thoughtful.

Tojo was of course standing apart, standing guard silently.

Elrohir crouched down next to Argo, and put his hand on his shoulder. "Argo-" he began, but his fellow ranger cut him off by clamping his own hand down on Elrohir's outstretched arm.

"Elrohir, my friend," Bigfellow said with what truly seemed to be a genuine sad smile, "I'll be all right. Just give me a minute, okay? Then, I'll introduce Zantac to his new best friend."

Elrohir raised an eyebrow.

Argo's mischievous smile returned. "That large rock on the ground next to him." The big ranger's eyes grew thoughtful. "I foresee a very close relationship developing."

The party leader grimaced. "I was hoping for something more along the lines of a few snippets of that renowned Bigfellow wisdom, Argo."

His friend shrugged. "I suppose that'd do as a backup."

Elrohir smiled as he straightened back up. "Aslan's not here, Argo," he said. "Take advantage of it. You could tell Zantac to-"

An angry shout split the air. More shocking than its suddenness was its source.

Tojo.

Elrohir, Argo and Talass came around. Nesco was standing a few feet away from Tojo, her hands raised high in a conciliatory gesture that Tojo apparently had no interest in.

"_What?"_ she cried. "What was it? What did I say? Whatever it was, I'm sorry! I didn't know that just asking about-"

_"Do not speak to me!"_

Shocked, Nesco turned around, but the expressions she saw on the other's faces mirrored her own. Tojo had practically spat out the words, stalked about ten feet off, and now stood looking away from them all, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Even from behind, his stance made it clear that he would brook no visitors.

Cygnus and Zantac had gotten to their feet now. The party regrouped some distance off in a huddle.

"What was that all about?" hissed Cygnus, annoyed that his morning spell memorizations had been disrupted, if only for a few minutes.

"You tell me!" Nesco snapped back at him. "I was just asking him about those bracers that he wears. I said that Cygnus had told me they were called _dastana_, and I told him they were very beautiful, and I asked him if they were magical, like yours were, and if they came from Nippon. He looked at me as if I had just bitten him. "What _is_ it with him?" Nesco's angry eyes now took in all her compatriots before settling on Elrohir. "You keep saying we're supposed to be a team, Elrohir- have you told Tojo that? What kind of cohesiveness can we have when one of our own is ready to take our heads off at some imagined slight?" Cynewine shook her head angrily, then returned her stern gaze to the party leader. A slight smirk crossed her features.

"You have no idea what I said that might have set him off, do you?"

She didn't wait for Elrohir's reply, but turned back to Cygnus. "And you?"

Cygnus and Elrohir exchanged helpless glances. "No Nesco, we don't," Elrohir said quietly. The ranger glanced over at the samurai. He didn't know whether or not Tojo could overhear them, but didn't think it made much of a difference at this point.

Nesco's reply was in somewhat more of a conversational tone now. "Have you ever asked him about his bracers before?"

Elrohir looked back at Cygnus. "No," he admitted, looking back at Cynewine. "None of us ever thought to. You must understand Nesco; we have never been to Nippon. We met Tojo in the kingdom of Celtia on Aarde. He'd traveled almost a thousand leagues before we first met him."

Cynewine shook her head. "Aslan told me that the samurai are very similar to knights, but-"

"There are differences, Nesco" Argo said.

"Yes, I noticed," she replied sharply, then looked over at Tojo's back before returning her gaze to the others. Her features held a touch of sadness now. "I have known knights who would strike a peasant if they believe that they've insulted their honor. I don't even agree with that, but Tojo…" The ranger shook her head again, seemingly at a loss for words. "Doesn't he consider us his equals?"

There was no answer for that. Nesco sighed loudly and walked off as the huddle broke up. Cygnus returned to his studies as Argo drew Zantac aside to speak to him privately. Elrohir and his wife began to cook up the morning meal.

Tojo stood silent, and still. He did not move until the party began its travels for the day, and then he seemed as if the incident had never happened.

Except that he would still not speak to Nesco…

Elrohir had been about to upbraid his fellow ranger for her tone, but he could still see the hurt in Nesco's eyes. He decided not to make any comment, but rather indicated the fortress again with a nod of his head. "You know more about this area than any of us, Nesco. Is there any information you know that might be useful? The original purpose of that fort, for instance? That may help us determine the best way to gain entrance."

Cynewine considered, while trying to stave off a fit of shivering. "The stone fort itself was probably built by the original Suloise imigrants to the Pomarj. A trading outpost, perhaps. It would have offered protection against the native Flan tribesmen. That wooden stockade looks like a more recent addition. I'm sorry, but I wouldn't know anything about its possible layout."

Elrohir nodded. Although they had not encountered any of the Flan hillmen on their journey, the three rangers had noticed numerous signs that they still frequented this area. It was just as well that the tribesmen seemed to be avoiding them. From what Elrohir had heard, they were unremittingly hostile.

Cygnus came walking up. Elrohir tried to signal him with his hand gestures to assume a lower profile until he had reached the cover of the boulder, but the wizard's face registered only confusion as he arrived. "What were you signaling me for?" he asked.

"Never mind," Elrohir mumbled, closing his eyes for a moment.

_We haven't even begun, and things are looking worse by the minute_, he thought, then opened his eyes again. "Are you and Zantac ready with your spells?"

Cygnus nodded. "I've cast an _enhancer_." Assuming that neither ranger would understand what he meant (which they didn't), the mage elaborated. "It's a spell that allows me to memorize other spells- more so than I could do otherwise, as long as I cast them within a day." He made a face. "It's one of my newest spells. I've never cast it before. I hope I did it right."

"Asran return."

Tojo had crept up, just to the point where his quiet voice would carry to them. He pointed briefly to the south.

Elrohir nodded acknowledgement, all the while noting that Nesco was staring right at Tojo, as if trying to get the samurai to admit her existence, if only by looking away. The samurai however, kept his eyes fixed firmly on his party leader.

The horned owl swooped in low, and landed. Not for the first time, Cygnus marveled at how quickly Aslan's Talent allowed him to transform back into his normal form.

"I've made several circuits, and learned about all I can, Elrohir," the paladin began.

Elrohir nodded. "Hold up, Aslan. Let's all get together on this." He motioned the others to follow him, and then, crouching, they all returned to where Zantac, Argo and Talass were waiting. The party again formed a huddle. This time, Tojo took part, although he remained directly opposite Nesco.

"Let's have it, Aslan," said Elrohir.

"Those figures we saw are hobgoblins," Aslan reported. "Between the stockade wall, the gatehouse, and the guard tower, I'd say we're dealing with at least three or four dozen. They're all armed with bows, and I saw at least two ballista stations. There were no humans, but I did see two of those small, blue creatures, like the one that tracked us earlier. Whatever they are, it seems the hobbies are using them like guard dogs. I wouldn't be surprised if they could even sniff out even an invisible intruder."

Elrohir sighed, and managed a weak smile. "Any good news for us, Aslan?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it an engraved invitation, but I did notice something," the paladin continued. "There's a small window leading into the west walkway on the second floor of the curtain wall. Now, while the hobbies are using torches-"

"Don't they have darkvision?" interrupted Nesco.

"For warmth," Cygnus put in. "It's damn cold out."

Nesco fell silent, embarrassed again. She should have known that.

Aslan resumed quickly, as if trying to cover for her. "The second floor of the curtain wall seems dark, and there's a lot of dust about. I don't think it's in use." He glanced over at the samurai. "If we can use your _rope of climbing_, Tojo, I think we can all get in there."

Tojo nodded, but added the question that was already forming in several minds. "Space not used is wastefer, Asran-san. They must have reason. Froor may not be safe."

"Or there may be something there that they're afraid of," Nesco added quickly, hoping to make a useful comment, and was relieved to see it taken seriously. Even Tojo, after a split-second glance at Cynewine, maintained a neutral face.

Elrohir noticed the others were now looking at him.

"We'll go for it," the ranger announced, hoping he sounded more authoritative than rash. "Aslan," he added, "what do you think our odds are of getting up to the curtain wall undetected? According to Cygnus and Zantac, we don't have enough _invisibility_ spells to cover us all."

The paladin shook his head. "I don't think we'll need them just yet, Elrohir. Between one _silence_ spell and our diversion, you should have no problem."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed. "What diversion?"

His only reply was a high-pitched squeak as a large bat, with a wingspan of at least four feet rose swiftly into the air and headed towards the fortress.

"Aslan!" Elrohir hissed after him, but the flying mammal was already heading towards the curtain wall. "Damn it," the party leader muttered. "He's going to get himself shot full of holes!"

"Impulsive and chaotic," Argo said with a thin smile. "He's been hanging out with the wrong people."

Elrohir wanted to share the joke, but he just couldn't find it within himself. "You think so?" he snapped at his fellow ranger, as he motioned for the others to follow him, and then began to slowly descend the ridge.

"Oh, absolutely," Argo continued, nonplussed, as the party started to move. "I'd watch Nesco closely, if I were you…"

They were standing at the foot of the curtain wall. There had been some anxious moments as they caught glimpses of Aslan circling above, squealing and flying dangerously close to the stockade wall. They had heard one or two arrows being fired, but could not tell if they had hit their target or not. Aslan had done his job, though. None of the hobgoblins was immediately above their current position, although Elrohir knew that wouldn't last long.

The party leader turned around. "Tojo, now. Zantac, stand ready. The rest of you stay close. We'll have about five minutes of _silence_."

The samurai was now holding an unexceptional coil of rope, perhaps a quarter-inch thick, in his hand. He raised it to about eye-level, stared at it intently, and spoke a single word in the Nipponese language.

Instantly, the rope began to uncoil, one end rising up into the air. When it had reached the bottom of the window, Tojo spoke another syllable, and the rope snaked inside and out of sight. There was a brief vibration in the line, and then the samurai tugged on the rope, finding it secure. He spoke another phrase, and knots appeared at one-foot intervals all along the rope. Each was accompanied by a violent jerking motion as the line shortened slightly with each new knot.

Tojo let go of the rope and nodded at Zantac, who began to incant.

All sound ceased. Nesco could feel herself tense up. This was only the second time she had been encased in magical _silence_, and she found the effect most disconcerting. Elrohir was already motioning her to start climbing however, and she didn't want to be caught not paying attention again, so she placed her feet on one of the knots, grasped the rope above her and started climbing.

_I must really be out of shape_, Cynewine thought to herself as she finally gained the window entrance, small puffs of steam coming out of her mouth at regular intervals from the exertion. She wondered how Elrohir and Argo, clad in plate mail, were going to manage the climb, but Argo was already ascending the rope, so Nesco clambered inside.

The pale light of a full Luna gave a dim cast to what she was seeing. Aslan had been right. This place was thick was dust. It was nothing more than a small walkway, perhaps ten feet by thirty, with a closed door at one end. Small slivers of light snuck through arrow slits in the north wall. Any items that might once had been in here had been removed. Still, the floor seemed safe, and there were certainly no monsters present.

Nesco looked down at the floor again and frowned. If it was unsafe and creaking loudly below her, she couldn't hear it in the _silence_.

She moved aside as Argo Bigfellow entered the room. The ranger took it in with a quick glance, then smiled at Nesco. His eyebrows pumped up and down, and Nesco had to grin, in spite of herself.

The others followed in quick succession. Elrohir motioned for them to line up facing the door, in the formation they had assigned beforehand. The party leader took the lead on the left, with the space next to him reserved for Aslan. Behind him was Argo, with Talass on Bigfellow's right. Behind them were the two wizards, Cygnus and Zantac.

Cynewine and Tojo filled out the rear. Nesco grimaced to herself. This arrangement had been made before the samurai's outburst, and Nesco hadn't dared to suggest a rearrangement to Elrohir. She was stuck with it now. She risked a glance over to her right, but Tojo was looking all around, in every direction but hers.

Elrohir looked behind him and nodded to Argo. Both rangers drew their swords, and a soft pink glow resulted from their mixed radiances.

Nesco tapped her foot, glad for the moment that her nervous mannerism wouldn't be audible to anybody, and stared out the window. Where was Aslan?

After about a minute or so, the bat appeared. It landed on the windowsill, and suddenly the paladin was there, squatting on his haunches, looking uncomfortable and tired, but unhurt. With a facial expression accompanied by thankfully silenced groans, the paladin made his way over to his position in formation and nodded to his party leader, indicating he had no news to report.

Elrohir gave one last look at his friends.

_Stay with me, people. Stay together._

They moved towards the door.


	77. The Haunt

_Leohtulf: Thank you very much for your review. Since the chapter below is so short, I shall post the succeeding one "free of charge," as it were, in a few days. All are welcome and encouraged to speak their minds. Even a private email to me counts as a "review" for purposes of my postings. I want to know what you think._

**  
3rd Day of Flocktime, 565CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Nesco was now glad for the magical _silence_.

If she gave in and screamed in terror, no one would hear her.

There was no rational reason for it, but in the last two or three minutes, Cynewine had been growing steadily more nervous and even fearful. Nesco believed that at least some of her fellow party members were also feeling the same way, but she couldn't be sure, and Elrohir's crude hand gestures including nothing for asking a question like that.

The room beyond that first door was merely a long-abandoned guard post. It contained little other than broken furniture and cobwebs. Elrohir had knelt down and pointed out some old bloodstains and fragments of bone, but that itself was no cause for alarm. There was another door opposite where they had entered, and a set of stone steps along the south wall, leading down. Nesco was all for taking the stairs at once, but Elrohir and Aslan had insisted on heading east and checking out the entire second floor.

The other rooms had added nothing. Nesco could tell that once, a battle had raged here. It had seemed to her, that despite the _silence_, she could almost _feel_ some kind of sound, coming up through the floor and up her legs.

Men shouting. The clash of steel weapons.

Shadows danced at the edge of her vision. Whenever she turned to look though, there was nothing.

Even her own shadow, indistinct amid the intermittent moonlight and the two magical swords, didn't look quite right. It seemed as if sometimes, it wasn't quite where it should be.

The doors behind them had been left open, and once they had reached the far eastern walkway and found nothing, the party turned and started heading back. Nesco glanced about frequently, her hand tightening on the grip of her sword.

Now the party had returned to the western walkway and was starting to turn, snake-like, as it prepared to descend the stone staircase to the outer courtyard. After another quick look out the window they had climbed through, Nesco glanced back once more to the east.

The ranger froze. Far back, in the east walkway, the dust motes in the air, illuminated in the moonlight, had seemed almost to glow faintly. Now, they were unmistakably emitting a soft light. A kind of mist was filling in the spaces between the motes, growing, shaping. It was either becoming larger, or moving closer.

Nesco blinked, and looked again. It was in fact doing both.

She turned back again to the others. They had stopped moving.

It was hard to tell from where she was standing, but Nesco thought that Elrohir had stopped about ten feet down the stairs and was fiddling with or examining something he had found on one of the steps. Next to him, Aslan was looking up at the others. From his gestures and pantomimes, Nesco thought that the paladin was motioning for the rest of them to step over whatever Elrohir had found, but she couldn't be sure. Nesco was certain that the look of panic on her face would have given Aslan pause, but apparently the paladin didn't see it, because he turned around and with Elrohir, started cautiously down the stairs again.

The mist had now assumed a roughly humanoid form. It was already in the center room that lay directly above the passage adjacent to the drawbridge.

And it showed no signs of stopping.

The second and third lines of the party were now slowly descending the stairs, but Nesco and Tojo remained above. Cynewine's eyes were now glued to the approaching figure. She had no idea whether Tojo had seen it or not.

There was no additional detail that Nesco could ascertain in the shape. There were no features, translucent or otherwise, such as in the stories she had heard about ghosts. Two dark holes in the mist might have been the creature's eyes, but she couldn't be sure. It was now in the western guard post, only one room away.

To her horror, she noticed that Tojo was not looking back. Apparently satisfied that they had secured the area, the samurai was now beginning to descend the stairs, his eyes peeled ahead and downward for whatever the obstruction was.

Nesco swallowed hard, reached out and tapped Tojo on his left shoulder.

The samurai's head whipped around, a scowl already in place, but his gaze quickly followed Nesco's outstretched sword arm. Tojo's narrow eyes widened, and then he turned back to Nesco and brusquely motioned for her to get down the stairs. His hands held low, the samurai gripped his katana and faced the oncoming apparition while slowly turning around so as to be able to descend the stairs backwards. Cynewine was relieved that Tojo apparently had no desire to rush at the whatever-it-was and immediately engage it, as she had feared.

Elrohir and Aslan had already reached the door at the bottom of the stairs. In her eagerness to rejoin the others and warn them, Nesco never felt the trip wire bend underneath her descending boot until she felt it silently snap.

Cynewine had heard of a spell called _slow_, but she honestly didn't know if she was under the effect of one or if things were just moving with a horrible, snail-like pace in her own mind. Just as her mind registered that she had forgotten completely about the others gingerly stepping over something on their way down the stairs, her eyes saw a small glass globe fall from the ceiling from the shadows over Aslan's head.

The globe struck the paladin's helm just as Nesco screamed out a warning that no one could hear. There was a brilliant and painful flash of white. All she could see were yellow and red spots, and her eyes felt like they were burning in their sockets.

_Blind, deaf and under attack_, Nesco thought.

_I've killed us._


	78. Attack Of The Hobbies

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

_Calm down_, Cynewine told herself, trying to ignore the burning sensation in her eyes. _Take things one step at a time_.

Nesco slowly brought her left foot, which had been frozen in mid-air, down to rest on the same step her right foot was on. Her plan was to slowly turn around to the right so as to be facing upstairs if- when her eyesight returned.

Unfortunately, her foot came down on several small marbles or pebbles or something that the ranger knew hadn't been there before she had tripped the trap. Her ankle twisted, and she toppled over to the left. The ranger's arms pinwheeled in a vain attempt to keep her balance as she began to fall down the stairs. Once again, her shouts were lost in the silence.

_Bad first step_, she thought.

Someone either caught her, or she slammed into someone- Nesco wasn't sure which. She felt soft robes rather than armor. Cygnus probably, as she remembered their formation. From the way he was pushing against her, it seemed to Cynewine that the wizard still had use of his sight. Her momentum was still pressing them backwards however, and if other hands had not reached into the chaos to steady them, both of them might have gone over.

By the time Nesco was guided, hopping on her right foot, to the bottom landing, the spots had begun to fade from her eyes, and the pain in her ankle was quickly surpassing the pain from the flash bomb.

Suddenly, an armored hand grabbed her left ankle. The unexpected upsurge of agony squeezed out tears from the ranger's eyes, but the pain swiftly faded to a distant discomfort.

Aslan. _Bless you_, she mouthed. Maybe he could read her lips.

Moving in somewhat less than perfect formation, the party squeezed through the open doorway into the outer courtyard, just as Nesco's vision came back fully. She saw that Zantac, Argo and Talass were all rubbing their eyes, and took a small, if inappropriate pleasure in the knowledge that she had not been the only one affected by the trap-

_That you set off. Is this what Sir Damoscene taught you, Cynewine?_

Nesco roughly pushed that thought aside. Tojo was back by her side again, his katana sheathed. The samurai's violet eyes, fixed on the dark space from which they had just emerged, darted over to her face. Miraculously, they stayed there, although his expression maintained its standard stone mask.

_Well_, the ranger thought with a smile that she kept inside, _technically, I'm still not speaking to him_. She put on a questioning gaze, and pointed with her sword towards the doorway.

Tojo looked thoughtful for a moment, and then made a gesture of moving his hands apart that Nesco didn't quite understand. All she could gather was that the entity upstairs, whatever it was, hadn't descended the stairs after them. Perhaps it couldn't, she considered. That might explain the second floor's disuse. The hobgoblins were willing to cede that territory to the spirit.

Nesco felt the cool breeze again on her face. Elrohir and Argo were sheathing their swords and motioning for the others to fall back into formation, facing south. As they did so, Nesco returned her attention to her immediate surroundings, trying to be watchful... trying not to make another mistake.

She and Tojo, being in the rear, were currently standing by the back end of the curtain wall. Nesco glanced up at the weathered, beaten gray stones that ascended to a height of perhaps thirty-five feet. Just to Tojo's right she spotted the wooden ladder that was propped up against the wall. Since the hobgoblins refused to enter the second floor, this provided the humanoids with their only access to and from the ground.

There was a sudden and silent flash of steel. Nesco gasped. Tojo had drawn his katana and apparently swung at the bottom of the ladder with blinding speed. He had apparently missed however, as there was no visible change to the ladder.

Nesco looked around. The other party members were starting to move off, slowly traveling southeast up the slope that constituted the ground of the outer courtyard. Tojo, his sword sheathed once again, was starting to move as well.

Cynewine was furious. She desperately wanted to repair this rift with Tojo, but the samurai's actions seemed as rash as her own, yet she was certain that Tojo would face no rebukes from his peers. She could understand his desire to take out the ladder, but she knew the hobgoblins on the third floor would notice instantly, and being well out of their silence field, would raise the alarm at once. It was a foolish tactical move, and Nesco gritted her teeth at the realization that she was just going to have to swallow her pride and ignore it. She could think of no scenario of her informing the others that didn't end with even more scorn of her allies heaped upon her.

_I just want to fit in_, she thought. _Why is that so hard?_

The ambient light dimmed as Luna joined her smaller cousin Celene behind a cloud. Now, only faint starlight illuminated the gatehouse which lay about forty feet in front of them, stretching from one wall of the stockade to the other. The portcullis, situated in the center of the gatehouse, was a darker arch set in the midst of the stone walls. As they slowly and silently approached their goal, Cynewine could make out faint, moving patches of light that indicated torches carried by hobgoblins. They were atop the two gatehouse towers, of course, but light also squeezed out through arrow slits in the second and third floors. The whole building was probably crawling with the foul beasts, Nesco realized.

Nesco had not fought many hobgoblins in her time in the Vesve, but she knew they tended to be more militaristic and better disciplined than the orcs and gnolls that they had encountered in Highport. If the alarm was raised, things could get very ugly, very quickly.

The portcullis showed as a dark archway set in the center of the gatehouse. As the party approached, Nesco could see that the iron gate itself, set in the middle of the twenty foot-long passageway, was not completely lowered. About two feet separated the pointed spears of the bars from the ground. Stones had apparently broken off from the adjacent walls and lodged in the gate track, preventing the portcullis from going any lower.

Elrohir and Aslan lay down on the rough stone floor that ran the length of the passage (Cynewine could see that many of the stones looked fire-blackened) and began to inch their way under the portcullis. She watched them push themselves halfway underneath with their feet, then raise their upper bodies a few inches, lower their legs and use their elbows to inch themselves back the rest of the way. It seemed to Nesco to take forever, although she knew that the pair were actually moving fairly quickly, considering the plate mail both were wearing.

The ranger glanced about uneasily as Argo and Talass began their crawl under the gate. They kept their arms over their heads, and let Aslan and Elrohir grab them and pull them back. Nesco glanced back again at the curtain wall. She heard Argo curse as his plate mail caught on one of the gate's spearpoints, and wished he would be more careful. The sound of metal armor grating across the rough stone floor was bad enough. If they were heard-

_Wait a minute. Heard?_

The _silence_ spell had expired. Nesco watched as Talass, just being helped up to her feet by her husband, addressed him quietly. "I've got one Elrohir, if you want it. It should be enough to get us past the inner courtyard and into the fort itself."

The party leader frowned, considering.

"Hold off, dearest. At this point, I think we're more likely to be seen than heard. We may need it as part of a quick exit."

The cleric nodded acknowledgement as Argo finally got to his feet. Cygnus and Zantac were already being pulled under the gate.

Nesco and Tojo awaited their turn. Cynewine noted the murder holes on the passage roof. A steady light (a lantern, probably) came from within, but so far there had been no sign that they had been detected. She could hear no voices. All of a sudden she realized that if there had been any hobgoblins near those murder holes, they would have been engulfed in the _silence_ spell and immediately realized something was up. Weak with sudden relief, she silently mouthed a prayer of gratitude to Zeus.

Now she and Tojo were on their backs, keeping their legs straight and their arms overhead. Nesco glanced over to her right as they went under. She assumed that Tojo might find this position demeaning somehow, but the samurai looked neither at Nesco nor at Zantac, who was huffing and puffing with the exertion to pull him through. He merely stared up at the passage roof above him.

Cygnus however, grinned as he pulled Nesco to her feet. "We've got to stop meeting like this," he said as he let go of her arms. Embarrassed but trying to hide it, she smiled back at him.

Soon, the party was back in formation and heading across the parade grounds. Since they were now on level ground instead clambering up a twenty-five degree slope, their progress was easier, although they were moving slowly in an attempt to minimize the clanking of three suits of plate mail.

Nesco kept glancing around. Any moment, she expected to hear the harsh shout of a hobgoblin voice split the still night air.

An archway in the stone facade of the fort lay fifty feet directly in front of them. The ground here was earth, packed hard by the footwear of drilling soldiers in ages past, once humans and now... otherwise.

A light breeze blew small spirals of dust.

Since she was part of the rear guard, Nesco looked constantly behind her as the party slowly moved towards their goal. Luna, coming out again from behind her cloud mantle, showed her that the two guard towers of the gatehouse protruded about ten feet out from the gatehouse wall. She could see no doors on either tower, and assumed they were located on the wall sections that faced the outer walls of the stockade. The bales of hay and pitchforks adjacent to the western tower added to the evidence of her own nose that the stables were located there.

There was still no activity coming from the upper floors of the gatehouse.

She glanced ahead again. The fort itself, save for the guard tower located further back, was a one-story affair. Through the archway, grey in the moonlight, could be seen the dim silhouettes of the trees and bushes inside the inner courtyard. A wooden catwalk served as a roof for the perimeter of the courtyard, running level with the stone roof of the fort. Once they were into the garden, Nesco thought, they'd be out of sight of anyone in the gatehouse.

_Lord Zeus_, she prayed. _Keep us unseen. Let us get inside before-_

The harsh shout of a hobgoblin voice split the still night air.

_Once too often to the well, eh Lord?_ Nesco thought grimly, as she turned to the rear again...

The first hobgoblin she had seen in years was in fact a boy. He was about her height, but little else could be determined in this light and distance. He wore no armor, only what looked like it might be a leather shirt and crude trousers. A sword hung in a scabbard from a belt on his hip, but the youth was in no condition to draw it. Even as he pointed at the party with his right hand and yelled, his left hand was busy holding onto the reins of the draft horse he had just brought out of the stables. The steed, startled by the boy's scream, was trying to rear.

Other unidentifiable shouts were now coming from above and behind them. Somewhere, a familiar high-pitched keening wiped away the last trace of silence from the night.

Elrohir turned his head. _"RUN!"_ he shouted, and made a break for the archway.

"A leader by example. I like that!" quipped Argo.

The party bolted ahead. Two arrows _thunked_ into the ground behind Nesco as she and Tojo joined the others inside the inner courtyard.

It was large, running perhaps ninety feet ahead of them and sixty feet wide. Small trees, shrubs and vines dotted the area, although the central twenty feet were cleared, except for a large circular stone fountain situated about halfway down its length. Two larger trees grew to either side towards the south end, their leafy branches and associated vines intertwining with the wooden catwalk above.

Fireflies, unconcerned with the urgency of the party, floated lazily amidst the greenery. Cicadas loudly proclaimed their presence in the trees.

"Stay in formation!" Elrohir shouted as the party, still at a run, approached the fountain. "Split the line!"

He, Argo, Cygnus and Nesco skirted the fountain to the east, the others to the west. The basin was filled with algae-coated water, but no water was flowing from the statue itself, an unidentified human woman holding a tipping bucket.

"We'll have the advantage in close quarters, once we get inside!"

Nesco wasn't quite convinced of her fellow ranger's opinion, but no one else raised any objections, and she certainly didn't want to start up anything at this time, so she concentrated on moving. Her right hand ached to hold a weapon.

As the group came together again past the fountain, an odd noise came to their ears. It was just another hobgoblin's voice, but rather than the rough shouts of the others, this one was a wordless scream that lasted for a few seconds before abruptly ending with a crashing sound.

Nesco turned to her head to eye Tojo as they continued to run. _I don't believe this_, she thought, trying to decide whether to take the chance or not.

She decided to go for it.

"Their ladder defective?" she asked Tojo, trying to keep her breath.

The samurai seemed not to give this too much consideration. "Noticed crack in reg near ground," he said simply.

_Right after you put it there_, Cynewine thought to herself, shaking her head.

The column came to a halt as Elrohir and Aslan pulled up to a halt in front of the door at the southern end of the courtyard.

There was a sudden rumbling sound. Running footsteps above them and further south, but getting closer.

Aslan whirled around. "They must be coming from the guard tower! Weapons!" the paladin called out as he pulled his sword from his sheath. Nesco readied her bow while Argo and Tojo drew their swords. Talass gripped her warhammer tightly.

Elrohir didn't stop trying to push the door open until Aslan pointed out the well-made lock. The party leader groaned in frustration, then shot a look at his two wizards.

"Tell me one of you can open this!"

"What would you do without me?" Cygnus muttered as he moved up to the door. At just about that point, four hobgoblins ran onto the catwalk and jumped off into the garden, in front of the fountain.

It wasn't the most brilliant of moves. Even for a hobgoblin, a twelve-foot drop was nothing to be taken lightly, and none of these showed any special acrobatic ability. Nesco winced in sympathy pain as she heard the loud snap of one ankle breaking. Although the other three humanoids managed to remain upright, the impact jarred them for a moment.

That was all the party needed. Although Elrohir stayed back to cover Cygnus, the others broke formation and spread out to engage their enemies. From a mere ten feet away, Nesco's arrow punched right through the neck of one hobgoblin before he could maneuver his shield into position. Aslan and Argo quickly took out the other two. Talass showed no compunctions about dispatching the hobgoblin writhing on the ground.

_"Look out!"_ Zantac cried out, then screamed in pain.

Nesco whirled. A hobgoblin on the catwalk, half-hidden by the tree on the west side, hurled something at the ranger that looked like a coiled up bundle of rope.

Again, things seemed to be moving in slow motion. Nesco watched as four metallic weights pulled out from the rope bundle and began spinning. The net unfurled and rotated in mid-flight. At the last moment, Cynewine tried to dodge, but she knew it wasn't going to be-

Tojo's battle cry reverberated off her ears. The samurai, holding his katana with the sharpened edge upwards (the reverse of his normal grip) jumped in front of Nesco and sliced upwards and outwards. The sword's keen edge sliced through nearly half the net before becoming entangled in the rest. Unruffled, Tojo merely continued the swing, the blade arcing directly over his head and then ending up pointing directly behind him. The remains of the net flew off.

Two more hobgoblins, using the eastern tree for cover, were raining down arrows on them. Zantac pulled a shaft out of his side and staggered to the door, the hand not gripping his quarterstaff pressing down on the wound that was already staining his fire-red robes a darker shade of crimson.

"Damn it!" he screamed at his fellow mage. "What the hell kind of a _knock_ spell are they teaching on Aarde? What does it do- send out for a locksmith? _Hurry up!"_

_Click._

As Elrohir pushed the door open, Cygnus whirled around and grabbed the Willip wizard. "All large targets in first!" he yelled, and then pushed Zantac inside. Cygnus didn't have time to actually look inside, and trusted that Elrohir would have shouted out a warning if there had been more hobgoblins standing there waiting.

The net-hurling hobgoblin had ducked behind the tree and was now drawing his bow. He was now joined by a compatriot, while the other two on the opposite side continued to fire at the humans.

For their part, the party was now backing towards the doors. Nesco fired off an occasional shot, but her attention was focused mainly on avoiding incoming fire, and none of her own arrows drew blood.

Elrohir had now herded Cygnus through the door, discouraging his friend's insistance on casting another spell.

"Listen!" he yelled.

Cygnus couldn't hear anything above the din of battle. But he felt the trembling through the ground.

Although the fountain blocked his line of sight, the magic-user knew that there were more hobgoblins coming from the north. From the gatehouse.

Lots of them.

"You twisted my arm." Cygnus gave the ranger a weak smile, and then bolted indoors. Elrohir followed, while shouting at the others, "Argo! Aslan! The rest of you, come on!"

"What's all this running?" Harve yelled out suddenly. "You call yourselves warriors? I've hardly tasted blood yet! Let's dance!"

"Argo!" Aslan shouted. "Shut your sword, or I swear to Odin, I'm _polymorphing_ into a rust monster!"

"Tactical retreat! You heard the man, Bigfellow! Less lip and more legwork!"

Bigfellow gave the paladin a wide grin as the ranger resheathed his sword back in its scabbard. The two reached the door, Aslan raising his shield at the last moment to block an incoming missile.

"Nesco! Tojo!" he yelled. "Hurry!"

Cynewine would have dearly loved to move faster, but she and Tojo, as the archer's sole targets now, were spending so much time on avoiding incoming missile fire that they were making no headway backing towards the door.

The ranger could now see the hobgoblins charging across the parade grounds. Twenty, maybe thirty.

_Time to do something unexpected_, Nesco thought.

She glanced over at Tojo, her eyes widening in surprise as the samurai batted away an arrow with his katana.

_I didn't know he could do that. I wonder if he could teach me._ Cynewine then threw that thought aside for now, took a deep breath and then spoke just loudly enough for her battle partner to hear.

"Tojo," she said. "Follow me."

And she took off running. North, towards the fountain and away from the door.

Nesco knew without looking that Tojo was right behind her. She knew that his samurai honor wouldn't permit him to leave her alone, even if he was probably wrong about her ultimate intentions. She could only hope that she wasn't manipulating him to his death.

The archers' latest volley, intending to keep the duo from the door, landed wide. By the time they reloaded, the two humans were out of sight behind the fountain.

They quickly reappeared on the opposite side however, now breaking out into a dead run for the door.

Nesco, the lead figure, drew all four arrows. She was keeping her arms and legs pumping, trying to keep her limbs from becoming targets. The ranger cried out as felt the missiles strike. She couldn't tell where, how many, or how deep. Adrenaline kept her running. She could see Argo standing just inside the door, yelling at them, although she couldn't hear him.

A sudden sharp pain ran up from Nesco's right calf just as she reached the door. She didn't know if she just been hit again or what, but for some reason this made her very, very angry. She had been holding her bow and an arrow all this time, unable to fire. Now, Cynewine pulled up just short of the door. The arrow was already slipping onto the bowstring as she whirled, and it was already in flight by the time her eyes registered where the hobgoblin was that had just shot her. Tojo was so close behind her that the samurai instinctively ducked to avoid the arrow's flight path, his momentum carrying him past her and through the doorway.

The hobgoblin cried out, dropping his bow. He clutched feebly for a moment at the arrow sticking out of his heart, then toppled off the catwalk, landing with a _thud_ on the grass below.

The mass of charging hobgoblins was now pouring around the fountain.

Bigfellow reached out and pulled Nesco inside as the door closed.

She never thought a simple _click_ could sound so wonderful...

Nesco expected a reproach, but her fellow ranger merely smiled at her. "Foolish, but damn impressive, Lady Cynewine!" Argo said as he slapped her on the back. "Concentrate on the latter!"

"Concentrate on the former," Aslan nearly snarled as he laid his hands on her shoulder. Thankfully, the worst of the pain from her injuries faded away before her battle rush did. Her guilt returned as she realized that Aslan had to use some of his precious healing on her. Still, they were all together again, and even Aslan's scowl couldn't completely hide his relief at that fact.

She looked around. They were in a ten-foot wide corridor, but it was oriented east-west. Harve and Gokasillion shed some light, and the tip of Zantac's staff glowed from a temporary _light _cantrip, but it was still difficult to see very far. The corridor faded into darkness at both ends.

The door abruptly shuddered under an assault. It looked fairly new, made of thick planks with iron banding, but it was clear that the hobgoblins outside were not going to wait for whoever had the key to arrive.

"Back in formation, people! Quickly now! Back in formation!" Aslan barked out as the party, with some grumbling, squeezed and shoved past each other to get into their assigned spots again. Elrohir had ordered them to face east.

_I hope this is the right way to go_, Nesco thought, eyeing the door shaking and chipping . There would be no mysterious and timely _wizard locks_ this time. It probably wouldn't last much past a minute or so.

Like a cart behind a relunctant horse, with fits and starts the party slowly began to move forward. Nesco suddenly realized that if- no, _when_ the hobgoblins broke through, she and Tojo were going to be the front line again.

She glanced over to her right, wondering if Tojo had also realized that fact, only to see the samurai's violet eyes already upon her.

His brief smile was even better than the click.


	79. Something Wrong

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

The hobgoblin's skin was a dull orange in color.

Its flat nose was a light blue, almost silver.

Its teeth, including the two stubs of tusks protruding from its lower jaw, were yellow.

Its short, neatly trimmed beard was a dark auburn, as were the wisps of hair that were evident all over its exposed skin.

Its eyes were a deep brown.

The blood that spouted out of the stab wound in its chest was bright red...

Elrohir smiled savagely.

_That's the color I was looking for_, he thought.

The humanoid dropped, but another hobgoblin, identical to the ranger's eyes, stepped right over his compatriot's body and attacked. A snarl and a guttural shout was its only reaction, and Elrohir couldn't tell if it was angry at its companion's death or just hated humans in general.

Not that he cared.

The hobgoblin tried to feint past the ranger's shield with its longsword. Elrohir didn't even try to get the steel circle in his left hand in position in time. He parried the creature's strike with Gokasillion instead, and smashed his shield into the hobgoblin's face. Only the humanoid's partial turning of its head at the last moment turned a lethally distracting move into a merely hurtful one. The hobbie was able, if only just, to avoid Gokasillion as the intelligent sword moved quickly from parry position to attack.

Elrohir settled into his routine. Unlike Nesco, he had fought scores of these creatures in the past. He had fought them on Aarde, and he had fought them before here on Oerth. He had not encountered any during his brief stay on Rolex, but he was pretty sure that hobgoblins were the same no matter where you encountered them.

He found them oddly reassuring in battle. He could unconsciously read their eyes, and knew from where their next attack would be coming from. He could decipher their body language in the same manner, and know what they thought he was going to do. He would usually string his opponent along with this for a little while, just enough to give them a false sense of confidence.

And then he would kill them.

Elrohir shifted his feet a few inches, being careful to avoid stumbling over the hobgoblin corpse already lying at his feet. He could see another hobbie standing directly behind the one he was battling now, brandishing his sword threateningly but uselessly. Every now and then, it would shout something that Elrohir took to be encouragement to its brethren involved in battle. Or perhaps it was a threat to hurry up or risk a stab in the back.

Again, Elrohir didn't care.

He himself had suffered little more than a couple of scratches. All things considered, he considered their present position acceptable, although he was well aware many of his party would not agree. The confines of corridor fighting suited the ranger's style of fighting, so Elrohir was in no hurry to try and push his party into any of the seemingly innumerable doors that lined this corridor.

It was while traversing this winding corridor ever-deeper into the bowels of the fort that doors had suddenly opened ahead and behind of them, and seven hobgoblins had spilled into the corridor and attacked, for all the good it had done them.

"Could we find a wider corridor, please?" came the voice of Harve behind him. "It's very frustrating you know, to be so close to someone's defenseless back, and not being able to do anything about it!"

Elrohir frowned. Argo was right behind him, so they couldn't be any-

The ranger's eyes went wide.

"Argo!" he shouted. "Watch that damn sword of yours! I don't need you losing control of him right now!"

"Sorry, Elrohir," came the voice of his friend and fellow ranger, dripping with that sly Bigfellow humor. "I just drew my sword, and I can't do a thing with it."

The party leader groaned and risked a momentary glance over to his right. Aslan's light blue eyes met his momentarily, but the paladin could spare no more than a sympathetic grimace. He had killed one hobbie, but was having trouble with this one. Aslan had sustained no injuries yet, but his adversary, despite having taken what looked like two major wounds, just would not go down. Aslan looked again for any sign that this particular hobgoblin might be one of their leaders, but there was nothing that differentiated it from any of its fellows. It wore the same workman-like but well-kept studded leather armor, and carried the same type of sword as all the others.

_Guess it's just me._

His jaw set, the paladin threw aside tempting thoughts of _polymorphing_. He waited until the hobgoblin's next sword strike. When it came, he parried it off to his left with his shield, then stepped forward and stabbed forward with his own sword, a straight, high strike aimed at the creature's head. As he hoped, the creature merely moved its head to its right. Aslan then turned his sword and swung right, slamming the hobgoblin's noggin with the flat of the blade. The humanoid's opposite cheek slammed into the corridor wall, stunning it just long enough for Aslan to draw the blade across its neck. With a spurt of blood and a gurgle, the hobgoblin crumpled. The one in back of it kept its eyes on Aslan until it was sure that it could move forward without being tripped up by its companion, who was still twitching on the floor. Soon, Aslan was once again trading sword blows.

Aslan wasn't really worried about himself or Elrohir. Not yet anyway. However, he had no idea how the rear was doing, and could only hope someone would warn him if his healing were needed before it was too late...

Nesco grunted with exertion. She had locked swords with her current hobgoblin opponent, both blades scraping down each other until they locked at the hilts. They were both pressing forward now, their faces perhaps a foot or so apart. Cynewine stared into the creature's yellow eyes, and wondered if her breath smelled as bad to him as his did to hers.

The hobgoblin snarled at the ranger and spat out something at her. Since he clearly wasn't expecting her to understand, Nesco figured it was a curse, a threat, or a boast.

She tried a shield bash, but her opponent apparently had the same idea. A loud clang came from the two metal disks crashing together like gongs. Now, they too were pressing together.

_This is ridiculous_, thought Nesco. _Something needs to change here._

The ranger looked again into the bestial face of her attacker, and then an idea came to her.

She smiled at him, and dropped her sword, letting her arm swing down and inside to the right, following his pressure...

The creature smiled back, crooked yellow teeth filling its mouth. It backed off just enough to get its sword into prime position. The human was now apparently going for a two-handed shield bash to the creature's midsection, but it wasn't concerned. In fact, it barely noticed. The human's blow would strike first, but there was no way it would hurt hard enough to disrupt its own sword, which was already swinging around in an arc in line to take off the female's head.

At the last moment, the human's shield, which in fact was still held only in her left hand, veered off to the left.

The right hand, holding a dagger, plunged through the hobgoblin's armor and into its stomach.

The creature gasped, it's own swing disrupted by only an inch- just enough to catch on the chainmail armor at the base of the creature's neck. It sliced, but the wound was minor- unlike his own. Without thinking, the hobgoblin dropped his own shield, yanked the dagger out and looked up, just in time for the female's fist to slam into his nose.

By the time the humanoid got its wind back, the first thing it saw was also the last- the female's sword, coming right at its own neck.

Nesco knew Tojo had seen her drop her opponent, but he gave no response. None was needed, really.

Showing as much emotion as he might sitting down to a meal, Yanigasawa Tojo calmly battled his second opponent. His first lay already dead at his feet.

Tojo's katana never ceased moving. The samurai's shoulders rolled up and down as he maneuvered his sword in a two-handed grip through a never-ending cycle of slashes, thrusts, feints and parries. The hobgoblin's sword arm flew off at the shoulder. It screamed in agony- but only for a moment.

With a smooth movement that Nesco envied, Tojo slid his katana back into its sheath with the same speed with which he had just struck down his attacker. The samurai stared hard down the corridor, into the darkness beyond Zantac's _light_. Nesco understood. The hobgoblins that they had left banging on the door to the courtyard should be upon them by now.

There was no sound of charging soldiers, though.

Nesco shot a quick glance back to the front line. Aslan had just dropped his last adversary, leaving Elrohir battling the last hobbie...

"Harve!" Elrohir suddenly yelled out. "Here's something to shut you up! Heads up, Argo!"

The party leader waited for just the right moment, than suddenly squatted down, dropped both his sword and shield, grabbed the hobgoblin's waist and with a mighty heave, threw the creature up and over his back.

The humanoid's cry of surprise did not last long...

"You act like children," Talass muttered, trying vainly to wipe an assortment of blood and brain fluids off of her with a cloth that seemed about ready to dissolve from the effort. "This splatter is disgusting, and I wasn't even involved!"

Argo appeared nonchalant. "Just keeping in practice, my good lady," he offered. "What with this formation and the layout of this corridor, you and I may not get to see much action."

"We came here for a purpose, Argo Bigfellow Junior," Talass retorted, "and I for one do not remember hearing the word _action_ passing King Belvor's lips."

"You've got to learn to read between the lines." Argo tried on a sage look while nodding. "I daresay only our unique brand of diplomacy will get this job done."

"Let's go, people." Elrohir began to move, hoping to cut this off before it became a protracted argument. Aslan, starting to move beside him, turned around again to the rear.

"Nesco! Tojo! Do either of you need healing?"

Both warriors shook their heads, returning their attention to the rear as the twin columns began ponderously to move again.

As they walked, Elrohir leaned over to whisper to Aslan. "Nesco and Tojo seem to have patched up their differences. That's good."

The paladin nodded, but his thoughts ran incessantly through his head.

_Nesco was lucky. We're all lucky. I've been a fool to hide my head in the sand from this. Even Elrohir and Cygnus don't realize how fragile Tojo can be. When this is over_, Aslan decided with a resolve that gave him some peace of mind, _we'll get this all out into the open... _

The corridor had ended in a door, thirty feet past the latest turn. Elrohir waited until they were all assembled outside. He listened, but could hear nothing beyond.

The ranger turned to his spellcasters. "Shine up if you want to. I can't hear anything, but something tells me this room is occupied."

Zantac and Talass incanted, but there was no visible effect, and the cleric showed no inclination to explain to her husband. She simply nodded at him.

Elrohir slowly put his shoulder against the door, braced himself, and pushed.

The door swung open, slowly but steadily.

Elrohir blinked. This hadn't been what he was expecting.

The room was laid out something like a theater or an arena. It was long, a good seventy to eighty feet by his estimate, but no more than thirty feet wide. It sported terraces, raised stone platforms set in a series of three steps set on either side of the room. A curved ramp of sorts, about ten feet wide, led from the door they had entered from, down through the middle of the room, and up again to a door on the far side. Two _continual flames _situated on the ceiling gave the entire room a complete, if shadowy illumination.

The room was indeed occupied.

At least three dozen people, almost all humans, were sitting on these steps. All bore neck chains that snaked back to iron rings set into the walls, but they were not struggling in the slightest.

In fact, they were not moving at all.

The party slowly moved into the room and fanned out, putting their weapons away as they inspected the prisoners.

Most were nearly naked, clad in little more than rags or strips of cloth. Scraps of torn clothing and numerous shoes were strewn about the room.

Nesco gulped. The same sense of unease she had felt in back on the second floor of the curtain wall had returned. This time though, there was absolutely no doubt that every other member of the party was feeling it, too. They were all looking around constantly. Hands gripped weapons and shields tightly. Breaths came short and nervous. Cynewine scanned the room for any sign of mist, but there was none, only shifting shadows from the twin lights above.

Elrohir leaned down to stare into the eyes of a middle-aged man. They stared blankly ahead, and did not follow any of the ranger's movements. Likewise, he showed no response to either Elrohir's voice or being shaken by the shoulders. He kept trying. For some reason that he couldn't put into words, Elrohir felt that he just _had_ to get through, to make some kind of contact with these slaves.

He wanted something that would reassure him this wasn't permanent.

Argo, currently on the highest level, frowned as he examined a teenaged boy who sat with his back to the chamber wall. Like the other prisoners, he seemed in fair physical health, if perhaps a bit thin. The ranger noticed a brown stain around the boy's lips that seemed to be quite common among these prisoners. He glanced down to the center of the room. A bucket and ladle sat there. A few quick jumps brought Bigfellow over, where he squatted down and examined them. They held a thin coating of some kind of bean stew. Another empty bucket and ladle sat nearby. A few ants were crawling in the bottom, where perhaps a teaspoon of dirty water remained.

Argo stood up and tried to concentrate on all this, to sort it out into something recognizable, but he couldn't. That feeling of uneasiness in his head was getting worse. He could feel his palms getting sweaty.

Talass was near tears as she bent down to examine a young female gnome. She looked so much like a child that it broke her heart.

The gnome sat up straight, her hands primly in her lap, her bright blue eyes showing no concern at all about her wretched situation. Her thin legs dangled off the stone step. Her blouse and corset, ripped nearly to shreds, lay on the floor beside her. Talass looked around. For some reason, it was very important to her that she find something to cover this poor creature's nakedness with, but she couldn't find anything. She picked up the blouse and put it over the gnome's shoulders. It had once been a beautiful azure garment, filled with intricate designs, but now it just looked tattered and filthy. The cleric could see grimy fingerprints all over it.

Talass covered her face in her hands. Shedidn't want to see any more of it.

Cygnus stared down at another of the prisoners. Like the other males, he seemed to have at least two weeks growth of beard, and Cygnus was guessing they'd been here for at least that long. But why?

The wizard frowned. He was trying to think of possible explanations for their condition. He had one theory, but it was hard to zero in on it. It was almost as if a soft buzzing, felt more than heard, was making it harder and harder to think.

Somehow, a thought made it through the haze. Cygnus cast _detect magic_ on the young man at his feet.

It was there. An enchantment effect. Cygnus gazed off at the wall. Suddenly he remembered what his theory had been. He'd thought this stupor had been achieved through drugs, perhaps something put in the stew the slaves were given. This discovery put him at a loss. He had nothing memorized to even try and dispel this effect.

The mage tried to think of what to do, but again conscious thought seemed to be leaving him, slowly... slowly...

"Something wrong. There evir here."

Zantac and Aslan were about ten feet away from the west wall. They had been about to start examining an assortment of cloaks, blankets and jackets that were hung up on pegs there, but instead turned around at this pronouncement.

Tojo was moving along the second terrace, slowly and deliberately making his way towards them. The samurai was not looking at any of the slaves. His face held a look of fierce concentration, as if he was trying to keep his mind on something.

Or off of something.

Aslan stared in disbelief as Tojo's eyes met his briefly. The samurai looked as close to scared as he could ever recall.

That wasn't good.

"We should do something," Aslan mumbled, turning away from the wall. This nervousness was clouding his head, making it hard to be decisive. The paladin frowned, wondering how this might be affecting their party leader. Perhaps he should speak to Elrohir about all of them leaving this room soon...

Zantac wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It seemed hot in here, or at least stuffy. It seemed hard to think, but it occurred to the magic-user that perhaps there was some sort of magical effect at work here. He had no _detect magic_ cantrip memorized, but he was reasonably sure that Cygnus did, or perhaps Talass.

His fellow wizard was closer, standing about ten feet away with his back to Zantac.

"Cygnus!" he called out.

There was no response.

"Cygnus!"

Zantac saw the three rangers slowly look over at him, but no alarm showed in any of their faces, just fatigue.

Pushing his way forward, Zantac walked over to Cygnus. He put his hand up on the younger mage's shoulder, and spun him around. "Hey! Stick! Have you gone-"

Fear cut off Zantac's voice as surely as if a knife had been applied to his vocal cords.

Cygnus' face had gone blank. He stared unseeing, at nothing.

Zantac looked back over at Aslan, who, unlike most of the others, still maintained at least a partial look of concern on his face. Zantac was about to yell out to him, but again a terrible sight left him speechless.

Behind Aslan, on the wall, one of the cloaks was starting to move.

The dark blue folds of its fabric fluttered in a breeze that wasn't there. Then it slipped off the wall, spreading out, both sides slowly flapping like great wings. Zantac saw a bony, whiplike tail unfurl from the center and lash about in the air. Two wrinkles in the cloak's underside suddenly opened to become glaring red eyes.

The horrible unnerving effect Zantac had been feeling disappeared, but genuine fear remained. The mage saw Aslan's eyes suddenly snap wide open.

The paladin whirled around, but the cloak was on him as a maw filled with razor-sharp teeth opened.


	80. The Cloaker

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

"What the-" was far as Aslan got before the cloak-thing was on him.

The paladin got his shield up between his neck and the mouthful of long, thin teeth just in time, but the monster's tail came whipping around from behind, the tip slamming into his forehead. Crying out in pain, Aslan stepped back in a half-stagger. He could already feel a huge welt rising.

The cloak began to circle around the paladin, staying at what Aslan estimated to be just out of sword's reach.

It was big, Aslan noted. Its wingspan, if it could be called that, probably exceeded eight feet. It hadn't looked nearly as big hanging on the wall.

The cloak's mouth opened again. At the very limit of Aslan's hearing came a low moaning sound, as if a human voice had been slowed down to a tenth of its normal speed and distorted into incomprehensibility.

Aslan had no idea what this thing was, only that it was one of the most horrific creatures he'd ever seen. A sudden impulse to run, to _teleport_, to just get away by any means possible came over him suddenly. As the paladin stood on the verge of giving in, he heard two screams of terror behind him and spun around again.

Cygnus had apparently broken out of (or been released from) his zombie-like state. The magic-user was now screaming at the top of his lungs and heading for the door they had come in by. His quarterstaff rolled along the floor where he had dropped it.

He was not alone. Tojo was with him.

Aslan was flabbergasted. He had never heard the samurai cry out in fear before, let alone run from it. From the sound of it, it wasn't a noise that Tojo's throat had much experience in making, either. His voice cracked as he yelled, like that of a boy going through puberty. There was something almost funny about it.

_Tojo runs from nothing_, the paladin thought. _This thing's using magic! _

It was that realization more than anything that enabled Aslan to grit his teeth and stand his ground. He drew his sword and started to advance again on the creature, but the thing's tail came whipping around again at breakneck speed, and slammed the top of Aslan's helm, despite his best efforts to dodge.

"All right then," he snarled, trying in vain to stave off a massive headache. "It's time you picked on someone your own size."

_Nothing. Damn it! _

Zantac's _sleep _spell had been a complete failure. To be sure, out of the corner of his eye the wizard had seen several of the slaves slump over to the floor from their sitting positions, but that really wasn't what he had been after.

He considered his remaining options. He could throw _magic missiles_ or even a _lightning bolt_ at the thing, but he had no idea how far they had infiltrated the fortress, or had far they had yet to go after this. They had yet to meet this fearsome "Markessa." His instincts were to hold back on his spells until there was no other recourse, but that left him with few other options in the meantime.

Zantac turned his head at another noise. Three rangers and a cleric were now racing towards the battle as fast as they could, weapons drawn. They were only seconds away from joining the fray. The sight comforted Zantac, if only a little. He hefted his quarterstaff in both hands, and wishing dearly that he had taken Hogeth up on his offer on combat training the one and only time the half-orc had offered it, began slowly to advance towards the battle.

What he saw stopped him cold. Aslan was gone, replaced by another figure.

Argo and Talass were similarly taken aback, but Elrohir and Nesco smiled.

_Never thought I'd be that happy to see someone that ugly_, Cynewine thought.

_"Grock lives!"_ shouted a familiar-looking ogre, as he swung Aslan's sword. The cloak-thing was apparently caught off-guard by the paladin's sudden expanded reach, for the blade cut a gash over two feet long through the creature's skin. Flapping about like some grotesque bat, the monster moved slowly. It couldn't quite hover, it seemed, but it was trying to stay aloft while moving around as little as possible. Now it almost looked to the paladin as if dark spots were beginning to crawl across the cloak's surface.

Aslan's bushy ogre eyebrows suddenly shot upwards in surprise.

They weren't spots. They were _shadows_.

As the humans looked on in consternation, the spots grew and merged. The shadows actually leapt off the cloak's surface and began to flit through the air, in front of the thing, besides it, behind it. The shadows grew darker, thicker as they danced through the air, passing through each other with ease, their shapes growing larger and more detailed, more... cloak-like.

Suddenly, there were eight of the cloak-things flapping before them, each one identical, right down to the gash in each one's wing. They could no longer tell which one was the original.

"Zantac," came the rumbling voice of the ogre. "Can you dispel this?"

The red-robed mage gulped. "Sorry, Aslan," he said sorrowfully. "You'd have to ask Screaming Chicken there," he finished with a nod back towards his counterpart still sprinting for the far door.

"I'll do it!" yelled Talass, pulling up to a halt and brandishing her holy symbol.

Eight pairs of red eyes turned towards the cleric.

Just as Talass began to pray, a terrible wave of dizziness swept over her. The room spun in a circle, and her stomach twisted up into a knot. Nausea overcame the priestess, and she crumpled to the floor and vomited. A second later, Argo joined her.

The mouths of the cloak-things opened and closed in unidentifiable rhythms.

_We've lost half our force._

The thought rang through Aslan's mind like a bell. The paladin tried to filter out the sound of retching behind him, and studied the movement of the cloak directly in front of him. He didn't know if it was the real one or not, but he intended to find out. He saw his moment and swung.

The cloak's tail swung up and out in an apparent blocking move. Aslan had the option of altering his stroke, but he declined to do so. He just wanted to make contact.

His sword passed like smoke through the creature's tail. Seconds later, the entire creature devolved back into shadows, which flew off to join whatever other shadows were closest.

_One down, seven to go_. Aslan ponderously turned around, trying to keep the remaining cloaks from flying behind him. This ogre body was powerful, but he couldn't move even as fast as he normally could in plate mail. He prayed that his thick ogre skin would be enough to protect him.

Zantac yelled as he charged forward, ducking under a tail swipe and swinging his quarterstaff at the cloak fluttering in front of him.

It was only sort of a yell really, coming out almost as a yodel. What he actually wanted to do was scream in terror, but he thought a good strong battle cry might give him a veneer of heroism while still letting him shout. Fortunately, his aim was better than his voice. His quarterstaff struck only shadows, which quickly scattered...

"Talass! Are you all right?"

The cleric, now on her knees, glared up at her husband, who had pulled up alongside her. Elrohir grimaced as he saw the heaving of his wife's stomach, the foot-long tube of drool hanging off her lip... the anger in her eyes.

_Stupid question_, he thought.

"Don't worry!" the ranger shouted out. "We'll take out these images one at a time! You'll be all right soon, you'll see!" Preferring the gaze of an inhuman monster to Talass' cold stare, Elrohir waited for his moment that would enable him to get inside the nearest cloak's defenses and take the swing that he knew would dispel it.

"I'm fine, Elrohir. Thanks for asking," he heard Argo croak out. Elrohir didn't turn around, but he could hear his friend's pained smile in his voice. Argo and Talass would be okay, he knew.

Or rather, he hoped.

The ranger risked a quick glance behind him. Tojo and Cygnus were now running up the ramp that led towards the door, but apparently in his panic Tojo decided that the ramp wasn't big enough for the two of them. A quick shove of his shoulders sent the tall mage crashing into one of the slaves, who still showed no reaction even as he wound up in a tangled heap with Cygnus on the floor. Without a backward look, the samurai plunged through the open doorway and was lost to sight.

Elrohir moved in on his quarry. The thing's tail swung around but with a resounding _clang_, his shield deflected the blow without a problem. It was only as he thrust Gokasillion at the creature's flesh that he realized he hadn't been expecting to hear a clang.

_Uh, oh._

The shock was enough to alter the angle of his stab by about an inch, which was as far as Gokasillion was able to penetrate before the cloak shifted and pushed the blade off.

Suddenly, teeth filled Elrohir's vision. The monster's mouth clamped down on his right arm, punching right though the armor. The ranger cried out in pain as he felt the thorn-shaped teeth puncture his skin. He struggled wildly, slamming his shield repeatedly against what would have been the creature's head, if it had had one.

After too many moments, the cloak pulled back. Elrohir was sure that only the metal coverings over his arm were still holding it in shape. He still had some use of it, but it hurt, a white-hot burning which made the ranger's eyes tear.

Blood now dripped down the mouth of six flying cloaks. Lights and shadows danced wildly around the room, as the images seemed to fly back and forth and through each other. Elrohir knew there was a good chance that the cloak-thing fluttering in the air in front of him might no longer be the real article.

Then again, it might. He wondered how many more chances he might get.

"Three down!"

The cry came from Nesco. Elrohir looked to his left, just in time to see the last fragments of shadow from a dispelled image fly off. Somewhat disturbingly, they vanished into Cynewine's own shadow. She glanced over and flashed her fellow ranger a brief smile, which buoyed his spirits somewhat. Elrohir turned back to the aberration facing him.

"Your friends are illusions," he stated loudly. "Mine aren't. Let's see who wins..."

Aslan smiled a big, ugly, ogre's smile as he heard Elrohir challenge the monster. There was no visible reaction from any of the five remaining cloaks, and the paladin had strong doubts as to whether the creature could even understand the Common tongue, much less speak it. That didn't matter, though. He knew that had been for the benefit of Elrohir's teammates. He was trying to pump up their morale.

And somewhat surprisingly, Aslan found it was working.

Keeping the big grin on his face, he addressed the nearest cloak.

"Time to put you back on the rack!" the paladin roared, and brought his sword around for another slice, hoping to perhaps down the beast with another gash in its wing.

He never made it. The monster's red eyes fixated on him, and Aslan suddenly felt all the strength leave his body. A fatigue such as that he had never experienced settled thickly over him. Aslan's long ogre arms dropped to his sides, his sword scraping along the floor. His heavy head drooped down until it nearly touched his chest.

Aslan couldn't move. He couldn't _polymorph_. He couldn't _teleport_. He couldn't even muster up the energy to speak.

_Maybe it can understand us after all_, the paladin thought. _Me and my big mouth. Me and my big fat, ogre mouth... _

"Aslan? Aslan!"

Zantac's eyes grew wide as he realized "Grock" had fallen under some kind of magical effect. Cursing himself for his choice of spell selection, his limitations as a wizard, and just cursing in general, Zantac charged towards the nearest cloak and swung his quarterstaff at it, but it nimbly dodged away...

...right into Gokasillion's sweeping arc. The sword's white light cast the dispersing shadows of the false image back into other shadows across the room. Elrohir made sure to give Zantac a look of appreciation before turning and smiling at Nesco, who had moved up to stand by him. "We make a good team!"

"Umm, we _are_ the team, Elrohir!" she replied, a mixture of humor and worry creasing her features as she swung at another cloak-thing but missed...

Argo Bigfellow was debating whether there could possibly be anything left for him to throw up on the floor. He was reasonably sure that he had vomited every meal he had ever eaten, plus a few of his father's.

His muscles were still too weak to try and stand. Wallowing in his own mess, Argo managed to get up on all fours, which he considered a major accomplishment. Through eyes trying to squint shut from the acrid smell, he could see Talass, only about six feet or so away, also on her knees. She had vomited less than Argo, but her continuing dry heaves had been just as debilitating. The cleric was looking at him, a misery plainly written in her face that Argo knew she didn't like to let others see. Her utter uncaring of that fact now somehow touched the big ranger, but he didn't know how he could help Talass feel better when he couldn't even help himself.

"That's it, my good lady." His words came out slowly and painfully, from a burned, cracked throat. "From now on, I'm doing the cooking."

Tears rolled down the priestess' swollen face, but somehow there was a smile there, too.

Talass' eyes wandered from Bigfellow's face down to the pinkish goo that covered his hands and knees, and then back up to meet his gaze again.

"A man of action."

Despite his absolute best efforts to avoid it, Argo's laughter touched off a round of his own dry heaves, and he toppled over onto his side again...

"Quick! Back to back!"

Elrohir barked out the order as he, Nesco and Zantac braced themselves.

The four remaining cloak-things had surrounded them.

"We do get free _resurrection_, right?" Zantac squealed, more panic than humor in his voice.

"Don't talk like that!" Nesco snapped at him. "We're going to get out of this!"

"Look out!" Elrohir yelled as all four cloaks suddenly launched themselves at the trio, their tails swinging.

Streaks of white light shot past the startled adventures. They tore into three of the fluttering creatures, and when the kaleidoscope of light and shadows had faded, all three were gone. Only one cloak-thing remained.

"Nothing to say?" came the voice behind them.

Zantac scowled. Despite the monster before him, he cast a hard look at Cygnus, who stood smirking about thirty feet back.

"Yeah. You missed the only creature that's real. Your aim stinks."

Cygnus smiled, but said nothing.

"Let me show you how it's done," said Zantac, turning back and starting to incant. In truth, a portion of the Willip wizard was annoyed. It had never occurred to him to use his _magic missiles_ to destroy the _mirror images_. Now he was determined to make up for his lack of foresight by punching several large holes in this cloak that no tailor would ever be able to repair.

As he expected, the tail came whipping around. Nesco was to his rear, but the mage saw the glow as Elrohir's sword tried to deflect the attack, but the swing fell just short. The tail slammed into Zantac's magical _shield_. The magic-use had thought he would able to take the blow, but the force that leaked through his magical protection was still enough to break his concentration and ruin the spell.

In an instant, the thing was on him, it's maw clamping down on his outstretched arm and shoulder. Zantac had no time for his scream of frustration.

Only one of agony.

Cygnus blinked. For a split-second, everything had gone black.

He blinked again. It almost looked as if tiny patches of darkness were flying about the-

Again, darkness. Only for a second.

_By the High One_, the wizard thought. _It's the cloak! It's throwing shadows at us! _

The dark spots were, not surprisingly, most numerous around the cloak-thing itself and those in melee with it. Cygnus looked at the open doorway, and saw what he had fervently hoped to see.

Yanigasawa Tojo slowly walked back into view, stopping in the open doorway, taking in the scene before him.

Cygnus hesitated. Tojo's mask of inscrutability was completely gone. The samurai looked haggard, he looked tired, but most of all, he looked ashamed of himself. He looked as if he wanted to-

Zantac screamed again. Nesco was flailing away at one side of the flying cloak, while Elrohir was trying to flank it. The thing was shaking madly now, and worrying Zantac along with it. Cygnus saw the blood now. Lots of it.

He turned back to Tojo. The samurai was watching this tableau, his loyalty and his honor visibly battling for control. He was shaking like a leaf, but he did not move.

_Damn you for your code of honor Tojo_, Cygnus thought. _You stay with us even though you know we lack what you crave. Forgive me for what I am. A manipulating bastard._

_"Tojo!" _he yelled out at the top of his lungs. _"It's killing Zantac! We can't stop it without you! Please, Tojo! Your friends need you! Help them! SAVE THEM!" _

For an instant, Tojo looked as if he might literally shake himself apart.

And then he was charging, his katana already out, his battle-cry echoing off the walls. Tojo leapt as high as Cygnus had ever seen him go, over the heads of his companions. The cloak-thing released Zantac. Its bloody mouth quivered as its red eyes fixed themselves upon the samurai.

An instant later, one of those eyes exploded in even more red as Tojo's katana punched right through it and out the backside of the creature. The samurai plowed into the cloak, and both of them went down in a flurry of fabric, robes, teeth, swords and shadows.

Cygnus picked up his quarterstaff and joined the others as they gathered around the whirling mass on the floor. Suddenly, despite the damnable split-second blackouts, the scene became clearer.

"Elrohir!" Nesco gasped. "It's enveloped him!"

It was true. The creature had wrapped its cloak-like body completely around the samurai, preventing him from attacking. Elrohir raised Gokasillion, but Nesco grabbed his sword arm.

"No!" Cynewine yelled. "You'll hit Tojo!"

Elrohir, frantic, turned to her. "Then what do we do?"

"This," replied Cygnus. More streaks of white light tore into the cloak, ripping small holes all over its body. Although the samurai was still laying on his back, Elrohir watched as Tojo's hands appeared through one of the holes, grabbed hold of the monster's backbone, and snapped it in two.

With a wrenching sound that hurt the mind more than the ear, the cloak-thing went limp, and the shadows fell. Before Tojo even started pulling the creature's body off of him and rising to his feet, Cygnus looked sternly at the other three.

"Say nothing of my panicking earlier." His voice was low but sharp.

Zantac looked confused, and more than a little disappointed. "Why?"

"What happened to him also happened to Tojo."

The quartet turned to the sound of that announcement. Talass, leaning on Argo as much as the latter was leaning on her, swayed uncertainly on her feet, one hand still clutching her stomach. Her face was stern, but her eyes softened as they alighted upon the samurai.

"Keep his honor."

Cygnus went over to Aslan, who had begun to flex his muscles again. The ogre bent down low as Cygnus whispered in his ear.

The party had regrouped. Aslan had reverted to his normal form and healed the others. Tojo, sporting what appeared to be a cracked rib from the cloak's deadly embrace, had initially flinched when the paladin approached him. Aslan would have none of it however, and had grabbed Tojo's arm with one hand while placing his other hand on his chest.

"Together, Tojo," he had said simply, looking deeply into the samurai's violet eyes. "Always together. You know that."

Talass had frowned on witnessing that exchange. Aslan. _He knows more than we do_, she thought. She decided that this was not the time or place to ask, so instead she turned to Elrohir.

"What about the slaves?" she asked, indicating with a sweep of her arm the still-entranced prisoners. "I might be able to free one of them from this effect, but that'd be about it."

Her husband sighed while looking over the silent captives. He was ashamed to admit it, but in a way he was glad that the cloak-thing's death had not restored them to normalcy. They wouldn't get far with three dozen non-combatants trailing them about.

"Leave them here," he ordered. "Slaves are valuable commodities. They're worth something to the slavers like this. Freed, they'd be cut down before we could save them. We'll have to slay Markessa and dismantle this operation first. Then we'll come back for them."

"This isn't all of them, Elrohir," Aslan said quietly.

The others stared at him.

"How do you know?" asked Cygnus.

In response, the paladin made his own sweeping gesture at the prisoners. "Remember the caravan full of slaves heading here? I don't recognize any of these people from there," he finished, his eyes meeting Nesco's.

Cynewine dropped her gaze and stared down at her feet._ He's right. Maybe I was wrong about Highport. It wouldn't be a surprise- I've been wrong about so many other things. _

Argo had opened the far door and reported back. The damnable corridor continued on.

"Back in formation, people. Back in formation." Elrohir's voice was dull from fatigue.

Slowly, the twin columns assembled more one time. Talass caught Tojo's eyes for a moment, but then the samurai quickly dropped his gaze to the floor. The cleric couldn't help but think that without his stone mask, Tojo looked so… _young_. Talass knew that he was only a year or two older than Caroline, but the samurai had always seemed so much older, so much more poised.

Now, he seemed only sad.

Talass' breath caught in her throat from a sudden realization.

_He's not going to make it out of this fortress alive_, she thought. _I don't know where his dishonor comes from, but he thinks only death in combat will redeem his soul. Heldenster's offer of resurrection won't work if Tojo doesn't want to come back._

She could only think of her vision again.


	81. Icar

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Elrohir held up a hand for the others to stop.

About twenty feet ahead of them, the corridor ending in a flight of stairs leading up, the top hidden in darkness. A side passage, also ten feet wide, led off to the right at the foot of the stairs.

The ranger looked over at Aslan. "The guard tower, I'd guess."

The paladin nodded thoughtfully. "They know we're here. I saw quite a few hobbies there on my overflight earlier. I'm real surprised we haven't encountered them yet."

Elrohir shrugged. "They may have been ordered to hold their positions. Act as a reserve where needed."

"Maybe." Aslan's expression showed his dislike for this situation, as he glanced around uneasily. "I can't help but feel we're being lured into a disadvantageous position."

"We planted our flag in that territory a long time ago, Aslan," came the voice of Argo from behind them.

The paladin turned to eye the big ranger. "You're trusting on luck to help us escape whatever trap they have set out for us?"

Bigfellow shook his head. He hadn't smiled at all since they'd left the chamber of the cloak-thing. "No. But since we don't know what this Markessa has planned for us, we'd second-guess ourselves into an early grave trying to think up every possible counter." He indicated the passage ahead. "This corridor has been more-or-less spiraling inward since the beginning. We might find our spider at the center of this web."

Elrohir considered for a moment, then turned to the rear and indicated with a hand gesture for Nesco to come forward.

Soon, Cynewine was with them, crowded uncomfortably between Argo and Talass. "Yes, Elrohir?" she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

The party leader gave her a thin smile. "You were quite the footpad back in the Highport temple, Lady Cynewine. I think we need your skills again."

Nesco responded with a momentary grin. "I'm no better than you in that regard, I'm sure, but it does help to dress light."

Elrohir wasn't pleased at what he thought was Nesco's covert criticism of his choice of armor. Neither he nor Argo had worn chainmail for years, finding that their adventures had tended to be heavy on combat and light on subterfuge. Still, they had suffered sometimes for their lack of stealth. Estel, the only rogue they had ever admitted into their band, had opened up several new possibilities for them.

Of course, when you were caught, you'd wish you had heavier protection. Elrohir wondered what Estel's last moments had been like...

The ranger pushed that aside. He'd been the one to summon Cynewine up here, and she was gazing patiently at him, waiting for his plan.

"Nesco," Elrohir began. "We need you ahead. Tell us what's around that corner, and we'll go from there. Zantac, put some _light_ on her sword."

The red-robed mage, uncharacteristically quiet these past few minutes, simply nodded and incanted as Nesco held out her weapon to him.

Cynewine licked her lips, took a deep breath, handed off her shield to Talass, and moved ahead down the corridor.

The ranger soon saw that the ceiling over the stairs remained at a constant height. At the end of a thirty-foot riser, she saw a trapdoor in the ceiling.

She paused. There were voices coming from above. Too indistinct to make out, but she'd guess there were at least a dozen. She estimated that the guard tower itself was situated directly over the party's current position. Moving- she hoped- as silently as possible, Nesco eased to the edge of the corridor, squatted down, and peeked around the corner. If her sense of direction and memory of the route they had taken was true, she was now looking south.

The corridor continued another twenty feet before ending in a door. It was a wooden affair, looking a bit newer but otherwise no different than any of the numerous other doors they had passed by. Nesco hesitated for a moment, and then crept up to the door. Removing her helm, she placed her ear against the wood and listened.

There were voices, perhaps half a dozen. Some were laughing, and others speaking in boisterous tones. She heard what she presumed to be hobgoblin, but at least two or three individuals within were unquestioningly speaking Common, although once again the ranger couldn't quite make out the words. Nesco could hear the crackling of a large fire, and she caught a whiff of some kind of roasting meat.

Slowly, she replaced her helm and returned to the party, where she retrieved her shield from Talass and gave a full report.

Elrohir silently digested what he had heard.

"The kitchen?" he asked, frowning. "Seems like an odd room to end this corridor in."

"Perhaps not," Nesco replied. "In the castles of the Azure Order, the kitchens are always adjacent to the dining area, with the barracks close by. We almost always ate armored up. In case of a sudden attack, we'd be able to join the on-duty garrison that much faster."

"But from what you've overheard, it sounds like they're not even on alert," Aslan put in. "That's impossible. Intruders are wandering the halls of their fortress, and they're having their evening meal?" The paladin shook his head in disbelief. "It's got to be a trap."

"Perhaps a fly on the wall could see more," suggested Argo, with a raised eyebrow.

Nesco pursed her lips. "That door looks pretty new. Well-made and well fitting. I don't even think a fly could get in, Aslan."

"He could _teleport_, " chimed in Zantac. Aslan however, did not seem very enthused at the idea.

"If I did, I might have to teleport out as well" he mused, stroking his beard. "That'd leave me lower than I'd like." The paladin glanced over to the party leader. "It's your call, Elrohir. I don't like any of our options, frankly. I'd have hoped we would have encountered Markessa by now, but if she's not in that room," he said, pointing down the corridor, "she's probably already fled, and it would be a pointless fight."

Everyone save Tojo stared at the ranger. Elrohir returned their looks in kind, finishing up by gazing into the expectant face of his wife. Slowly, he removed his helmet and held it out to her.

"Dearest," he said quietly, "If you please. _Silence_. On this." The ranger looked again at his teammates as the priestess prepared to pray.

"We're going in. Let's see how ready they are for us when they don't know exactly when we're coming." Elrohir put his hand on Aslan's shoulder. The paladin wasn't sure if it was for support, or if Elrohir was showing support for them, but he gave a smile of encouragement that he didn't really feel and put his hand on top of his friend's.

"All right, Elrohir. Let's do it, then."

Elrohir tried to think of something inspiring to say, but by the time he thought of it, no more words were possible.

They were outside the door now. In the rear, Nesco could see something of the serenity of old appear on Tojo's face, but that gave her no comfort. Cynewine knew that he was only waiting for battle, and hoped dearly that she wouldn't accidentally get in his way at any point.

In the front line, Elrohir gestured to Aslan, who nodded. Both fighters raised their right feet, and in unison, lashed out with their armored boots at the door, which swung in exactly as they had hoped it would...

The room was a kitchen all right, Elrohir noted, larger than most he had seen, perhaps sixty feet square. Crates and small kegs, ranging in size from two to four feet tall, were scattered about the room in a seemingly haphazardly fashion, although the ranger saw at a glance that the larger ones almost seemed to form a rough inverted "V", with the apex about twenty feet in from the door.

Off to their left, just past the "V", sat two tables with bench seating. Two men sat at one table, a third at another.

The men appeared to be related. Each looked to be perhaps in their late twenties or early thirties, with coarse, red, curly hair and thick beards to match. They were stocky and muscular, but did not seem particularly tall. Oddly, each one wore absolutely nothing but a loincloth and a leather belt.

Set just past the "V" and perhaps five feet off to the right was a huge cask, about five feet tall, set on a tripod of wooden legs that added another twelve inches in height.

To the left of and behind the flask was a fire pit, about five feet square. A fire that might be described as roaring if Elrohir could have heard it blazed away inside, the flames leaping to a height of three feet or more. Suspended by a heavy hooked chain attached to the ceiling was what looked to be the blackened head of some enormous lizard, easily four feet long. The armored figure that was standing in the fire pit with the head was turning it slowly on the chain with his gauntleted hands.

Elrohir blinked once. The figure was standing in the fire pit, and showing not the slightest discomfort from it.

Elrohir blinked twice. The figure wore the most distinctive armor the ranger had ever seen in his entire life. It was like nothing he had ever seen before.

Due to the man's giant stature- a few inches short of seven feet, Elrohir guessed- it was clearly a custom-made suit, much like field plate. A corset made of numerous small metal plates, colored in black and red horizontal stripes and lacquered, covered the figure's torso. Attached to each forearm were large rectangular shoulder pieces, almost like a type of shield worn as armor instead of being held in the hand. Metal splints covering the figure's shins somewhat resembled the splint mail with which the ranger was familiar, but the detail work on them, the etchings and designs, were nothing short of incredible.

The man was facing to the side, but even from here Elrohir could tell that the man wore a great helm, which covered his entire face except for his mouth and jaw. A short central horn like that of a rhinoceros jutted out from the center of the helm, while two curling ram's horns completed the sides.

The figure turned to face the party. Elrohir blinked for the third time, and then found that he couldn't blink any more, because his eyes had spread open wide in astonishment.

There were no eyeholes in the helmet at all.

Before Elrohir could get his mind around this, movement from the left drew his attention back there. The three redheaded men had lost their initial look of surprise at the silent intruders. They now simultaneously hoisted frothing mugs of something and toasted the party, boisterous grins upon all of their faces.

Somewhere in his brain, Elrohir knew that only a few seconds had elapsed since they had burst open the door, but that things were going to start happening soon. He was aware that he might already have wasted too much time.

And then he noticed that the three men were all holding their mugs in their left hands.

_All three left-handed? Not even in brothers, _Elrohir thought as his battle instinct took over for him, bringing his shield up in front of his face just as three right arms came into view, holding and then hurling hand axes. Two silently bounced off the ranger's shield, but Elrohir saw Aslan jerk backwards as an axe imbedded itself into his breastplate. The paladin recovered quickly though, and gestured at Elrohir to move in and spread out, so the party leader could only assume little or nothing of the weapon's blade had pierced his friend's flesh.

In the meantime, the large warrior, not acting nearly so blind as he appeared, had moved behind the large cask and toppled it over on its side with a swift sweep of his foot. As soon as the large wooden tun hit the floor, a kick from the man's armored boot sent it rolling at the party. Rolling fast.

Elrohir and Aslan were on the move themselves, though. They stepped inside and to the left quickly, avoiding the trajectory of the rolling barrel.

The pair was in full battle mode now. Despite the magical _silence_, or perhaps because of it, their eyes were rapidly processing information. They saw the various crates and small kegs in front of them, and mentally registered their positions so that they would not impede them in the upcoming melee.

They saw the three red men tip over the two tables they were sitting at, turning them so that they formed a barricade towards anyone entering the kitchen, and then duck down, vanishing behind them.

And they saw the two hobgoblins in the near left corner of the room that they hadn't seen before as they hurled their own hand axes at them, and then drew their own swords.

Elrohir dodged, while Aslan caught his on his shield. The paladin gestured at Elrohir, who was happy that he was able to understand the sign.

_You take the hobbies, I'll take care of the men. _

Elrohir was actually happy with that. He liked fighting hobgoblins, while Aslan was probably going to get into a wrestling match with three hairy, smelly, unarmed men. Mentally congratulating himself for sticking with the concept of drilling the others in the hand signs, the ranger concentrated on drawing Gokasillion while making his way towards the humanoids while Aslan headed towards the tables.

Talass, right behind Aslan, had not been quite so fortunate. The cleric had tried to run inside and then to the right to avoid the incoming task, but the tun caught her left foot at the last possible instant. The impact spun Talass around, and she had literally toppled right over the barrel, which had crashed into the doorframe. The priestess let loose with a torrent of profanities, secure that no one could hear her in the _silence_, as she slowly got back to her feet.

Argo had dodged around Talass as the latter went down. The big ranger only had time to give her a sympathy grimace as he burst into the room and took in the scene. Bigfellow moved forward and shifted to the right, so he was at least partially shielding Talass behind him from any missile attacks until she could rise to her feet.

He saw the large armored figure standing about fifteen feet directly in front of him. Argo's eyes widened as he saw the eyeless helm. _Is that a magic item, or is he really- _

The thought seemed incredible, and yet, the way the warrior was tilting his head, the way he seemed to be searching for something that he wasn't sensing, gave the ranger pause. Just as he prepared to move forward and engage the figure, a hand axe silently flew past his head. Bigfellow glanced to the right, as another axe missed.

The third one didn't. Argo's shout of pain was heard by no one, but it was hard to miss the wound in his right side. The axe had hit at just the right angle. Before falling out, it had made a cut serious enough for Argo to remember. He glared at the three hobgoblins off to the right, even as they returned his stare and drew their own swords.

Cygnus and Zantac moved forward cautiously, although the latter was forced to stop by the doorway due to the Talass/barrel combination. The mages looked at each other. Most of their spells weren't castable in the _silence_, but they knew that Elrohir, the center point of the spell, was continuing to move into the room. Once they were clear of the field, they'd see what the situation was.

Zantac frowned as Cygnus, now about five feet into the kitchen itself, looked back at the red-robed wizard and gestured. He was indicating that there were more enemies off to both sides.

Or was he? _I probably should have been paying more attention to Elrohir's lessons, _thought Zantac grimly, _but by Boccob, that man can be so dull sometimes... _

Tojo had moved up behind Zantac. The samurai seemed to have little interest in the battle before him at the moment, concentrating most of his attention towards their rear. Nesco was now behind Cygnus, and adjacent to Zantac, who glanced over to the ranger with a nervous grin. Nesco couldn't blame him. She'd be uncomfortable entrusting her safety to the invisible magic of a pair of bracers. She thought Zantac was mouthing _free resurrection_, but she couldn't be sure. Cynewine smiled back at him.

_Not to worry, Zantac,_ she thought. _I don't think this combat will be nearly as difficult as our last one. _

_Since kicking things seems to be acceptable around here,_ Elrohir reflected to himself, _who am I to buck the tide? _

The ranger's foot lashed out, intending to send a small wooden crate flying into the stomach of the nearest hobgoblin, but his boot merely smashed the box to splinters instead. A dark brown powder now coated his foot. Elrohir growled and bulled his way forward, knocking aside the small obstacles in his way. He missed hearing the expected clang as he took the humanoid's first sword strike on his shield, but he was soon in the thick of things again, especially as the hobgoblin's companion joined in. There was no sign of the men emerging from behind the tables, so the ranger was glad that Aslan would be handling that. He was fighting two hobbies at once now, and that was more than enough to occupy his full attention.

Elrohir fought defensively, waiting for his moment.

Aslan moved towards the near edge of the barricade, slowly pushing aside crates and small kegs as he went. The paladin drew his sword and held it out in front of him, at the ready. Aside from an occasional vibration of the tables, he could see no sign of the three men.

_They must have been awfully overconfident to think a couple of hand axes were going to take us out,_ he thought with a smile. _As long as I can keep them from getting too close all at once, I shouldn't have a problem... _

As Talass moved up behind Argo, she was wondering why the ranger had stopped.

Perhaps his wound was more serious than she had supposed. The cleric debated about whether to heal Bigfellow or not, but one of the three hobgoblins to her right suddenly rushed her. She met him head-on, stepping for the first time out of the radius of the _silence _spell. Soon, she was locked in a furious (and noisy) melee. Talass had yet to fight a hobgoblin on this expedition, but she didn't seem to remember those in her past as being quite this fierce. The humanoid was practically howling with rage as it attempted to avoid her warhammer and deliver a lethal strike with its sword.

Argo watched with curiosity as the man in the fantastic armor retreated again into the fire pit. He definitely seemed nervous, and wanted to use his immunity to fire as a defensive measure. The man's hands moved slowly to the scabbard on his hip.

Bigfellow 's eyes went wide when the man drew his sword.

_No,_ he thought. _IT CAN'T BE. _

Out of the corner of his eye, Argo saw the hobgoblin that had hit him before with his axe charge him. He turned and stepped into the path of the attack, giving him the edge as their swords started to clash; audibly, now that Argo was out of the _silence _field, as well. Harve's path was much closer to drawing blood than its crude counterpart, and the hobgoblin was soon on the defensive.

Unfortunately, it was soon joined in combat by its fellow humanoid, so Bigfellow was going to have to wait before having the luxury of dwelling on what he had just seen.

Cygnus gripped his quarterstaff tightly. The magic-user gulped, staring at the figure standing in the middle of the fire pit, his back up against the now-charred lizard head, his sword swinging slowly back and forth. For some reason, Cygnus thought it reminded him of an ant's antenna.

Still within the radius of magical _silence_, Cygnus didn't dare move forward, so he began to sidle slowly along the wall to the left of the door they had come in. The mage knew this was moving him closer to Elrohir, where he really didn't want to be.

But if that gut-wrenching feeling he had about the man in the incredible armor was true, Cygnus didn't want to take the chance of getting too close to him before he tried out any spells.

Zantac was now out of the _silence_ zone, but he decided to parallel his fellow wizard, and edged right along the opposite wall. He thought that it might be a good idea to take out the hobgoblins first before dealing with the strange fighter, who seemed unwilling to leave his fiery sanctuary. He lunged at the hobgoblin currently battling Talass and swung, slamming his staff over the creature's head.

Seemingly unhurt, it turned and snarled at him.

"Don't mind me," the wizard gulped. "I'm just the distraction here. As you were."

"Idiot," he heard Talass mutter.

_Well,_ Nesco thought to herself nervously, _everyone else seems to have a dancing partner. _

She advanced slowly on the man in the baroque armor. A quick glance over at Elrohir, and she calculated she'd be out of the _silence _field shortly before she reached the edge of the fire pit. Fortunately for her, the pit was not big enough for the warrior to be out of her sword's reach, even if he remained in the center. Nesco just didn't want the sudden reappearance of sound to unnerve her at a critical moment.

As Cynewine advanced to within about ten feet of the armored man, his head suddenly swiveled around at the exact moment she could hear again. It sure looked like he was looking at her, so to speak.

She raised her sword, and prepared to lunge when Cynewine finally noticed her opponent's sword.

"Great Thunderer!" she yelled out, not thinking of who could hear her, and who couldn't. "A katana! He's got a katana! Isn't that Tojo's sword? I thought that only-"

And from behind, Tojo yelled something in his native tongue, which none of his friends had ever learned.

But the giant man's head snapped around.

Nesco fought to control her fear as Tojo came racing up at full speed, only to screech to a halt beside her. He spared not a glance at her. His eyes were as wide as she had ever seen them as he stared at the man in the fire. The samurai began to tremble again, but this time in a kind of strange excitement.

The man in the eyeless helm tilted his head and spoke a short phrase in Nipponese.

Tojo responded, with a somewhat longer speech. Towards the end, Nesco heard him say his name, _Yanigasawa Tojo_. From what Aslan had told her once, she knew that clan and family were so important to the Nipponese that their surnames always came first. She assumed it was the same in Kara-Tur, where she guessed this man was from.

The man responded again. Nesco caught _Icar_, but no clan name that she could identify as such.

Now, neither man spoke. It was so disturbing that the ranger had to consciously attune her ears to the sounds of the other battles going on to assure herself that she was not back in the silence field.

Tojo turned to eye Nesco.

She saw the sadness in his eyes, and yet a small smile played about his lips.

"Nesco-san," the samurai said quietly. "This batter must be mine arone. Prease terr the others. Today, as no other day, I wirr fight with honor."

The image of Tojo and herself back in Highport came flooding back into Nesco's mind. His arm around her waist as they limped along. His loyalty to his friends versus a code that she thought no human could or should be able to bear.

She couldn't believe her eyes were filling with tears. Not after the way he had treated her earlier, but somehow, that didn't seem to matter anymore.

"You mean _die _with honor," she whispered. "Tojo... please don't..."

Now Tojo's smile filled his whole face.

"Be happy for me, Nesco-san. I win this batter."

His violet eyes were shining.

"No matter what happen, I win."

And with a scream that froze Nesco's blood. Tojo drew his katana and moved forward just as Icar advanced out of the fire pit.

Cynewine couldn't believe it. Icar, who very possibly couldn't even see, was giving up a tactical advantage just to face Tojo in a fair fight. She was grateful for that, but she had no idea how powerful Icar truly was. It might just be a sign as to how confidant he was that he would triumph.

The samurai clashed.

Elrohir, at the center of the magical _silence_, knew nothing of any of this. He waited until the opportunity came to take both hobgoblins' sword points on his shield, and then thrust Gokasillion home. One of the hobbies spit up blood, and then crumpled to the floor, his body sliding off the sword's blade. He glanced over to his right just as Aslan came around to the side of the makeshift barricade.

The paladin took a deep breath as he prepared to come around the tables. He hoped that the men, finding themselves unable to even speak, would surrender to him, but he had a feeling that wasn't going to happen. He tightened his grip on his sword and shield, readying his nerves. Aslan was not so naive as to think that the trio might not have some kind of surprise waiting for him.

Therefore, what sprang up and hit him technically wasn't a surprise.

It was worse. It was a nightmare.

Three silent nightmares of fur, claws, teeth and tusks.

Talass had her back to all this. She and Zantac were still battling their own hobgoblin.

The cleric was impressed. She had just hit the humanoid hard enough on his left arm hard enough for him to drop his shield. The limb hung at his side, limp and quite possibly broken, but the beast continued to attack. Talass had a number of spells left, but she wanted to save them for now. She had heard Tojo and Icar speaking to one another, and knew without looking that they were now locked in mortal combat. It was for that battle that she waited. Talass knew she would have to do something.

She was not going to let her vision come true. Not here.

"You know," chimed in Harve as he sliced down the leg of one hobgoblin and crippled it, "I'm really getting tired of these _silence_ spells you people keep hurling about."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Argo. "I think they showcase you at your best." He spied a possible opening at the uninjured hobgoblin, but opted instead to finish off the wounded one. The ranger had to yank hard to dislodge Harve from the hobgoblin's ribs before the falling body tore the sword out of Bigfellow's hand.

"It is to laugh," the sword said sourly. "Sadly, I find myself saddled with an owner who would rather crack wise than crack skulls."

Argo raised an eyebrow as he and his remaining opponent searched for an opening. "Never thought I'd hear that," the ranger mused.

"Huh? Hear what?" Harve asked suspiciously.

"A talking sword that uses the word... _CRACK_!" With this last, Argo swung Harve hard, knowing that the hobgoblin would take the blow on its shield. The impact jarred both Argo's arm and the weapon it held.

"Hmm. Point taken. Easy there, Bigfellow. Remember, if you don't have your health, what have you got?"

Argo's health was about to suffer, however. That hard swing had left him open, and the hobgoblin's riposte sliced into his left side. Bigfellow gasped with pain, and was barely able to bring Harve around to parry his opponent's follow-up strike. Now both of his sides were in agony.

_What I won't do for a cheap laugh,_ he thought grimly.

Cygnus gasped in horror.

Three _beasts_ of some sort were swarming all over Aslan. They were humanoid in shape, but they were covered by a very short, bristly coat of brownish-red fur. Their heads bore a strong resemblance to wild boars, complete with tusks. Their fingernails were not pointed, but they did look long and tough. They still wore their loincloths and leather belts, but they had already been crouched behind the barricade when the wizard had entered the room, so he did not know that they were human.

Or had been.

It was not looking good. Aslan was driving his sword straight down into one of the creatures' shoulders, and it was starting to go down, but the other two were all over him, trying to bite, claw or trip him. Cygnus could already see blood trickling down the paladin's right leg, where one of the things had gored him.

The mage continued to move eastwards, along the north wall. He made it to the corner, but he was still only ten feet or so away from Elrohir. Still well within the radius of the _silence_.

Elrohir, despite still being involved in battle against a hobgoblin, had seen Aslan, currently about twenty feet to his right, get attacked. Now he saw Cygnus over the shoulder of his attacker. The mage was gesturing at him. It seemed that he wanted Elrohir to back up. The ranger furrowed his brow. Why would he-

And then he understood. Cygnus wanted to get free of the _silence _field so he could cast spells. Elrohir frowned. He couldn't fault Cygnus for that, but Elrohir knew that he'd have this hobbie bleeding its life away on the floor in just a few seconds, and then he had planned to jump to the defense of his friend himself.

Their plans for saving Aslan were mutually exclusive.

Both of Elrohir's hands were occupied, so he couldn't gesture back at Cygnus. He caught the magic-user's eye again, and jerked his head backwards, but Cygnus just stared at him in confusion, and then impatiently gestured again for Elrohir to start retreating.

The ranger sighed. _Aslan's right,_ he thought. _Same as it ever was... _

Zantac had flanked his hobgoblin opponent with Talass. Now, he swung his quarterstaff at the back of the humanoid with all of his might, praying that he wouldn't miss. He didn't.

_Should have prayed for a better quality staff while I was at it, _thought Zantac as he regarded the cracked piece of wood in his hand, now shorter by half.

The other half lay upon the unmoving back of the prone creature on the floor.

"What do you call that? An _eighthstaff?" _

The wizard looked up in surprise. Talass, whom he had never thought of possessing much of a sense of humor, raised her eyebrows at him.

It was only for a moment, and then the cleric was already racing towards Bigfellow.

"Come on! Argo's in trouble!"

Zantac sighed, dropped his eighthstaff and followed her.

Nesco couldn't believe what she was seeing.

Tojo's battle with Icar was both bewildering and beautiful to watch.

If she hadn't known better, Cynewine would have sworn the two were merely sparring, albeit at a superhuman speed.

The sounds of clashing swords filled the air. The space between the two samurai seemed to be filled with a constantly shifting silver blur, as their katanas explored every possible route of attack and defense.

And then both combatants would suddenly freeze. Neither moved a muscle. They would simply stare at each other, although Nesco had a strong but unsubstantiated hunch that Icar was indeed blind. Their positions at the time seemed to be irrelevant. Indeed, once they actually wound up standing back-to-back with swords raised, looking for all the world like two allies fighting together against a common foe. Neither made any move to turn and backstab the other.

And then, at some unseen signal, both samurai were once again a whirlwind of motion.

Nesco was still trying to decide whether or not to interfere. At the moment, both warriors seemed roughly equal in ability.

Without warning, a hand axe flew into Cynewine's field of vision and with a _thunk_, embedded itself into the hanging lizard head.

The ranger pivoted to her left. About twenty feet away to the south, standing behind a long table, were two more hobgoblins.

They were partially hidden by the headless body of some enormous lizard that took up all of the ten-foot length of the table (not counting the tail which dragged for an equal length on the floor beside it), but Nesco could still see that these two hobgoblins wore no armor.

Rather, both were clad in some kind of tanned hides, roughly shaped into a form of smock or long apron. Cynewine stared. Their body shapes seemed... different, their hair was longer and-

Her eyes suddenly widened. _Women! These are hobgoblin females! _

The ranger grimaced to herself. _Now I know why the males always look so angry. _

Nesco guessed that these were cooks and/or servants. A quick glance confirmed that the hand axe sticking out of the lizard head was actually just a meat cleaver. Realizing that the ranger had spotted them, the hobgoblins looked at each other in panic, then ran for the room's southeast corner. Two doors, side-by-side, were set into the east wall there.

Cynewine was off like a shot after them.

_NOT GOOD! _

Aslan was trying to consider his options even as he was under attack. It wasn't easy, and his suspicions about what these things really were added an undercurrent of fear that was making it worse.

He could _polymorph_, but he wasn't sure it would be effective, and that would be so much less healing he'd have available afterwards. He knew that some of his friends had already been wounded, but the silence field allowed him no audio clues.

He would not _teleport_. Under no circumstances was he going to let these things turn on the others.

He could use a _psionic blast_, but that would definitely deplete his Talent and besides, it looked like Cygnus would be caught in the field if he used it now.

"Guess we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way," the paladin snarled, and fighting his way past a barrage of tusks and claws, managed to ram his sword home into the chest of the creature he had wounded previously. The boar's head shot up to stare at the ceiling. The mouth opened, and Aslan was sure it squealing, a sound no one would ever hear.

Then it dropped to the floor, dying.

Aslan had no time to rest or enjoy the sight. One of the remaining two creatures had grabbed his sword arm, and was doing its best to wrest the weapon out of the paladin's grip, while the other was crouching low and trying to pull his legs out from under him. There was one thing Aslan knew for certain about these creatures.

They were stronger than he was.

Tojo and Icar continued their duel.

Almost every attack by either combatant had been parried by the other. Those few times that Tojo's katana had slipped by his opponent, he had not been able to penetrate the armor he wore. Meanwhile, the Aardian samurai had dodged Icar's best attacks.

Tojo was pouring every ounce of his personal energy into this battle.

The opportunity for redemption, dismissed long ago by him as impossible, was now miraculously at hand, but it was absolutely essential for Tojo that Icar not strike him, unless it was a mortal blow.

_He must not discover! He must not know! _

_Drop, you hairy beast! _

The hobgoblin, of course, had no reaction to Elrohir's inner thoughts. It continued to battle the ranger, matching him move for move.

_Just my luck,_ the party leader groused to himself. _The one time I want an easy kill, and I get the captain of the damn guard. _

Reluctantly, he began to back up. Very, very slowly.

Argo's hobgoblin had begun pressing the attack more, seeing the ranger slowing from his wounds. He smiled as he saw his latest strike draw blood along the human's left arm.

Had he noticed the warhammer about to crash down on his skull from behind, he probably would have foregone the smile.

"Well," said Talass, breathing heavily, "that seems to be it for the moment."

Zantac pointed. "What about Tojo? Shouldn't we help him?"

Bigfellow shook his head. "Try it now, and he'll cut you to ribbons."

He shrugged at seeing the incredulous look on the wizard's face.

"It's an honor thing."

The ranger's eyes belied his easy tone. He was worried. Very worried. Argo pointed over to the east side of the room.

"I think Aslan needs our help more at the moment. Any bad jokes, tell 'em now- it's about to go quiet again."

No one said anything. The trio began to head towards the beleaguered paladin.

Cygnus scowled. Elrohir was finally moving, but he was doing it so damn _slowly_. Still, he was engaged in melee combat, so the tall mage couldn't fault him totally. Cygnus began to slide along the east wall now. He was still in the _silence _field, but was only able to get about ten feet before one of the two remaining creatures on Aslan turned and glared at him, and then prepared to spring.

_Another of my shining moments,_ the magic-user thought as he slapped himself on the forehead. _When will I ever learn? _

Nesco closed in on the two female hobgoblins. The one who had already thrown her cleaver had yanked the door closest to the door and ducked through. The other took the time to whirl around and hurl her kitchen knife at the ranger.

Her last mistake.

Nesco stood breathing hard over the body of her fallen opponent. The flames from the fire pit did not illuminate beyond the kitchen, but the _light_ cantrip of Nesco's sword was just able to illuminate five feet or so into what appeared to be a storeroom. She began to advance slowly towards it when she heard a scream...

Neither she, Argo, Talass or Zantac had ever heard Tojo scream like that. Had Elrohir, Aslan or Cygnus heard it, they would have been equally at a loss.

Their samurai and friend was clutching his chest. Apparently, Icar had been the first to draw blood. Talass stared. True, it was a serious wound, but she had seen Tojo take worse in Highport without so much as a whimper.

It wasn't a cry of pain, she realized. Not physical pain.

Icar had stopped the battle. His head tilted again. From that eyeless helm came more Nipponese. The only thing the others could tell was that it was undoubtedly a question of some kind.

Tojo said nothing, but his face was contorted with panic.

Icar said something again. Something more... accusatory.

And Tojo lost it.

Screaming continuously now, he lunged right at Icar, hacking and slashing furiously. The blind samurai, apparently taken by surprise, backed up again into the fire pit, but Tojo stood at the very edge of it and continued to attack. His attacks lacked their earlier finesse, but were being fueled by pure rage. Not even in the stables at Highport had his companions ever seen their Nipponese friend in such a total battle frenzy. First one strike, and then enough, penetrated Icar's armor. The giant samurai was still a long way from going down, though.

_Something's gone wrong._ Nesco wished fervently that she knew more, but she did know that much.

_Something's gone terribly wrong…_

Aslan was having much the same thoughts at the moment as he struggled against the boar-creatures.

_I've got to save my Talent_, he thought. He pulled his sword arm free and again slashed at one of his attackers, but their seemingly unarmed flesh was proving very difficult for his blade to penetrate. Still, the paladin scored enough of a wound to give him a momentary respite.

He spent that moment looking down at his feet.

The creature he had slain earlier still lay there, now dead.

Only now it looked completely human again.

Suddenly, his other attacker turned his back on him. Aslan swung, but scored little more than a scratch as the beast headed towards Cygnus.

Aslan uttered a small prayer. The air wouldn't carry it, but he knew his god could hear it.

_Were-creatures. Protect us, Lord Odin…_

Elrohir saw all this. The ranger was infuriated, and turned his attention back to his hobgoblin enemy, who looked quite pleased at himself for outlasting all his companions. He had already wounded Elrohir slightly, and seemed quite determined to go on fighting until one of them dropped.

That was when the human before him suddenly dropped both his sword and shield and backed off.

The hobgoblin could have swung again, but the sight of the human's glowing sword on the floor in front of him was just too strong to resist. He knew a magical weapon when he saw one. Dropping his own sword without a second glance, he grabbed Gokasillion's hilt.

_Not worthy!_

Those were the only words the humanoid heard in his mind before power he could neither explain nor understand blasted through him and ended his life.

_See where greed gets you?_ Elrohir thought to himself as he retrieved his items.

Aslan, still inside the _silence_ field, felt rather than heard people rushing up behind him. As he had hoped, it was friends. Argo, Talass and Zantac specifically, although the latter hung back while the ranger laid into the paladin's attacker. The cleric continued on and slammed her warhammer into the back of the other creature that was about to pounce on Cygnus. It whirled around and slammed its tusks into her chainmail near her right shoulder, ripping the metal links but not hurting her.

Suddenly, the _silence_ ended. Cygnus looked to the west. Elrohir had backed off just enough to get them outside the field; deliberately it seemed, from his expression. The party leader's concerned glance went back and forth between Tojo and those involved against the were-creatures. He looked frustrated, and Cygnus understood. The magical field upon him, so useful at the beginning, now made the ranger a pariah on the battlefield.

Cygnus backed up a step, pointed and incanted. _Magic missiles _tore into the beast, and now they could all hear it squeal in agony. It spun around again and snarled at him, its small, beady eyes fixated upon his face.

Tojo was wearing Icar down, but the blind samurai was apparently losing his own temper as well. Throwing defense to the winds just as his opponent was, Icar launched his own furious flurry of attacks. Both samurai were now critically wounded, but they were still in such constant motion that it was difficult for an outside observer to tell who would fall first.

Argo had managed to flank Aslan's attacker.

"Aren't you due to train up yet?" shouted Bigfellow over at the paladin as he struggled to stab the were-creature while simultaneously avoiding its tusks. "I was hoping to be back at the Brass Dragon by now, sipping drinks!"

Aslan did not reply, but yelled out as he managed to thrust his sword into the creature's flank. Grimacing with the effort, he wrenched the blade back and forth as hot blood gushed out of the jagged wound. Staggered, the creature made one last swipe at the paladin, and then went down on its knees, its energy spent. With his own battle cry, Argo swung Harve downwards in a fast arc, and the beast's head hit the floor. Seconds later, the body followed.

_"GET BACK!"_

Instinctively, Cygnus followed Talass' shout and backed up as the cleric interposed herself between the mage and his attacker. The were-creature bore down hard on the cleric, its paws pressing down on her shoulders, trying to gore her where her chainmail armor was already ripped. Talass' warhammer bounced off the creature's skin. She was starting to buckle…

The creature suddenly jerked upright. It's paws clawed feebly at the arrow that had lodged itself most of the way through its neck. Black boar's eyes turned slowly to focus on Nesco Cynewine, standing ten feet away to the south, another arrow already nocked to fire.

Then the eyes lost focus. The creature collapsed.

There was no time for celebration, though. There wasn't even time to rest.

_"TOJO! NO!"_

Six heads turned at Zantac's scream. They were just in time to see Icar yank his sword out of Tojo's right arm near the shoulder, where it had cut clean to the bone.

Yanigasawa Tojo staggered. His right arm dropped to his side as blood spurted out of him. His katana twisted, and fell out of his left hand. The samurai turned his face up to stare at his opponent. A thousand emotions were stamped there, on a face which for so often held none. He made absolutely no move to defend himself anymore.

Icar swung his katana in an arc over his head, and the blade flashed towards its target-

-and then changed course, barely in time to deflect Nesco Cynewine's arrow.

Everyone was now watching the two samurai. No one was watching Elrohir.

Which, for once, was just the way he wanted it.

The ranger's helmet, still carrying the _silence _spell, sailed in an arc to land right at Icar's feet. The samurai swung wildly, but he was suddenly off-balance again, confused.

And with one last, final scream that no one could hear, Yanigasawa Tojo drew his wakazashi with his left hand, ran into the fire pit and plunged the short sword deep into Icar's chest.

Tojo yanked the blade out as his opponent staggered back, brushing the lizard head aside and landing on his back halfway across the back end of the fire pit. Tojo was about to topple forward into the flames, but Aslan and Argo leapt in just long enough to grab their friend and drag him out.

They laid the samurai out on the floor as gently as possible while Cygnus removed his burned sandals. Tojo's feet had some minor burns, but that was nothing compared to his other injuries. The samurai was barely conscious, but made feeble attempts to push everyone away from him with his feet, his right hand being useless and his left still tightly clutching his wakazashi.

"Once I heal him, everyone let go of him."

Elrohir, who just kicked his helm over to the far side of the room, stared at his friend from the fire pit's edge, his blue eyes looking at him through sweat-soaked hair. "Aslan, do you think that's-"

"Do it, Elrohir." The paladin's voice was grim. "Trust me on this."

Elrohir slowly nodded at the others.

Aslan stood up from where he had been kneeling, wincing with pain from the effort. He had given Tojo some healing, enough to get him back into action, but he wanted to reserve some for the others. As Tojo slowly sat up and gathered his wits back together, the paladin roamed among his friends, many of who were just now starting to realize how badly they were hurt.

Aslan finished up by placing his hand on his own shin. "And lastly, my own paladin's grace upon me," he said, straightening up again with a bitter smile.

Talass frowned. "Have you depleted your Talent, Aslan?' she asked worriedly.

The paladin shook his head. "No, Talass, but it's close. I've left myself room for one _teleport_." He glanced around the kitchen. "We may well need it."

All eyes now turned back to Tojo.

The samurai avoided everyone's gaze. He slowly resheathed his wakazashi, the walked over to where his katana lay on the floor.

He stood there, just looking at it. Nesco breathed a sigh of relief that Elrohir had instructed her when they first met that no one but Tojo _ever_ handled his swords.

Tojo bent down and retrieved his sword. He held in for a moment in both hands, then swung it back into its sheath in one smooth, flowing motion, like the Tojo of old.

But he wasn't, and everyone knew it. They all watched as Tojo knelt down beside Icar, who was mortally wounded. In fact, they marveled that he was still alive at all.

Tojo laid Icar's swords in an X across his chest, and then guided the blind warrior's hands to them. He whispered something in Nipponese to Icar, who whispered something in return.

Icar's head then fell back, his hands falling to his sides. His chest stopped heaving.

Everything was still for a moment, and then Tojo gently brushed his fingertips over Icar's helm.

_"Oroyoi"_ the samurai whispered, his eyes distant.

He then rose to his feet and walked slowly off to the south, near the table which held the giant lizard's body. The samurai then turned around again to face the others. He closed his eyes and began to take deep, regular breaths.

"What do we do now?' asked Nesco quietly.

"We give him some space," replied Elrohir. "Search this room."


	82. The Dishonor of Yanigasawa Tojo

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

About ten minutes had passed.

Elrohir had retrieved his helm, the _silence_ spell finally having worn off. He then walked around the perimeter of the room, Gokasillion in hand. It looked to Zantac as if the ranger was divining for water, but the sword instead led its wielder into the kitchen's interior, to the bodies of the fallen hobgoblins. The party leader would rifle through their belt pouches, then inevitably stand up in disgust, throwing away the few copper or silver coins he found within.

The red-robed wizard sidled up to him. "Elrohir?"

The ranger looked at Zantac, saw the question in his eyes, and then glanced back to his glowing blade with an almost embarrassed grimace. "My sword. It can detect the presence of precious metals within ten feet or so. Gold, silver and such."

Zantac's eyebrows rose. "Seems an odd ability for such an… ambitious weapon."

Elrohir blinked, then turned back to regard his blade. After a moment, he returned his gaze to Zantac, his face neutral.

"I've learned it's best not to try and argue with it."

Elrohir continued his searching while Zantac returned to his and Talass' joint examination of the dead humans who had transformed into the horrible wereboars. The wizard and priestess spoke softly to each other, not wishing to be overheard by the others.

Aslan stood by himself near the on the south end, off to the west. He was preparing to search the room beyond, but he wasn't feeling very well. The paladin had taken a number of swigs out of his waterskin, but it just wasn't helping to quench his thirst. He felt hot, and tired.

_Come on,_ he told himself. _You've got a job to do._

Cygnus guarded the open door by which they had entered, but the tall mage occasionally glanced around at his fellow party members.

Ten feet away from that door on either side were other doors. The one on the east side had contained the quarters of the wereboars. The party had known this beforehand, since they could now hear the squeals of the trio's enraged pet boar from outside. Five warriors stood ready to meet the animal however, so when they had opened the door and it had charged out at them, its lifespan had been measured in seconds. Nothing of value or interest was found in the room.

The lone door on the west wall was locked. Elrohir had ordered it be left alone until they had all regrouped. He was certain this was the door that would lead them to Markessa.

Nesco wasn't so sure. Of the two rooms off the east end of the kitchen, she had given the 10' by 20' larder little more than a cursory examination. It was the adjacent storeroom of equivalent size that she was more interested in.

This was the room that the female hobgoblin had run into. There was no sign of her.

Cynewine wrinkled her nose at all the shelves filled with dirty pots, pans and dishes. There was a mixture of odors emanating from them, all of them unpleasant, and the whole was worse than the sum of its parts. She began to search for a secret panel, or a switch, or _something_.

A short scream brought her running back into the kitchen.

"Damn it!" Aslan yelled, appearing in the doorway he had gone through moments before. As the others watched, the paladin tossed the body he was holding in his arms onto the floor.

It was a male half-orc, clad in the same type of hide smock the female hobgoblins had been. His right hand still clutched a kitchen knife.

Aslan shook his head, disgusted with himself. "Servants' quarters," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. There was nothing in there. He must have been hiding under one of the beds, and jumped me when my back was turned. I didn't think, I just-"

The paladin looked at the others. "Sorry. He was probably our best chance for information." He glanced over at Talass. "Say, you haven't-"

"No, Aslan, I have not yet mastered that prayer," the priestess cut him off in exasperation. "You'll be the first to know when I do." Talass then returned her attention to her examinations. She was removing the belts that the wereboars had worn, finding them inlaid with gold. She had just finished showing them to Cygnus when she felt Argo tap her on the shoulder.

"A moment of your time if I may, good lady," the big ranger whispered.

Talass stared at Argo in confusion for a moment, but then handed the belts off to Cygnus and walked with Bigfellow, who steered her towards the fire pit.

Argo pointed at Icar's body. "If I might beseech you to search for any magical auras you might find."

Talass frowned again, thinking. She glanced towards her husband, but Elrohir was now standing about twenty feet south of the locked door, his back to her as he peered intently at the wall. She looked back at Icar. _Just checking wouldn't hurt,_ she thought.

Argo watched as she cast.

"The katana is magical," Talass murmured, her expression deep in concentration.

Bigfellow nodded. "No surprises there. Anything else?"

The cleric nodded. "A faint abjuration," she said quietly. "From the armor- no, not the armor." She pointed. "His left hand."

The ranger looked her curiously. "Abjuration?"

She eyed him steadily. "Protective magic."

Argo held her expression, then smiled his famous pained smile at her. "I'd be pretty stupid to try pocketing items for myself after asking you about them, don't you think?"

He went over and knelt down beside the samurai's body, then began pulling off the left gauntlet. "Fear not, my good lady. I know of the traditions regarding the samurai swords. I won't touch them." He looked up again, his auburn eyes meeting those of the priestess. "But this man was standing in the middle of a raging fire when we got here, and if that's part of the standard samurai training, Tojo's never mentioned that to me." Argo grunted with satisfaction, and then held up an iron ring between his thumb and forefinger. It looked to Talass to have a reddish tint to it, but she didn't think there was any rust on it. Perhaps it was just from the red glow of the coals.

"We'll let the others know about this, my good lady," Argo said, pulling his own gauntlet off and slipping the ring on his finger while rising to his feet. He turned away from Talass and faced the fire pit.

"But first, a brief stroll to find out if I know what I'm talking about for once. Healing at the ready, please. I tend to be wrong more often than-"

There was a bloodcurdling yell.

Talass screamed.

Argo Bigfellow spun around, to see Tojo's face again distorted in a primal rage.

And his katana was coming full-speed right at Argo's neck.


	83. Two Men Down

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

_"DROP!"_

Argo Bigfellow, a fraction of a second away from death, gasped as Tojo's hands opened involuntarily, and his katana went sailing by less than an inch from the ranger's neck.

Tojo roared and spun around, fully aware despite his battle rage that he had been the victim of Talass' _command_ spell.

The samurai's hand cocked into a hard fist the instant before it slammed into the cleric's nose. Talass cried out and fell backwards, stumbling over a small crate and crashing to the floor. Tojo advanced on her, then suddenly spun around again, but once again a second too late as Argo's armored bulk crashed into him with a flying tackle.

Talass rolled out of the way just in time as the two warriors hit the floor. Containers and casks scattered as they wrestled. Five more figures were almost upon them when Tojo managed to knee Argo in the groin, pull himself free and shoot to his feet. The samurai backed into the kitchen's southwest corner, his face that of a wild animal.

The others moved to surround him in a loose arc at about fifteen feet distance, Bigfellow limping and Talass keeping one hand over her bloody nose.

"Dammit, Tojo!" cried Argo, still trying to raise his posture above a half-crouch. "I didn't touch the damn swords! I didn't desecrate anything!"

"His armor!" yelled Tojo. "It is _oroyoi_! Great Armor- for samurai only! You shall not touch it!"

"Then why didn't you tell us that before?" Argo roared back. "You never mentioned that their armor held the same status as their swords! You mind letting us in on your customs before you take off my head because of them?"

Tojo's eyes dropped down to the floor, and he clenched his fists. "No! Not same; it is..."

The words switched to Nipponese briefly, and then trailed off into silence.

Elrohir spread his arms wide in what he hoped was an understanding gesture, but he couldn't quite keep the pleading out of his voice. "What is it? Please, Tojo. Talk to us. Aren't we your friends? Haven't we earned your trust by now?"

Tojo looked up again at all the faces around him. They could hear the restraint the samurai was trying to interject into his words. "Not- matter of trust." He was breathing heavily, deciding if any words existed in any language that could bridge this gap.

The party waited.

Tojo was starting to tremble again. They could see the muscles in the samurai's face twitching, and his eyes darting around, hoping to alight on something that would miraculously let him communicate what he considered a concept best left unspoken.

Nesco couldn't let this continue. She felt sure Tojo was going to explode again soon. She _had_ to try and reach him.

"Tojo," she said gently, taking one step forward. "You are a man of great honor, and-"

_"NO!"_ yelled the samurai with such force that the ranger jumped back a foot in sheer fright.

"No! _Not_ honoraber! You not understand! No _gaijin_ can understand!"

"Try us, Tojo." Cygnus' voice was loud but even. "Try us!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesco saw Aslan biting his lip. It seemed to her that the paladin desperately wanted to say something, but was holding his tongue. He caught Nesco looking at him and dropped his gaze.

With a shaking hand, Tojo was pointing at Icar's body now. "He! _He_ honeraber! I... I want to redeem honor, but it cannot be! I enter into batter under fawse pretense! I am punished for my deception!"

The party glanced at each other. Confusion was written on every face. Aslan continued to stare at the floor.

Tojo's face flushed. His finger jabbed again at the fallen samurai.

"He not know of my dishonor!"

"_WE_ NOT KNOW OF YOUR DISHONOR, TOJO!" Elrohir screamed out. "You're always there for us- why won't you let us be there for you? Do you realize how frustrating that is for us?"

Tojo swallowed hard. His lip quivered.

"I don't think you're helping, Elrohir," Argo said in a near-whisper.

"Can you do better?" his fellow ranger snarled, rounding on him.

"No," Bigfellow answered, his gaze turning back to Tojo. "No, I can't."

_But Caroline could,_ he thought. _I don't know how, but she can reach him like no one else can. Yet another reason I wish she was here. _

"I really think that door needs to be shut," muttered Zantac.

The others looked at the red-robed wizard, who avoided their gazes and began to unsteadily head back towards the door they had entered from, which still sat ajar.

"And I think this one needs to be opened," Aslan said.

Very slowly, the paladin began to walk forward, his hands held up in a sign of peace.

Tojo's eyes grew wide and his lips curled. "You do not understand!" he shouted out again. "_How_ can you not understand? Dishonor is not to be shared! It must be borne- arone!"

"You shared it once," Aslan said quietly, continued to step forward. 

Those violet eyes narrowed. They shot cold fire at the approaching paladin, and then darted over to the faces of the others. Tojo pressed his lips together, his breath blowing hard and fast through his nostrils.

"Look me in the eye Tojo, and tell me you did not feel better for having done it."

"When was this?" Elrohir cried out, but no one answered him.

"I kept my promise, Tojo" Aslan continued. "I told no one." 

Aslan stopped. He was now standing directly in front of the samurai. Tojo spoke again, his face pained.

"It was mistake," he said. "I show you discourtesy by sharing my dishonor with you. I fert weak then, and ashamed." Tojo's head sank.

"I did not feel dishonored." The paladin's voice was soft. "I felt honored that a good friend would confide in me so."

Still looking down, Tojo shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips. His voice was also soft, but it carried an air of finality.

"You are _gaijin_. You wirr never understand."

Now it was Aslan's turn to shake his head. "You can't have it both ways, Tojo."

The samurai's head snapped up.

Aslan continued. "If I don't understand your ways Tojo, I cannot be dishonored by them. I might dishonor _you _unknowingly, but you cannot dishonor me in kind. And if I _do _understand, then I accept the dishonor willingly, if I think it can help to start you back on the road to redemption." 

Tojo's face grew thoughtful. There was a long pause. His purple eyes bored into the paladin's light blue ones.

"How... cood you make such a thing happen?"

Aslan took a deep breath.

"By myself, I do not know, Tojo. But Elrohir always says that we are stronger as a group than apart, and I agree with him on this with all of my heart." He gestured back towards the others. "If you will confide in them as you did me-" 

Tojo's eyes blazed. "No!"

"Tojo, _please!_ You can-"

_"No!"_

Aslan was frantic. The samurai looked like he was starting to melt down all over again. The paladin tried to speak again, but Tojo cut him off. 

"_I wirr not make same mistake again! _I wirr not spread dishonor among my arries! If you cannot herp, then they cannot!"

The samurai suddenly grabbed Aslan by the shoulders. He thrust his face to within inches of Aslan's, something the paladin knew he never did. To anybody.

"You do not know what it is rike!" Tojo cried. His face was red, as if the emotions on it were literally burning the samurai alive from within. His eyes no longer met Aslan's, but swept wildly around the room, alighting on nothing.

"Dishonor... weighs upon the so! Every night, it reminds me of what I have done- of my fairure! I have brought shame upon my _daimyo_... upon my famiry! Many times, there are days, there are weeks, when I do not think upon it, and awe seems better- but this onry_ increases_ my shame! To ignore one's dishonor is to murtipry the sin! I have done nothing to regain my honor! _Nothing!" _

Tojo suddenly went deathly quiet. He removed his hands from Aslan's shoulders and took one step backwards, so that his back was up against the corner of the room. 

Then he bowed. Deeply.

The paladin was in shock. His whole body was rigid in astonishment. The others were too far away to see it, and before today, they might not have believed their own eyes anyway.

Aslan wasn't even sure he could believe his own anymore.

_"Sayanora, paradin Asran-san."_

Tears ran down Yanigasawa Tojo's face as his whole body trembled in a brief paroxysm of fear, and then relaxed into a soothing calmness.

"I find my honor now. At rast, I find peace."

His right hand became a blur...

Aslan never even knew what happened.

A second ago, he had been staring into the crying face of his dear friend, and now _somehow _he was grappling with him, both of his hands locked around the samurai's hands, trying to stop Tojo from plunging the wakazashi he held into his own stomach.

He had no recollection at all of the intervening second.

The paladin turned back towards the others and roared.

"STAY BACK!"

The others were so stunned by hearing the exact opposite of what they had expected that several of them nearly lost their balance as their feet stopped before their brains processed what they had heard.

_"Aslan!"_ Talass cried.

"Stay back!" he shouted again. "He's right- this cannot go past me!"

"Aslan, either he'll die, or you will!" Elrohir yelled. _"Are you insane?" _

_"I'll let you know!" _

This was the longest struggle of Aslan's life.

Both combatants strained to their limits. Tojo could not make the final cut, but neither could the paladin pull his arms back. The tip of the one-sided short blade shivered inches away from the samurai's flesh. 

Aslan's eyes widened. It was only now that he saw Tojo's _dastana_ lying in the corner.

He had never even noticed the samurai remove his bracers. Nothing would save Tojo if Aslan's grip slackened now.

The paladin looked up to see Tojo's face once again right up close to his own. Instead of grief though, now he could see only rage.

And it tore his heart.

_"You dishonor me, Asran!"_ the samurai spat. "Why wirr you not ret me die?"

_"BECAUSE I'M YOUR FRIEND, YOU STUPID SON OF A BTCH!"_

Now it was Aslan had lost all composure. He felt like he was burning up with panic and frustration and sadness. He couldn't believe how things had managed to go so wrong, so quickly.

He could also not believe how Tojo had managed to work his right hand free without him noticing.

The samurai's fist slammed into the paladin's face.

Again, and again.

Aslan was amazed at how fast and hard Tojo could strike with his bare hands. Through the haze of pain that was already spreading throughout his face and back into his brain, he wondered dimly why Tojo even bothered with his swords.

The samurai's fist continued to pound home. Aslan's nose was already bleeding, and a cut in his forehead ran mixed blood and sweat into his eyes.

Faintly he heard someone yelling.

Aslan could feel his grip beginning to loosen. In just a few seconds he was going to black out.

The paladin knew his friends were starting to move now. _No,_ he thought. _If they interfere, it's all over._

He couldn't get past the pain to cry out, however.

_This is it,_ he thought.

Aslan suddenly let go of Tojo and took a giant step back.

The samurai had not expected that. It took only a moment for him to regain his bearings however, and he was again ready thrust his sword into his belly when he saw Aslan's fist coming at him.

Only Aslan's fist had never been the size of Tojo's entire head before…

Grock's punch threw Tojo back against the wall with such force that the wind was knocked out of him. By the time he could recover, the ogre had grabbed both of his forearms and hoisted the samurai into the air, standing back far enough so that Tojo's kicks could not reach him.

Bellowing and screaming in rage, Tojo continued to struggle.

Aslan, still bleeding even in ogre-form, regarded him with Grock's dark, beady eyes. The paladin took huge breaths to try and regain his composure while the others had moved up next to him. Unsure what to do, they decided to wait and follow Aslan's lead.

"What are you going to do, Aslan?" asked Nesco. "Keep him tied up for the rest of his life? He'll kill himself the first chance he gets!"

Before Aslan could reply, Tojo suddenly swung backwards slightly, just enough to push off with his feet from the corner. His right foot came around and slammed into Aslan's mouth. The ogre nearly choked as he swallowed a tooth, then roared with anger.

"TOJO! Stop this right now and listen to me, or so help me, _I'LL TAKE YOUR SWORDS!"_

The samurai stopped struggling and hung there in Aslan's grip. His expression was half anger, and half incredulity.

The ogre's head bobbed up and down. "I'll do it, Tojo, and then where will you be? Even your death won't wipe away _that_ stain!"

A weary sadness appeared on Tojo's face.

"Why, Asran? Why do you do this to me? You say you my friend- have arways show yourserf to be such in past. Preese, ret me die with honor. Ret me die with dignity. It is my way. I… wish it."

Aslan licked his bloody lips. Strangely, the salty liquid tasted refreshing to him.

He suddenly had a craving for more.

The paladin shook his head to clear that thought, then regarded the prisoner he held dangling in his outstretched arms.

"I have a proposition for you, Tojo-sama."

The samurai eyed him through narrowed slits, but said nothing.

Aslan took a deep breath and slowly lowered Tojo to the floor and released his grip.

The samurai stared up at the ogre's face for a moment, and then very slowly resheathed his wakazashi. He then crossed his arms. A faint flicker of his old inscrutability returned to his face. "Speak."

The paladin pointed at his allies. "We're in trouble, Tojo. We're all in trouble. We're in the midst of hostile territory, and we're hurt. We're low in resources, and some of what we had left we've spent against each other, instead of our real foes."

Tojo said nothing. His face did not change expression.

"This is what I propose, Tojo. Stay with us, _as_ one of us, until we are safely away from here. Then, and hear me out, I will explain to the others the burden you are under." Aslan held up a huge, brown, wrinkled finger to forestall any interruptions, but Tojo merely swallowed and continued to listen, although his skepticism showed.

"And after that, we shall confer, and see if together, we can discover a way for you to regain your lost honor. If you agree, than we are on our way towards that goal. But if you do not, or if we can arrive at no solution that you find acceptable, then…" and Aslan took a breath larger than any human could ever have done, "then I myself will act as your second for _seppuku_."

"What?" Talass cried. "Aslan! Are you saying you're going to help Tojo kill himself? After what you just went through?"

"Yes, Talass." That massive head swiveled around to stare directly at the cleric, and then at each of the others in turn. "That is _exactly_ what I am saying, and if that is Tojo's choice, his friends, those that love him, will let him go."

Cygnus could only whisper. "And we're to just stand by as we watch our friend end his own life?"

Aslan looked at him hard. "You don't have to watch if you don't want to, Cygnus." The ogre took another look at his allies, his gaze landing on Talass' bloody nose, and Tojo's bruised and bloody face.

For a moment, he had an image of their bodies, ripped completely apart.

Tojo's reply snapped him back to reality. The samurai was once again bowing.

"As you wish. Untir this mission done, I wirr fight with honor, Asran-san."

Aslan looked at the samurai again. _I can see the wheels turning in there, Tojo_, he thought, but there was nothing more he could do now. He had made an offer, and it had been accepted. He pointed back towards the edge of the fire pit, where Tojo's sword had landed.

"Take your weapon, Tojo-sama."

The ogre then strode off towards the northeast corner of the room.

"Excuse me, everyone. I need to rest for a few minutes…"

The next few minutes were filled with awkward silences.

Tojo was again standing still. His hands were clasped behind his back, his bracers once again attached. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was deep and regular. His left cheekbone was smashed in from Grock's initial punch, and dried blood congealed on the back of his head from where it had smashed into the wall. The samurai gave no indication he was aware of any of this.

Zantac had pushed the large barrel back into the room so that it no longer blocked the northern doorway. The red-robed wizard had closed the door and now sat upon the barrel. He had grabbed a bite of hardtack and a swallow of water, and now waited sullenly for whatever lay ahead.

Argo had given Harve a cursory cleaning, and now walked slowly around the room to no obvious purpose. The big ranger avoided everyone's gaze. He had indeed confirmed that Icar's ring afforded some protection against heat and flames, but at this point in time no one seemed interested in even discussing the item, so it still rested on Bigfellow's finger, underneath his gauntlet.

Talass, sitting on an upturned crate, spent her time either praying or gingerly touching her nose, which she has washed clean and tended as best she could without actually healing it through prayer. Elrohir had suggested she do so, but she had merely glared at him until her husband wandered off…

Cygnus had joined Nesco in a search of the storeroom.

The ranger had been hopefully pulling on a dish that seemed stuck to the floor of one of the shelves on the north wall, then cursed as it abruptly jerked free of the dried material that had glued it there. It was just another of hundreds of filthy plates and bowls and pots.

Nesco tossed it aside impatiently and glanced over at the tall mage, who was brushing aside ants and maggots feasting on leftovers caked to a tall stack of dishes he was trying to move aside to get to the shelves on the south wall. The wizard grimaced in disgust, but then assumed a neutral expression when he saw Cynewine looking at him.

"Try the shelves themselves, Nesco," he said with a sigh. "See if any of them pull out or slide inwards."

She nodded and set herself to the task. "Do you think we're going to get out of here, Cygnus?" She spoke without turning around.

"I don't know, Nesco," came the reply. "I'm sure this Markessa is planning our demise as we speak. It's been over fifteen minutes since our fight, our _initial_ fight, ended." The wizard's voice carried little comfort in it. "The fact that the hobgoblins from the guard tower haven't come swarming into this room can only mean they're waiting for us to leave before they make their move. And when they do…" his voice trailed off.

Nesco glanced over her shoulder. Cygnus, his hands stretched over his head holding onto the topmost shelf, looked back at her.

"Unless we get another rain of comets, I don't think it looks good."

Cynewine returned her gaze to her task at hand. "You never said whether you had ascertained the identity of our mysterious savior in Highport."

"I haven't been able to find out anything more, and without divinations, I don't think we're going to. Right now all I have is a hunch. There is an elven king in Welkwood named Alias who might know more, but…" he shrugged. "that's all of no use to us now."

The magic-user groaned as he pushed in against the shelf fruitlessly, and then wiped his dirty hands on his brown robes.

"Whether our savior is the person I'm thinking of or not, we have no way of knowing if he's planning to save us again. And if we have to rely on others to rescue us," Cygnus shook his head, "we shouldn't have come here in the first place."

Nesco felt like she had to say something positive.

"We'll get out of here, Cygnus," she said as she yanked back on a low shelf. The effort yielded her nothing but a splinter. The ranger cursed and tried to push the wooden plank in, but there was nothing but solid stone behind them. She grabbed hold of the next highest shelf, and stole a quick glance at the wizard.

He was just standing there, looking at the wall in front of him. Cynewine could hear the pain in his voice.

"I'm never going to see my son again, Nesco."

The ranger stared at the back of the mage's head, which began shaking slightly.

"I… I _promised_ on the soul of my wife I'd look after him. She never even… she never even got to see him."

He turned around to face the ranger. She could see his face was wet with tears.

"We were retired, Nesco." The wizard's voice filled with pain and confusion. "_We were retired!_ What happened? How did we wind up back here? I shouldn't have stayed at the Brass Dragon. I _knew _Elrohir was going to pull us back in! How can he do that? He's got a son, too- doesn't he care about him? Doesn't he care about his wife? Does he really want to experience that- to lie awake in an empty bed; to reach out with your hand and not feel that warm softness that you've gotten so used to, and then remembering that you're never going to see that again? Never hold it, never-"

He broke off, sobbing.

Nesco stared at him. The wizard's grief broke her heart, but there was another layer of pain that overlay even that, like a heavy blanket. She took a step and reached out to him, but Cygnus lifted his left hand to stop her.

"No. It doesn't matter, Nesco. It really doesn't matter."

He hurriedly dried his eyes and turned back to the shelves in front of him. He began pulling and pushing at shelves furiously.

Nesco stared at him for a moment, and then turned back to the north wall. Her breath suddenly and unexpectedly caught in her throat as she recognized the source of her pain, the pain that had nothing to do with the wizard standing nearby. Her own eyes blurred from tears.

"It does matter Cygnus, but so does dying without ever having known love at all. Try dying a virgin."

She couldn't believe she'd just blurted that out.

The ranger concentrated on her own shelves. Hoping Cygnus hadn't heard her.

She could feel his eyes on the back of her head.

Elrohir walked slowly over to Aslan.

The paladin, still in ogre-form, sat with his back against the kitchen's northeast corner. He was bent over at the waist as low as he could go, his head tucked down over his knees. His hand absently rubbed his right leg.

The ranger bent down and spoke as softly as he dared.

"Aslan? Are you all right?'

There was a pause, and then that massive head slowly lifted in Elrohir's direction.

The ranger swallowed hard. He just couldn't see as much of Aslan in Grock's eyes as he wanted to. The smell that wafted off that greasy, warty hide was not only unpleasant, but it was foreign. It was something the ranger associated with creatures he killed, not with his own friends, and his own face couldn't hide that thought completely.

But what really made him nervous was that just for a moment, he thought he had seen the exact same expression in the ogre's face.

"What is it, Elrohir? Are we ready to pull out?" Grock's bass voice rumbled.

Elrohir nodded. "I need you to break that door open," he said, pointing to the locked door. "Gokasillion tells me there is almost _forty_ pounds of gold about twenty feet south of the door, almost to the corner."

Huge, bushy eyebrows lifted.

"Impressive indeed Elrohir, but what else is there? Right now, treasure is more of a burden than a blessing. Keep in mind, whatever is beyond that door may not lead directly to where that gold is. It might lay behind one of those doors we passed in the corridor on the way here. At best, I'm guessing it may link up, but if that's the case, there may be hobgoblins guarding it."

The ranger shrugged his shoulders. "There might be a secret passage that would lead us to Markessa, or perhaps another way out. I just think it's the way we should go. We can go-"

There was a shout from the storeroom, followed by the noise of stone grinding against stone. Elrohir, Zantac, Argo and Talass hurried to the storeroom's doorway, leaving Aslan to grumble and slowly rise to his feet.

Tojo remained where he was.

Nesco and Cygnus were standing inside, grinning like drunken fools at each other. Elrohir could see that a portion of the south wall had swung backwards, taking with it the attached row of shelves. Beyond it, the ranger could see as he crowded forth with the others, a stone staircase head downwards about fifteen feet before curving off to the east.

Elrohir clasped Nesco and Cygnus by their shoulders. "Well done, people. Well done!"

"What do you say, oh fearless leader?" Argo queried. "Which doorway to certain doom do we take?"

Their party leader took a deep breath. "I have a preference, but first I'll listen to any and all ideas." He looked pointedly back at Bigfellow.

Argo shrugged. "Depends on whether you want to get out of here now or find Markessa. My gut tells me she's down there," he said, pointing to the staircase. "Do you think we've got enough left to take her on?"

"No, we don't." Talass interjected.

Her husband raised her eyebrows at her. "You're that certain, Talass?"

The cleric set her jaw and nodded. "Yes. I am that certain. Aslan just shapechanged recently. He might not even have enough now for that one _teleport_. If he doesn't…" She shook her head. "We need to get out of here."

"I agree."

Elrohir cocked his head at Cygnus. His wizard friend's face held none of its earlier levity.

"We need to regroup. Rest, resupply." He jerked his head towards the staircase. "We know where to head to when we return. It may already be too late to escape, but I don't want to die not even heading in the right direction."

There was a brief silence.

Elrohir frowned. "Anyone else of a like mind?" the ranger asked, looking around him.

Argo and Zantac exchanged glances, and then the Willip wizard turned towards his party leader.

"Yes. I don't like the idea of leaving our job undone, but I like the idea of my head spinning on a chain and roasting above an open flame even less," he grimaced, pointing back towards the kitchen.

"That's not where all your good meat is, Zantac," Cygnus deadpanned.

"Well, fine! After they gorge on me, they can pick their teeth with you. That make you feel better?"

"All right, hold it," Elrohir interrupted. "If you people want to head back, that's fine. We'll do so. But two points first."

The others waited.

"One." Elrohir held up one finger. "I want to check out what's behind that locked door. Even if it's only treasure, Aslan can carry it all, if need be."

Nesco couldn't help shaking her head. "Forgive me Elrohir, but chasing after gold at a time like this seems like just about the most foolish thing we could-"

"Let me tell you something, Lady Cynewine!" Elrohir jabbed his pointed forefinger at his fellow ranger. "We are used to working without the support of patrons, even kings!"

Elrohir's face flushed as he continued. "Trust me, all expenses are _never_ covered. The gold we take back from our expeditions helps equip us, helps feed us, helps keep our home solvent, helps train us up, helps do whatever it takes to insure that there will _be_ a next expedition!" The ranger was breathing hard now. "Now I don't give a damn whether you consider us to be low-born grave robbers or not, but almost every useful item this party has was taken off either from the dead bodies of our foes, or from their treasure caches. Taking care of the present doesn't mean we don't plan for the future!"

"All right!" Nesco nearly shouted. She took a deep breath that utterly failed to calm her down. "What's your second point?"

Elrohir's voice assumed a calm, deadly demeanor as held up two fingers now. "Remember, once we're out of here, Aslan has to fulfill his promise to Tojo." His lips pressed together, and he closed his eyes for a moment.

"Prepare to come back here one man short."

There was another brief silence.

"You really think it will come to that, Elrohir?" Nesco asked quietly.

The party leader's face grew angry again, but this time Nesco could see it was not directed at her.

"I don't know, Nesco!" he said, throwing up his arms in frustration. "Ask Aslan! He seems to know all about what's going on with Tojo! Lord knows I don't!"

Cygnus now looked as if he were trying to control his temper, as well. "Look Elrohir, I know that you've known Tojo as long as Aslan has, but we've all got to-"

A horrible noise came from back in the kitchen.

It started like the growling of a huge animal, a bear perhaps. Then it rose in pitch. There might have been words, or the attempt to form words.

It ended up as unmistakably, a roar of agonizing pain.

The others rushed back inside. Aslan was still standing by the northeast corner. One long hand still grasped his right shin. He turned to look at the others as he ran up.

His gaze stopped them all. Suddenly, they didn't look like Aslan's eyes anymore. Or even Grock's.

There was something else.

"Something's wrong," Aslan rumbled, his eyes squinting shut now. "There's a… burning. It starts in my leg, but it's running all through me now. Something's happening."

_"Oh, no."_

Elrohir somehow managed to catch Talass' whisper, but when he turned around his wife was staring at Cygnus. The two locked eyes for a moment in a terrible confirmation, and then Talass turned back to the ogre.

"Aslan," she said, her voice unsteady. "You were wounded by the were-creatures. No one else was. I don't know about wereboars, but I do know about werewolves. I've encountered them before."

Aslan managed to nod. "As have I," he said in a hoarse gasp.

Elrohir's eyes went wide. "Wererats," he said softly, then looked at the others. "Remember the wererats, back in the dungeons of Venom? They were-"

He suddenly stopped. "By the High One…"

Nesco was looking around, somewhat flustered. "Lycanthropes? I've heard of them, but…" She stopped, confused. "Aren't paladins immune to their curse?"

Aslan slowly shook his massive head. He could barely manage to get the words out now.

"No, Nesco… we're not."

"Get out of here, Aslan," Argo said quietly. "_Teleport_ back to Chendl. They can cure you. Get out of here- now!"

"Wait a minute!" Zantac interjected. "I've always heard the curse doesn't take effect until the night of the first full moon!" He looked around wildly at the others. "You rangers keep track of these things. When's the next full moon due?"

Nesco closed her eyes. She could remember the moonlight on their trip through the courtyard of the stockade. She could feel it.

She opened her eyes again.

"Tonight, Zantac," she said. "It's already here."

"What if he can't _teleport_?" asked Cygnus worriedly. "What if turning into an ogre dropped his Talent too low?"

"Then we're two men short," said Argo suddenly.

And he drew his sword.


	84. Three Men Down

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Argo wasn't used to having to look up at Aslan, and it bothered him. He wasn't going to let that show, however. He wasn't going to let any kind of weakness or hesitation show.

Not now.

"Get out of here, Aslan," he repeated, his voice low. The ranger held Harve in front of him in a battle stance. "You know what will happen if you stay."

Aslan hunched over, his hands balling into meaty fists as he struggled to master the feeling that his blood was burning throughout his massive frame.

It was a struggle he clearly wasn't winning.

"Can't... leave," he gritted out. "You... you'll..."

"Die without you?" Argo finished with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. The ranger shook his head. "Even as a ogre you manage to have a swelled head. We'll get by just fine without your magnificence, thank you."

Bigfellow stole a quick glance over his shoulder. He saw precisely what he had hoped, but not expected to see. Elrohir had gathered the rest of the team together, but not so tightly as to be obvious...

"Listen to me." the party leader said quietly, as he walked among the five individuals standing nearby. "If Aslan cannot _teleport_, we are all going to have to strike first, but nonlethal attacks only." The Aardian ranger held up a cautioning finger. "I know that makes it more dangerous for us, but I'm hoping the element of surprise will give us a chance to make the attacks that count."

He turned to the tall mage. "Cygnus, can you-"

The wizard cut his friend off with a shake of his head. "Sorry. A _sleep_ spell won't work on him, Elrohir."

"Damn," Elrohir whispered. His blue eyes alighted upon a pair of purple ones. 

"Tojo," he said, "I think we've all seen how proficient you are at this sort of thing. The bulk of this may well fall upon you. Are you..."

The ranger's voice trailed off, as did his questioning gesture with his hands. He hoped that his rather flippant statement would be taken as the humor it was rather than as a snide remark.

The samurai regarded him silently. 

_Is this the new Tojo or the old Tojo looking at me?_ Elrohir thought to himself, and then cast that notion off. There was no "new" or "old" Tojo. He was the same person he had always been. It was simply that Tojo had never talked about the problems of his past before, so Elrohir had gone ahead and assumed that they weren't worth talking about. It had been- more convenient that way. More convenient for everybody. Until now.

Tojo nodded slowly. If the samurai's cheekbone had not been smashed, Elrohir thought he might even have tried to smile. Or perhaps not. 

"I understand, Errohir-san. I wirr not fair you." 

The ranger nodded. "Thank you, Tojo." He risked clamping his hand briefly on the samurai's left shoulder, drawing Tojo's eyes briefly to that spot before they returned to meet Elrohir's gaze. The ranger quickly pulled his hand back and gave his friend an embarrassed smile before returning his attention to the others.

"Start spreading out, people," he whispered. "Flank him."

Argo could see out of the corner of his eye his companions were on the move. With a conscious effort, he kept his gaze focused squarely on Grock's face. 

_Grock,_ he thought to himself. _Couldn't he at least have come up with a name for himself without stealing from my dog? _Argo wanted to make a crack to Aslan about that, but he was very much aware that one joke taken the wrong way could be disastrous for everyone.

And Aslan looked like he had even less of a sense of humor right now than usual.

The overriding question in Bigfellow's mind returned to pester the ranger.

_Why isn't he leaving? _

He tightened his grip on Harve's hilt, trying to ignore the cold sweat pouring off his hands and accumulating in his gauntlets.

Aslan was still staring at Argo, but he seemed to be losing his focus. His black eyes locked in on Harve, seemingly unable to look away from that red glow. It almost looked somehow as if his eyes were beginning to mirror that glow somehow. The ogre's mouth hung open slack jawed, and the sound of his heavy breathing, almost a snorting, reminded Bigfellow of a bull.

No one spoke.

That is, no human spoke...

"Hellooo? I'm outside, but I'm not cutting into anything! All I feel is a cold chill- Let's get some warm blood flowing here!"

Everyone in the room gasped at Harve's sudden outburst. No one more so than Argo.

The ogre blinked. His eyes narrowed, and slowly a snarl appeared on his thick lips.

That expression was mirrored precisely on the face of Argo Bigfellow Junior.

"You cold, Harve?" the ranger shouted at his blade. _"Here!" _

And with a sweep of his right hand, Argo sent his sword flying behind him. The weapon spun in the air as it traveled through the air in a gentle arc, landing right in the center of the fire pit- on top of the red coals.

Bigfellow turned back to the ogre and started shouting.

"Aslan!" he yelled. "Get out of here! Go... to... the... temple! Get your sanctimonious, uptight, narrow-minded, humorless, asexual paladin carcass over there... _NOW!" _

Elrohir couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was certain Argo was going to be ground underfoot for that outburst.

Aslan's eyes, now very definitely tinged with red, went wide. His head turned upwards to stare at the stone ceiling a mere foot over his head. He opened his mouth and a half-roar, half-squeal emerged so loud that Elrohir, on pure instinct, drew his sword.

And then there was nothing to look at but an empty space.

Bigfellow nearly staggered over to the east wall, where he leaned up against it, exhaling deep breaths of relief. Elrohir could see the beads of sweat on his fellow ranger's forehead as he approached.

Argo saw his fellow ranger walking over and answered the question he saw in his leader's face. "I thought if I could keep his mind on the aspects of Aslan the paladin instead of Grock the ogre, I might finally be able to ram home the idea of teleporting out through that thick skull of his." Argo took off his gauntlets and tried to wipe the sweat off his forehead and hands. "I'm just glad he was actually able to do it," he concluded with a grimace.

Elrohir resheathed his sword, folded his arms across his chest and shook his head at Bigfellow. "Did it ever occur to you to _compliment_ Aslan on his paladin attributes instead of _insulting_ them?"

Argo assumed a thoughtful, distant look that Elrohir knew was patently false, and then returned his gaze to his friend.

"Nope."

He gave the party leader a smile and wink as he passed by on his way to the fire pit.

Elrohir sighed and turned his attention back to the rest of the party.

They were all more-or-less starting to wind down and relax, realizing that at least their most immediate threat had abated.

Except for Cynewine. She looked so troubled that Elrohir had to constrain himself from actually running over to her, and instead settled for a brisk stride.

"Nesco?" 

She glanced up, startled for a moment. Elrohir couldn't help but think _You're lucky I'm friend and not foe, Lady Cynewine. You've been far too distracted on this mission._ He tried to keep this thought out of his face as he inquired "Are you all right?" 

Nesco bit her lip. Her words came out thin and hesitantly. 

"Aslan. I'm worried that... he might... that he might not... be coming back."

Elrohir's eyebrows shot up. That wasn't what he had been expecting at all. "Why?" he asked, unable to keep genuine curiosity out of his voice. "Surely the Valorous Church in Chendl can cure lycanthropy?"

Nesco dropped her gaze to the floor.

"I'm sure they could, Elrohir- if they were of a mind to."

The ranger frowned. He didn't like the sound of that at all.

Elrohir glanced back at the fire pit and watched for a moment as Argo, standing unharmed on the hot coals, picked up his sword and began violently shaking it. He then sighed again and turned back to Nesco.

"Why wouldn't they be?" he asked, his tone darkening further with every word. "Have we been deceived by the Royal Court?" 

Cynewine shook her head rapidly and put her hands forward, as if to physically halt Elrohir's train of thought. "No Elrohir, that's not it. What I meant was they would of course cure _Aslan_..." 

Elrohir tilted his head at hearing Nesco's accent on their friend's name. "But?" he prodded, with some impatience. 

Nesco eyed him steadily. "But that wasn't Aslan who just teleported back there, was it?" she asked. "It was a crazed ogre, splattered with blood."

Her fellow ranger made a curt gesture of dismissal. "They know he can _polymorph_." 

"So what will that ogre say when they say to him, 'Aslan, is that you?' Will he reply to them, or will he do what he was on the verge of doing when he teleported out of here- growl and attack them?"

Elrohir closed his eyes as Nesco's words sunk in. _She's right_, he thought dully. _Aslan might just have teleported to his death._

Not being able to look Nesco in the face due to his embarrassment, the party leader turned around before opening his eyes again. When he did, he saw Argo ram Harve into the hanging lizard's head and start twisting the blade around inside.

He turned partway back to his fellow ranger. "Is there any chance the priests there will show restraint?"" 

"I don't know, Elrohir." Nesco's voice was bitter. "Once I converted to the worship of Zeus, the clergy of Heironeous stopped coming by our house like they once did. I don't know many of the clerics there anymore." Her voice now turned grim. "And despite Bigfellow's optimism, my personal opinion is that if Aslan dies, the rest of us won't be far behind." 

Elrohir sighed as he listened to Cynewine's dire prediction. 

He really wished he could disagree with it.

A nearby movement caught his attention. He turned. Talass was standing off to his left, looking at him.

"We should get moving, Elrohir," his wife said evenly, after a quick glance at Nesco. "If you really want to break that door down, we're going to have to do it without Aslan."

The ranger slowly nodded, then motioned both women towards the western door. "All right. Let's get this done as quickly as possible. Tojo!" he called out. "Have our wizards come over!"

The samurai nodded and walked over to where the two mages stood, lost in a conversation Elrohir couldn't hear.

"Argo!"

Bigfellow, currently grinding ashes into the blade of his sword with the heel of his boot, looked up.

"Let's go," Elrohir told him. "We've got a door to break down!"

Argo nodded as he began walking over. "Of course, Elrohir. Myself and my _faithful... and... obedient..._ sword are at your disposal!" the big ranger replied, using the weapon as a walking stick, emphasizing each word with a downward jab of Harve's point into a chink into one of the floor stones.

"Don't be fooled by your friend's smile, Elrohir," a weary voice emanated from the blade. "This guy's got a temper on him like you wouldn't believe..."

The party waited until the dust settled.

Elrohir nodded to the others. Leaving a reluctant Zantac to watch over the north door, the other six members of the party slowly moved through the doorway, stepping on the surface of the door they had just ripped right off its hinges.

The party had no more _light_ cantrips available, but the combined glow of Harve and Gokasillion was sufficient to bathe this thirty by thirty foot chamber in a dull pink illumination.

Elrohir blinked. This was Icar's quarters. 

Not exactly certain why he was surprised at that, the ranger looked around. Directly in front of him was a small circular table. One wooden chair sat on the far side of the table, while the other lay smashed to splinters underneath the fallen door. On the table itself was a chessboard with a raised grid pattern. It appeared as if all the pieces had been in place in their starting positions, but the impact of the door had knocked many of them over. Several lay on the floor.

A carafe of wine lay on its side by the table. Elrohir picked it up and examined it. It seemed about half-full. For a moment he considered it. His throat felt dry and dusty. Wine would go down so much better than the lukewarm water he had on him. The ranger licked his lips, and then slowly set the carafe back down on the table.

_I'm done making stupid mistakes_, he thought. 

Elrohir stepped off the wobbling door onto the floor and looked at the west wall. A robe nearly identical to Tojo's hung up on a peg there. Next to the robe hung a cloak and an old, rectangular shield that bore a Nipponese character upon it. Also hanging on a peg was a musical instrument Elrohir couldn't quite identify. It bore only a faint resemblance to a lute, and he assumed it was Kara-Turan in origin.

The party leader saw the rest of his party slowly starting to spread out to search the room.

He suddenly held up his hand. "Stop!"

Five heads turned towards him. In response, the ranger turned to look directly at one of them. 

"Tojo," he said. "Check out this room. Let us know if there is anything we shouldn't touch."

The samurai nodded. Elrohir thought he might have seen a flicker of gratitude cross Tojo's features, but the ranger cautioned himself against projecting his own hopes onto other people. That was another mistake he didn't intend to make again.

They all watched as the samurai walked over to the west wall and slowly examined the items hung on it. Elrohir tightened his grip on his sword and shield as Tojo briefly handled the cloak. He half-expected it to start moving of its own accord, but it did not.

Tojo cast a quick glance at the large but simple bed that was placed along the north well. It was covered by a blanket made of tan-colored furs.

Elrohir saw Nesco turn and grimace at him. _Giant weasel fur_, he thought. _Lord, I hope there aren't any of those monsters here. _

The samurai was now kneeling down by a wooden chest sitting just to the left of the bed. There was no apparent lock upon it, but Elrohir tensed up again as Tojo slowly swung the lid open and back. The samurai's back blocked his view of what was in the chest, but it seemed that Tojo was holding up various articles of nondescript clothing, and then putting them back.

Elrohir turned his head to look the other way. On the south wall, right near the eastern corner was a door with a lock upon it.

The ranger's jaw tightened. According to Gokasillion, the gold lay directly behind that door.

He turned back. Tojo was now holding up a Nipponese robe- a kimono, similar in style to the one that Tojo had once owned. This one was a silver color, and as the samurai held it up, turning it right and left, Elrohir could see that it was decorated with motifs of some kind of fantastic lizards. They reminded the ranger somehow of dragons, but they seemed more snake-like, and lacked wings.

Tojo let out an audible sigh, carefully refolded the kimono and placed it back in the chest, and then closed the lid. The samurai then stood up and faced his party leader. He said nothing, but his expression made it clear that he had found nothing here that he would consider sacred.

Elrohir looked again at the south door. "Weapons ready," he said quietly.

He could feel the others gathering behind him. The ranger stopped about five feet from the door. He stared at the lock for a moment, and then turned around to his companions.

"Cygnus," he asked. "Do you have another of those _knock_ spells memorized?"

The tall mage shook his head. Elrohir blew air through his lips for a moment, and then turned to Tojo again. 

"Tojo, please check to see if Icar has the key on his person."

The samurai hesitated for a moment, then nodded and left the room.

Elrohir slung his shield over his shoulder, turned back to the south door and slowly walked up to it, motioning for the others to hold their position. His left hand slowly reached out to grasp the metallic handle set into the wood door. He gave it a little tug, just to assure himself it was locked.

There was a noise from beyond the door.

Elrohir stiffened.

It sounded like someone breathing, and then a faint squeak of wood, as if perhaps someone was rising up from a chair.

The ranger concentrated. He could hear the sound of chains jangling, and there was a very faint hissing, as if air were leaking into or out of the room.

Elrohir was about to call out, but whoever was inside beat him to it.

"Icar, you snake's belly, release me!" 

Elrohir's eyebrows shot up. _A prisoner?_ he thought. 

Whoever it was, she was female, and sounded rather angry. "Who's there?" Elrohir asked loudly.

There was a silence, a little longer than he would have expected, before the reply.

"Who is out there?" The voice was thick with suspicion.

The party leader cleared his throat and tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice as he spoke. "My name is Elrohir of Furyondy. My companions and I have slain this Icar. We are here to bring an end to the slavers' operation. I ask you again, who are you?"

There was an audible sigh of relief from behind the door. "Thank the gods! Please, set me free! I am Lady Morwin Elissar of Greyhawk! I was captured and sent here weeks ago. That accursed Icar keeps me here in the dark, chained to the wall! He said he wanted to keep me here along with... his other treasures. He... he would..."

The voice broke down amidst sobbing. 

"It's all right, Lady Elissar. We will have you out of there shortly. Take heart!" The ranger turned around just in time to see Tojo return to the room. The samurai's hands were empty, but before Elrohir could say anything, he saw the samurai's gaze alight upon the top of the lintel.

"Key on top of door, Errohir-san."

"What? Oh, excellent!" Elrohir reached up, and after a momentary fumbling managed to bring the key down. He immediately inserted it into the lock and turned it.

In the back, Cygnus filled Tojo in. "There's a noblewoman from Greyhawk imprisoned within. She said that Icar is keeping her there as one of his treasures." The wizard made a sour face. "He apparently had an appetite for- such treasures."

Tojo stared at him. Slowly, a frown creased the samurai's face. "That not possiber," he said quietly.

"Look, Tojo," the mage replied. "I know that Icar was a samurai and all that, but he was working for _slavers_, for Asgard's sake! How honorable could he have been?"

"Not possiber!" Tojo repeated, more loudly now.

Argo Bigfellow, watching this, suddenly whirled around.

_"Elrohir! Don't!" _

The warning reached the party leader's ears a moment after the door opened and his eyes beheld what was inside.

He never heard it. The last sound he had heard was a loud hissing. 

Talass, who had been looking at her husband rather than at the door, suddenly screamed and dove forward and to the right of the doorway.

_"MEDUSA!" _

It was only after she rolled to a squatting position that the cleric hoped that the others knew just what a medusa was- and what it meant. 

Fortunately, they seemed to. With yells and no small amount of confusion, the other four party members had backed up away from the door. Talass could see them now. Everyone held their weapons out in front in a generic gesture of defense, but their eyes were glued to the floor in front of them.

There was a sharp metallic _clank_, as if a chain had been stretched to its limits.

_Well, what do you know?_ Talass thought to herself. _She really was Icar's prisoner! _

She gritted her teeth. The priestess knew what she had to do. The only question was if she would be able to do it before the enormity of what had just happened broke through to her. Talass knew she was going to be useless once that happened. 

She took a deep breath and abruptly dived back the way she came.

"All of you, keep looking away!" she yelled. 

"Talass! Don't try anything stupid!" Cygnus shouted.

The cleric rolled back to her feet in her previous position, just behind Elrohir. As she grasped her holy symbol and whirled around to face the door again, Talass closed her eyes, but not before she had gotten a glimpse of the stone statue that had once been her husband.

Tears welled up behind her closed eyelids. 

_No! Not yet! _

She was about to start casting when she heard Nesco call out.

"Talass! The key! By Elrohir's foot!"

The priestess bent her head down and opened one eye slightly.

Elrohir had removed the key from the lock as he had opened the door. It had fallen from his hand when he was petrified, and now lay perhaps two feet in front of his right foot.

At the very upper limit of her current field of view, Talass could see the top of a head covered with a writhing, hissing mass of snakes. The medusa was on all fours, stretched to the very limit of her chain. A hand and arm, both covered in fine, snake-like scales was straining, its fingers only an inch or so away from the key.

Talass had to make a conscious effort to keep her one open eye from popping open even further.

_The key! It must fit the lock on her chain, as well! _

"What's going on in there?" came a familiar voice.

_Zantac! He's coming in! _

The medusa, suddenly aware of the figure near her, abruptly jerked her face up.

Talass closed her eyes just in time. She thrust her holy symbol out and started chanting.

The entire room went black.

There was a horrible screeching sound. It continued, but then Talass' voice carried over it.

"Everyone back up, towards the north wall!" 

One by one, the adventurers emerged out of what they immediately recognized as a field of magical _darkness_. Soon, they were all clustered about twenty feet from the south doorway. 

They were too stunned to say anything, but they all knew they didn't have the luxury of going into shock, so they all just stood around and trembled.

The medusa's screeching and hissing continued.

And then abruptly stopped.

Talass was the first to realize the implication.

"The key!" she shouted. "She's got the key!"

_"Fireball!"_ Cygnus yelled and reached into his spell component pouch, but Talass grabbed his arm.

"NO!" she shrieked, so loudly that the magic-user stared in shock at his compatriot.

Talass' face was wild with fear. "You'll hit Elrohir! You'll..." she swallowed hard. "You'll... destroy him! They won't be able to raise him from that!"

"We have no other spells that will work, Talass!" the mage shouted back. "We have no choice but to-"

Tojo's battle cry suddenly filled the room.

And before anyone could react, the samurai had plunged back into the _darkness_ field, his katana at the ready. 

"Tojo!" Nesco screamed.

Cygnus closed his eyes again. _One by one, we die,_ he thought. _I should just follow him in there and get it over with. I told Thorin I wasn't a coward. Why don't I prove it and just go in there? _

But his feet wouldn't move. Cygnus, Zantac, Talass, Argo and Nesco stood there and listened as Tojo battled the medusa in complete darkness. 

The medusa's screeching abruptly ceased.

There was a dull _thump._

And Yanigasawa Tojo slowly, with trembling steps, emerged from the darkness.

The others quickly guided him to the chair. Amazingly, the samurai seemed to have escaped almost completely unscathed, save for a nasty-looking snakebite on his right arm. He seemed weak though, almost exhausted, and breathing heavily. Without a second thought, he grabbed the carafe of wine on the table, popped the cork off and finished off the remaining contents.

The others stared at him.

She watched as Talass leaned her head in close to the samurai's ear. 

"Thank you, Tojo," she whispered.

The samurai turned his head. They stared into each other's eyes for a moment, and then he nodded briefly and looked away.

Nesco came up as Talass retreated. The samurai looked at her expectantly.

"Tojo," said Nesco softly. "How were you able to battle the medusa in total darkness?"

Tojo hesitated a moment for replying. He still seemed to be trying to control his breathing. He did not look directly at Nesco now.

"I watch how Icar fight," the samurai noted. "He fight without seeing. He hear, he- _sense_. I try to do same."

"But… how could you have learned… so quickly?"

Tojo's face took on a troubled aspect. It was the face Nesco had come to recognize when the samurai was unable to find the words he wanted. Finally, he just leaned back in his chair. His voice was a mere whisper now.

"Perhaps… just rucky, Nesco-san."

His eyes closed. The ranger stood back, recognizing the samurai's attempt to place himself into his meditative state.

Talass pulled Argo aside.

"He's been poisoned," she said to him quietly.

Bigfellow glanced at Tojo with concern, and then back to Talass.

"How bad?" he asked through thin lips. "And can you help him?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think that medusa venom is fatal in and of itself, but it can make the victim so weak, he can't move. I could be wrong about that, though. And no, I can't cure him. I don't even have the prayer memorized to slow the course of the poison down." 

Argo said nothing.

Talass could almost hear the cracking sound within her as she could feel herself start to slip. 

"This is it, isn't it?" she said. It was more of a confirmation than a question.

Before he could reply, Bigfellow turned his head. Cygnus, Zantac and Nesco were standing right behind him. The cleric's remark had been directed at them as much as at him.

Argo took a deep breath. He desperately wanted to think up witty and encouraging to say, but right now he couldn't even manage his famous pained smile.

The image of Caroline kept trying to break into his thoughts.

_Who made me leader, and what were they thinking?_ he thought to himself wryly, and the thought was almost enough to make him smile.

Almost. 

Argo gestured towards the globe of blackness in front of them. "Talass, how long will that last?"

The priestess chewed her lip. "Close to an hour."

Bigfellow frowned. "Too long. Can you dispel it?"

Talass slowly nodded.

"Do it. Elrohir's desire for treasure got us in this mess, and now I'm thinking it's the only thing that's going to get us out..."

Argo grunted and groaned as he rammed Harve's trip around inside the large iron chest's lock. 

"The indignity..." muttered the sword, but immediately after that comment, a crack appeared in the metal by the keyhole. The ranger stuck the sword in the tiny crevice and pulled down, using the blade as a lever. The metal strained until, with a soft pop, the lock gave way.

"That would have been easier if that damn key had fit that lock as well," Argo said, exhaling hard.

Zantac was once again guarding the north door of the kitchen. Nesco, Talass and Cygnus were already sitting down on the floor, gathered around the chest. The mage reached out and slowly opened the lid.

Gold glittered an odd color in Harve's red light. The chest was mostly filled with what Cygnus took a rough guess to be about two thousand gold pieces. Even without sifting through them, Nesco and Talass could see they were from many different lands. The Pomarj, Greyhawk, The Ulek states, and many others.

Digging through the coins netted ten polished pieces of jet, and ten matching silver and black opal bracelets. The quartet stored away the jewelry and some gold, but Talass and Cygnus continued to sift through the coins. They were looking for something else.

"There's nothing," Talass said worriedly. 

"There has to be," Cygnus said reassuringly. "I've been on enough crawls to know. As I told Aslan, there are some things... you can... always... ah, HA!"

The wizard pulled back, a thin wooden box, perhaps six by twelve inches, in his hands. He hurriedly slid the lid open, not even considering the possibility of a magical trap until after he had done so. He breathed a sigh of relief as he looked at the others.

"Count on," he finished, smiling and looking inside.

Talass reached in and pulled out two sheets of parchment that had each been folded over many times.

Cygnus locked eyes with the priestess. "You first?" he asked.

She nodded. "All right."

Talass cast her orison, and spread out the parchments on the floor in front of her. A smile slowly appeared on her face.

"They're scrolls of spells, all right. One divine, the other arcane."

The cleric's eyes flickered back and forth as she snatched up one of the scrolls and started scanning down along its length. The smile slowly faded away.

_"Stone to flesh," _she murmured. "_Stone to flesh_. Please, Forseti, it's got to be here. It's _got_ to."

Cygnus, having also cast his last _read magic_ cantrip, silently perused the second scroll.

Argo and Nesco looked on. Neither said a word.

Talass scowled. She nearly crumpled up her parchment before seeming to reconsider at the last moment and instead refolding it. The priestess shook her head in annoyance.

"The same prayer. Six copies of the same prayer!"

"Which prayer?" asked Argo.

Talass glared at him. "_Strength_. You have a particular use for that, Bigfellow?"

Argo did not reply immediately, but looked thoughtful. In the meantime, Nesco waited until Cygnus had finished his examination. The wizard looked over at the ranger with a wry smile.

"Six copies of _feather fall_." He shrugged. "Perhaps someone got a discount for ordering in bulk."

"I'm glad you think it's funny, Cygnus."

The mage sighed and slowly got back to his feet. Talass was already moving out of the ten by ten closet where the treasure chest, bolted to the floor, had been located.

The cleric had closed her eyes so she would not have to look at the statue that still stood in front of it. She moved towards the entrance to the kitchen., then stopped and folded her arms. She did not look back at the others, but her voice was loud and strong.

"And so it ends here," Talass said. "At first, I was against all this. Then, back in Highport, I thought that perhaps it was the will of the Justice Bringer that we die in a noble cause. But this," and she waved her right hand around in a gesture designed to encompass everything, "there's nothing noble about this. Our own mistakes, our own flaws, our own weaknesses have once again landed us to the edge of death's domain. Not by our enemies do we die, but by ourselves."

The priestess abruptly whirled around. Her eyes filled with a cold, blue anger.

"Do you still have your Enemies List, Cygnus? Did you remember to add all our names to it? The record must be clear for posterity!"

Cygnus couldn't find it within himself to reply. He was once again listening to Aslan's words in his head.

_Yes, Cygnus, there is something you can do. You can add all of our names to that Enemies List of yours. It'll be a blessed miracle if we all don't wind up killing each other before they do._

The magic-user closed his eyes, his right hand still clutching the arcane scroll.

_Please, Lord Odin. Don't let it end like this. Let me see my son again, and let Talass see hers. We've seen the worst in ourselves. Show us the best. Show us that we at least had a chance of success._

Cygnus did not hear Odin's voice in reply, however. Only Argo's.

"I won't speak for you, my good lady, or for anyone else, but I for one intend to get out of here. I have a wife back home that I would very much like to see again; the sooner, the better. Now are you interested in helping, or pontificating?"

Cygnus opened his eyes just in time to see Talass stride right up to Argo and stare right into his eyes.

"You have another miracle up your sleeve, Bigfellow?" she hissed. "You holding out something on us?

Argo did not flinch. He kept his face absolutely neutral.

"No, my good lady. You are."

Talass blinked. "What?"

The ranger's eyes flickered down. "To be precise, that scroll that you're holding out in your right hand."

The cleric looked at the scroll. Puzzlement battled with suspicion for control of her expression. She glanced back up at Argo. "So?"

"So how long will a casting of that prayer last, my good lady?"

Talass frowned. "Four, maybe five minutes."

Bigfellow folded his arms. "So, you cast _strength_ once on Tojo, to get him back up to fighting form. And then, you cast it on me."

The cleric looked at the ranger expectantly. Argo looked at her and smiled.

"So I can carry Elrohir."

Talass was silent for a moment, and then glanced around at the others.

"I think we should make a break for it, Talass," said Nesco.

The cleric hesitated, and then shrugged, although her heart still didn't seem in it.

"Why not?"

She unfurled the scroll and began to read…

Argo barked out orders as the party approached their petrified party leader. "Zantac! Push that barrel aside and keep the north door closed yourself! We're going to have to open it quickly. Tojo- you and Talass will be the second line behind Nesco and myself! Cygnus- you and Zantac are going to be the rear guard. I'm sorry we can't offer you protection. You're going to have to use up your remaining spells for that! Ready now- the _strength _spells won't last long!"

Argo grabbed the statue and heaved.

And heaved.

He managed to lift it off the ground, but could only stagger a step or two before setting it down again.

"It's… still too heavy."

"No," Talass whispered.

"Can you cast another _strength_ spell on Argo, Talass?" Nesco asked hurriedly.

"No," she whispered. "It doesn't work that way."

She trembled for a moment, and then abruptly flung her arms around the statue.

"Dearest!" she cried. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

Talass burst into tears, hugging her petrified husband, as if hoping he would somehow come back to life and put his arms around her. Elrohir's left arm was flung outwards, having just swung the door open, the fingers spread slightly apart. His right hand held a stone sword, pointed off to the side. Talass nestled herself between the statue's arms and leaned her head into its cold, unyielding shoulder.

Argo clenched his fist in frustration. "Please, my good lady… Talass. We _have _to go!"

The cleric kept her eyes shut tight. Tears continued to trickle down her face. "I'm not leaving without my husband, Argo," she said quietly. "You go. All of you. I wish you luck."

"Talass," Nesco said suddenly. "Cast _strength_ on me! Together, Argo and I will be able to carry him!"

Talass kept her eyes closed, but a bitter smile appeared on her face. "And who does that leave us to fight our way through the enemy hordes, Nesco? Myself and Tojo?" She shook her head. "We wouldn't make it a hundred yards." She took a deep breath, apparently accepting of her fate. "If Tojo can die with dignity, then so can I. I'll cast the prayer for you if you want, but I'm staying right here." Her voice faded to a whisper as she hugged Elrohir tighter. "With my husband… my love."

Nesco wildly looked back and forth in panic.

Cygnus looked to be on the verge of tears himself. The wizard's shoulders were slumped, and he was staring down at the floor, unable to meet anyone's face.

Tojo stood nearby, his hands clasped behind his back. The _strength_ spell had seemed to restore him to normal, if only temporarily. In the midst of what might be the party's last and emotional moments, his face had at last regained the passivity of old.

His eyes however, showed he was thinking. Thinking of something.

Argo snarled, grabbed Talass by the shoulders and spun her around.

_"Now you listen to me, my good lady!" _The big ranger's auburn eyes seemed almost aflame, much as Aslan's had been earlier.

"The heavens must be crumbling for me to say this, but Aslan was right! And so was Elrohir! There are times to go off on your own, and there are times where you stand together with the ones you love, and this IS that time!" Bigfellow's voice was hoarse with passion. "Yes, we may die. In fact, we probably will! If that's the case, then we'll be happier in the afterlife! Don't they teach you that in… in… _cleric school?"_

Despite herself, Talass smiled again. She shook her head sadly at him.

"Argo Bigfellow Junior, you are a fool."

The ranger nodded vigorously. "Damn right I am! Have I ever said otherwise? Ask Caroline! She knows I've never had a lick of common sense! So be it- you work with what you've got! Good lord woman, even that bastard sword of mine knows that!"

Talass just stared at him. Argo held up a finger.

"Now, I have what only someone who is about to die and has no other choice would call a plan! It may raise our chances for survival from zero to one percent- that's all I can give you, but this plan needs you, Talass! I need you to cast that spell on Nesco, and then I need you to take that warhammer of yours and fight like you've never fought before!" He spun her around and almost shoved the cleric right into Cynewine.

"Cast it now! We've already wasted too much time, and for my plan to work, we've got to get out of here and back into the corridor before-"

There was a crashing noise from outside. Then it came again.

Argo, Cygnus and Tojo rushed into the kitchen. Zantac was jamming Cygnus' quarterstaff against the door, trying desperately to brace it up. He swung around to face the trio, his face wild with terror.

"The hobgoblins!" he cried. _"They're breaking in!"_


	85. Surprise

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"Lieutenant Kairn!" 

The half-orc scowled and turned to the right to eye the approaching hobgoblin.

For some reason, Kairn had never liked the way his name rolled off the tongue in the goblin language. He'd just as soon the damn hobbies spoke Common, or even orcish. That wasn't an option, of course. All the hobgoblins stationed in the fort were from the same remote tribe, whose lair was a few days march southwards in the central Drachensgrabs. Their leader insisted that learning the tongue of man, or any foreign tongue for that matter, was a "waste of time," which could be put to better use, such as additional training in warfare.

Fat load of good that had done them tonight. Kairn had been told they'd lost at least a dozen hobgoblins already, not to mention the cloaker and presumably, everyone who had been in the kitchen.

Including Commander Icar. The lieutenant couldn't help but wonder about that. Although he had never said so, the half-orc had been in awe of the Kara-Turan's fighting skills, especially considering his handicap. Kairn, with his greatsword that he called "Winnower," was no mere novice as a warrior, and Captain Stalworth, with a sword that put Winnower to shame, was (Kairn admitted reluctantly) even better. Still, he wouldn't have bet that the two of them combined could have ever taken on Icar and emerged victorious.

Thus, it did make sense to Kairn when he heard that one of the invaders' six warriors was also a Kara-Turan, and carried the same type of samurai sword as Icar. They must be extraordinary fighters in general, the half-orc reasoned.

Kairn kept his arms stretched out in front of him at just-above chest height, both hands grasping Winnower's pommel and the sword's tip resting on the floor, so as to be better show off the weapon's massive size. Although smaller than his hobgoblin troops in stature, Kairn knew how to cut an impressive figure. While he admired the military discipline and relative cleanliness of the hobbies as compared to the other humanoids employed by the slavers, he knew they placed an inordinate amount of emphasis on appearances. So, to keep morale high, he and Captain Stalworth gave their soldiers the impressive-looking leaders they wanted.

So, here he was, standing alone in the corridor intersection thirty feet north of the kitchen. No one ever got within five feet of the lieutenant if they could help it, in deference to his rank and his sword.

Not necessarily in that order.

Now the lieutenant could only hope that his troops would get the job done his time. He frowned as he looked at the shield held in the hand of the approaching hobgoblin. Like that of every other hobbie in the stockade, it bore a yellow sun atop a mountain peak. The tribe's name was supposed to be something fierce and terrifying, but in Common it came out as "Pus Drippers," or something revolting of that nature. Instead of fear, it inspired only nausea. Perhaps to a hobgoblin, those two were always related.

Kairn shook these thoughts off as his subordinate pulled up short in front of him, just outside the required distance.

"What is it, Sergeant Kezz?" 

The humanoid's face held a fierce grin, which Kairn didn't feel was warranted under the circumstances.

"Gulyet is ready, lieutenant. Her spells are ready to cast, but says they will not last long. She requests that we send her notice when the intruders are near. Captain Stalworth reports all forces are in final position." A bestial light seemed to shine in Kezz's yellow eyes. "These scum won't escape us now." 

Kairn grunted. "They've done a fair job of it so far, sergeant." The half-orc returned his gaze to his front. Seven hobgoblins stood in the short corridor that ran south, ending in the door to the kitchen. Just in front of the door, two of their strongest, armed with battleaxes, were steadily chopping away at the door.

The introduction of external light disturbed his darkvision. Kairn spun around to his left, where another half-dozen hobgoblins were congregating on the stairs that led up to the guard tower's trapdoor. A flicker of torchlight came through the open door in the ceiling. 

_ "Put that light out, you boggle-brains!" _ the lieutenant roared.

The light flickered wildly for a moment, and then went out.

"These humans have two glowing swords with them, and that's it!" Kairn shouted at the hobbies on the stairs. They knew they were only the proxies for the half-orc's anger, but they flinched nonetheless at his voice. 

"I want them blinded by darkness as soon as possible," the half-orc continued, turning back to the south again. He wanted to make sure all of his troops present heard this. 

"Listen up, you maggots!" 

The hobgoblins to both south and east turned to him, the two axe wielders at the front stopping their labor as well.

The lieutenant leaned forward slightly, tightening his grip on his sword. "These accursed humans have already gotten a lot further than they should have!" Kairn's brown eyes raked over his troops. "Their continued existence carries not only our shame, but the wasted blood of your kin as well!" 

Eyes narrowed, and guttural mutterings and outright growls erupted.

_All too easy_, Kairn thought. He narrowed his eyes and raised his voice. _ "Will you let this continue?" _

A roaring chorus of "NO!" erupted from numerous humanoid throats, followed by shouts, rattling of swords and general posturing. Kairn let it go on for about thirty seconds, and then gestured for silence again.

"Now, remember! Once the door is broken down, I want you all charging into that room! May Maglubiyet help anyone I see getting involved in a fight in the doorway! We outnumber them- I want our advantage used, not squandered! Surround them inside, and _then_ hack them to pieces!" 

The hobbies grunted their acknowledgement.

Kairn lowered his voice again. "At my command, break the door down." The lieutenant saw Kezz eyeing him questioningly. He sighed loudly enough to let the hobgoblin know he was irritated, then responded. "Yes, sergeant?" 

Kezz indicated the kitchen door. " Do you really think Commander Icar is dead, sir?" 

"No, Kezz. I'm sure he invited them in for one of those tea ceremonies of his." _What a damn stupid question,_ he thought. _Does he really think Icar would allow himself to be taken alive?_

The sergeant was embarrassed, having evidently latched onto this train of thought. Trying to recover his bravado, he shrugged. "I'm sure he must have taken at least some of them down with him." 

Kairn glared at Kezz coldly. "Well then, if that's the case you hobbies should be able to finish off the leftovers, right?" 

Kezz bristled. He detested that nickname for his people, and he knew that his superior knew that. He also knew that complaining to Captain Stalworth about it would only make things much, much worse for himself, so he choked it down. Trying to keep calm, the hobgoblin again indicated the kitchen with a nod of his head.

"Do you think they've discovered either of the passages down to the dungeon?" 

Now it was the half-orc's turn to shrug. "I doubt it, but it doesn't really matter. If they have, and they retreat down into the dungeon when we break in, Markessa and Blackthorn will make short work of them. However," and here Kairn again turned a cold eye to his subordinate, "you can be sure there will be reprisals afterwards, for allowing them to get down there in the first place. I'm sure you've heard about how Markessa doesn't like to be disturbed when she's... working." 

Kezz swallowed hard. He had heard.

"But- that wouldn't be our fault! That would be Icar's! "

Kairn favored the hobgoblin with a bitter smile. "Dead men make poor choices for punishment, sergeant. Besides, Markessa is always in need of new... test subjects." 

The hobgoblin's face went pale as Kairn turned again to the soldiers on the stairs. Once the first wave has pushed into the kitchen, you will follow." He paused for a moment. "I trust that your brethren will not allow the humans to escape the kitchen, but if they do, you are to wait until they turn this corner and head for the outside," and here he pointed down the corridor towards the west, "and then attack them from the rear. Two of the humans are in plate mail- you should have no trouble keeping up with them. And if they're still alive by the time you reach the parade grounds, we'll have them trapped, between our forces and Captain Stalworth's. Our little goblin shaman will put the finishing touches on- to ensure that they'll never know what hit them." 

The hobgoblins broke into a ragged cheer. With a flicker of his eyes, Kairn directed Kezz back into the fourth rank, awaiting their breakthrough. The sergeant was not happy at being denied a special place in the upcoming glory, but he obeyed. As Kairn knew he would.

An honest if ugly grin broke out on the lieutenant's face. Soon, this unpleasant business would be over. It was not lost on the half-orc that in all probability, Stalworth was going to be promoted to Commander after all this was over, leaving Kairn as the new Captain.

Very nice indeed. Kairn reminded himself to drink a toast to Icar when he got the chance. 

He raised his right hand, directing his gaze at the two axe wielders. The door beyond looked like it was about ready to go down. "All right, you slackards! Give it all you've got, on three!" 

The hobgoblins grinned, spat on their hands and gripped their battleaxes with both hands.

"ONE!" 

The humanoids hoisted their weapons, the second rank behind them taking a step backwards.

"TWO!" 

The hobgoblins wound up. Every muscle on their bodies tensed. 

"THREE!" 

And the door exploded. 

_OUTWARDS._

Amidst a shower of wood debris, the humans came charging through. There was some kind of _thunk_ sound, and Kairn saw the two front hobbies go down. Caught them off-guard, he thought. He knew there was a chance that might have happened.

"STOP THEM!" he yelled at his troops. "PUSH THEM BACK!" 

The second rank of hobgoblins went down.

Kairn's eyes went wide.

"What the-" he said to no one in particular.

The third rank went down.

Lieutenant Kairn was not easily frightened, but he was now taking a few steps back, bringing Winnower up into battle position. His eyes frantically scanned the scene in front of him, trying to ascertain what the situation was. It was hard to tell, between the fourth and last rank still in front of him, and the general chaos of battle.

There seemed to be only six of the enemy. Sergeant Kezz had apparently been correct in that Icar or his forces had slain some of the intruders. That was some comfort, but the remaining humans seemed to have somehow transformed themselves into an unstoppable juggernaut.

A male fighter in plate mail and a female in chainmail were in the front line, but it almost seemed as if- as if they weren't even armed. A faint red glow behind the male indicated that he had strapped his glowing sword behind his back.

There was no sign of the glowing white sword. _That one must be dead,_ Kairn thought.

Their second line consisted of the Kara-Turan and the other female, also clad in chain. They were being brutally efficient, attacking the downed hobgoblins beneath them as they followed their leaders' overrun.

Behind them were the two wizards. Kairn blinked again. Each mage was also a light source, neither one of which the half-orc was expecting.

The taller one, on the right as Kairn saw him, was wielding his quarterstaff, but both ends had apparently been wrapped with rags, dipped in tallow wax from the kitchen's storeroom and set ablaze, turning it into a double torch. The human was handling this impromptu weapon with some aplomb, slamming the burning end onto the hobbies beneath him. Kairn was almost impressed. Humans usually didn't fight this fiercely, in his experience.

The magic-user was really swinging that staff around, the half-orc thought. He was amazed that his fellow wizard's face and hair didn't catch on fire from that twirling firestick.

The shorter mage on the left had no staff, but was carrying something in the crook of his left arm. It looked like... it looked like... Kairn squinted.

It was a kettle.

A small, black iron pot from the kitchen, with a mouth perhaps a foot wide.

Kairn squinted. There was a reddish glow coming from the kettle.

The half-orc's mouth dropped wide open in astonishment as the red-robed wizard stuck his bare hand into the pot and came out holding a big glob of red-hot grease. Flames flickered over the viscous liquid's surface.

The mage showed no discomfort at all from this.

_Icar's ring! _

This information came flying into Kairn's head at about the same time the burning glob of grease came flying at it. The half-orc twisted and ducked, and just barely managed to avoid the flaming missile.

This was getting out of hand.

The humans were coming closer, and now the lieutenant caught a momentary, fragmented glimpse of something.

Something the two fighters in front were carrying.

He couldn't tell what it was, but there was only one thing it could be. The final incredulity of all this was too much for the half-orc.

_ "By the gods!" _he cried out. _ "Where the hell did they get a BATTERING RAM?" _

Carrying the petrified form of Elrohir horizontally between them at about chest height, Argo and Nesco charged ahead as fast as their heavy load would let them move. Acting together on an unspoken wavelength, they swung the statue around. First, a stone head crashed into one hobbie, and then the stone feet would smash into another's stomach, doubling it over.

Hobgoblins went down like tenpins.

Nesco could hear the dying screams of hobgoblins behind them that she knew the others were dispatching. Something about that disturbed the ranger, but she put it out of her mind as best she could.

_It's us or them._

There was now only one rank of two hobbies in front of them, and a half-orc wearing banded mail and carrying a greatsword in back of them. _He's got 'leader' written all over him,_ Cynewine thought. _If we can take him out, perhaps their morale will break._

Meanwhile, one of the remaining hobgoblins had apparently learned something watching his companions' demise. He took the statue swing on his shield, then snarled and stabbed high with his longsword at Argo's face.

The big ranger rotated Elrohir around fast, and a stone Gokasillion parried the attack. Argo pushed hard and upwards with a mighty shove, and the stone ranger's forehead smashed into the hobgoblin's fleshy one.

It wasn't much of a contest.

The big ranger laughed loudly. "Elrohir's an even better fighter today than usual! Too bad he's not here to see himself in action!"

_"Damn you to the Nine Hells, Argo Bigfellow! If something happens to Elrohir, I swear I'll kill you myself!"_

Talass, currently behind Argo, could barely control her rage at the ranger's seemingly cavalier attitude. She again took out her frustrations on the poor hobbie beneath her, caving the humanoid's skull in with a mighty swing of her warhammer. If the supply of humanoid craniums ran out, Talass didn't think she'd be able to stop herself from targeting the back of Bigfellow's head, so temptingly located right in front of her.

Tojo was back in form, silently stabbing every fallen form beneath him. For the moment at least, he seemed his old reliable self.

Zantac, like Argo, was having a ball.

"This ring is great, Argo!" the Willip wizard called out to the front. "When we get back to the Brass Dragon, I'll give up any other shares for it!"

Cygnus smirked as he jammed his flaming quarterstaff into the gaping hole in a hobgoblin's chest left by Tojo's katana. "You think we have problems now; wait until it's time to divvy up the swag! Even a _silence_ spell won't quell that screaming match!"

Zantac only grinned in return. "Trust me Cygnus, when it comes to people shouting and grasping for magic items, you people have _nothing_ on the Guild!" 

Nesco frowned. She had just seen the half-orc turn to the east and shout out something in the goblin tongue.

_The guard tower hobgoblins_, she thought. _This could be bad._

Incredibly, at that moment the half-orc yelled something- Nesco could only make out _Kezz_- at the remaining hobbie right in front of her, and then took off running down the west corridor.

Both Cynewine and the hobgoblin stared at the intersection that the half-orc had just vacated.

They then looked back at each other with identical expressions of astonishment. 

Then Nesco dropped her half of Elrohir on his foot.

The humanoid screamed in agony, dropping his shield. Cynewine swiftly drew her dagger and plunged it into the creature's throat. Vainly trying to remove the embedded blade, the hobbie staggered back into the intersection. As he dropped to the floor, Nesco picked up her end of the party's burden, and they moved on.

Cygnus, like the other members of his party before him, stared at the hobgoblins gathered on the staircase leading up to the guard tower. He wasn't sure why they weren't attacking. They were either waiting for some kind of signal, or just hesitating from sheer terror.

_Perhaps a little of both._

The question seemed to be answered as the party finished its turn through the intersection and headed west. 

The hobbies suddenly charged, weapons drawn and screaming battle cries.

"Take this," Cygnus muttered, tossing his fiery staff to Zantac. The shorter mage, caught off guard, fumbled for a moment before finally grabbing it just below its tip. 

_I wonder if this ring has a time limit per day, or something like that? _the Willip wizard wondered idly as he watched the flames curl harmlessly around his right hand.

Suddenly, Zantac remembered that he was about to die.

He looked up. 

The hobgoblins were almost upon them. The magic-user's mouth dropped open in shock.

"Uhh, Cygnus? Spell?"

The lead hobgoblin thrust his sword at Zantac in a charging attack- only to be suddenly stopped by a white wall of sticky spider webs.

The milky filaments filled up the ten by ten intersection, as well as the stairway behind it. The party heard the cries and screams of the entrapped humanoids grow fainter as they continued on.

"Could you have cut that any closer?" Zantac grumbled as he thrust Cygnus' quarterstaff back into its owner's hand.

The tall mage grimaced. "I thought that was pretty close myself, Zantac, but if you really want, I'll try."

As they pushed open the door to the inner courtyard, Argo tensed up, and then relaxed that there were no hobgoblins immediately about. The ranger took a big gulp of the cool night air.

Bigfellow was no longer laughing and joking. His arms were in absolute agony. The petrified Elrohir had to weigh over 800 pounds, and even sharing the load with a similarly strength-enhanced Nesco, the burden was getting to be too much. From the grunting of Lady Cynewine beside him, it was obvious the strain was getting to her as well.

It was also not lost on the ranger that their _strength_ spells were probably due to expire in less than a minute.

Every head twisted and turned, scanning above and to the sides, alert for possible hobgoblin ambush. As they skirted the fountain, Argo could dimly see the archway that marked the location of the portcullis that separated the parade grounds from the outer courtyard. It was still a good hundred feet away, at least.

_We won't even make it that far with him_, he realized glumly

As the party reached the end of the inner courtyard, Bigfellow felt a tap on his shoulder.

"What now, Argo?" came the voice of Talass behind him.

The big ranger sighed while adjusting his grip on Elrohir. "I don't know, good lady," he said wearily.

He turned his head around to look at the cleric. On his face was that pained smile.

"To tell you the truth, I didn't think we'd make it this far."

"Look out!" yelled Nesco.

An arrow whizzed by, just to the left of Argo's head. Bigfellow looked ahead. He could just barely make them out in the moonlight, but there several hobgoblins standing directly behind the portcullis, firing at them through the gate with bows.

Argo looked up. The top of the gatehouse was lined with bow-wielding hobbies as well.

For some reason though, these ones weren't firing.

Argo looked around. "There!" he yelled, pointing towards the east gatehouse tower. "There's got to be a door on the far side of that! If we can get inside for a moment, we may have the chance to renew the _strength_ spells!"

"The gatehouse? It's probably crawling with hobbies!"

"I wouldn't doubt it, my good lady, but our options are slim right now!"

The sextet started moving again. The tower was about forty feet away.

It seemed to be taking forever. At the halfway point, they had at least moved out of view of the hobgoblins behind the portcullis. The humanoids on the top of the gatehouse followed the party's progress with drawn bows, but still did not open fire.

"I don't like this," Cygnus offered, staring up at the creatures above them. "Why aren't they shooting at us?"

Zantac shrugged. "They're probably waiting for some sort of-"

Cygnus turned his head to look at his fellow magic-user.

_Sort of what?_

He spoke the words, but nothing came out.

Cygnus wildly looked around. The entire party was now sporting wild-eyed looks of surprise. The awful truth came crashing home to Cygnus in the next instant.

A _silence_ spell. And this time, it wasn't theirs.

Everyone stopped, heads whirling around in every direction, looking for a hobgoblin ambush.

No one saw anything, however.

Until it was too late.

A muscular arm suddenly wrapped itself around Argo's neck and yanked him off to the left. The ranger caught a brief glimpse of Nesco being simultaneously pulled off to the right by a hobgoblin that hadn't been there a second ago.

The petrified Elrohir tumbled to the ground. Talass' mouth opened wide in a silent scream as she saw two fist-sized chunks of the statue break off on impact.

But there was no time for anything further. In an instant, she too was grappling with a hobgoblin that had just popped out of _invisibility_.

Cygnus saw Tojo and Zantac likewise grappling with opponents who had materialized out of thin air. He himself seemed to be attacker-free at the moment, so he looked around, trying to get a handle on the situation.

Around the corner of the very tower they were heading towards came more hobgoblins. Perhaps a dozen.

Cygnus looked behind him. At least another six hobbies, many still sporting remnants of white webs clinging to them, were rushing out of the inner courtyard towards them.

And far off to the west, perhaps eighty feet away, by the stables in the western tower, Cygnus could see a large wolf, with silvery-white fur, slowly walking towards them.

Astride the wolf was a goblin. Six more goblins on foot stood nearby.

Cygnus' only regret was that he allowed himself that one moment of hope.

_Goodbye, Thorin_, he mouthed.

The hobgoblin grappling with Zantac was the closest enemy to Cygnus, so he swung his flaming quarterstaff at the humanoid.

An arm, this one encased in overlapping bands of metal rather than leather, grabbed the staff in the middle and tore it out of the wizard's hand.

Cygnus turned to find himself staring into the brown eyes and grinning face of the half-orc. The creature's thick lips moved soundlessly.

_Surprise_, Cygnus could make out, just before Kairn's fist filled his whole world.


	86. Ambush

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Cygnus had always had a strong suspicion that getting punched out somehow hurt a lot more if you weren't able to hear yourself cry out when it happened.

When the mailed fist struck again, this time hitting him in the stomach so hard the mage doubled over in agony, he knew he'd been right.

The wizard's mouth hung open in a silent scream, and his eyes were scrunched up so tightly that they burned.

The blows continued. Cygnus instinctively tried to back away, but his foe stayed with him.

A cloud of dust rose up off the packed earth as Argo Bigfellow and his hobgoblin attacker hit the ground.

The ranger coughed and tried to clear his eyes. By the time he did, the humanoid was straddling him. One hand grasped Bigfellow's throat, while the other was drawing a serrated dagger from a shoulder sheath. The hobbie held his upper body upright, just out of Argo's reach. He snarled at the human, but no fear showed on his victim's face.

The dagger came down. 

Argo intercepted the creature's wrist with his left hand, and with a quick twist, snapped it.

_Having the strength of an ogre sure comes in handy_, the ranger thought to himself. _I'm beginning to understand why Aslan does it so often._

Not having to shut out the hobgoblin's scream due to the _silence_ field also helped Bigfellow as the ranger's right hand pried the weapon loose from the humanoid's now useless grip. The ranger's left hand now latched onto the hobbie's upper arm and used the leverage to pull his opponent downwards.

The dagger came up.

Despite her dire predicament, Nesco Cynewine was more annoyed than anything. 

For some reason, the fact that her attacker had used the cover of an _invisibility_ spell to sneak up on her bothered the ranger. As the hobgoblin grappled with her, trying to overbear her down to the ground, Nesco could only think that it seemed tremendously unsporting.

Not like, say... having magically enhanced strength.

Her fist smashed into the creature's face, squashing its already flattened nose even further. It roared mutely and staggered back a few steps, but was already drawing its longsword out of its scabbard.

Nesco considered her options. Both her shield and her sword were currently strapped across her back, and her dagger was embedded in the throat of a dead hobgoblin back in the fortress. Her opponent certainly didn't look like he intended to give the ranger the space she needed to draw and use her bow.

Oh, well.

_Time to use your head, Cynewine_, she thought. 

Nesco bent low and came in under the hobbie's swing. Her head glanced off its shield but still managed to connect solidly with its stomach.

As their situation reversed itself, with the human now trying to overbear the hobgoblin, it was hard to say which one was hurting more.

Talass was in trouble.

The cleric's warhammer lay on the ground, having been unceremoniously ripped out of her hand by her attacking hobbie.

She was already sporting a new bruise on her right cheek, courtesy of a vicious right hook from said assailant.

Talass' right arm was caught fast. The hobgoblin held it in a vise-like grip.

And being immersed in the _silence_ field made the use of any prayers a moot issue.

The priestess looked around. Talass was usually loath to seek assistance from her compatriots in combat, but things were not going well at all.

Her friends were all engaged, however. The only figures not yet involved in combat were the horde of reinforcement hobgoblins charging up.

Talass stole a quick glance at the statue lying on the ground. The statue that had once been her husband.

_I'm glad you won't feel anything when they kill you_, she thought sadly.

In fact, Talass' plight had not gone unnoticed.

Yanigasawa Tojo, unable to shout at his opponent, scowled at him instead.

The hobgoblin didn't seem to notice this. It was concentrating all its energy on keeping that katana from slicing into its flesh. The hobbie wasn't quite sure how the samurai had managed to draw his sword despite being grappled, but it had seen Icar wield his katana enough to know what it could do.

Tojo spared one more look over at Talass, and then turned back to his attacker. Relinquishing his grip on his katana with his left hand, the samurai quickly grabbed hold of what he seen earlier- one of this particular hobgoblin's long braids of hair. As he yanked down, Tojo's left knee rose up with astonishing speed to meet the side of the hobbie's rapidly descending head.

The blow was not fatal, but it did cause the hobgoblin to relinquish his grip on Tojo's katana.

Fatality soon followed.

Zantac _really_ didn't like hand-to-hand combat.

The red-robed wizard was currently hunched over, trying to protect his face from taking anymore of a beating. He also held his pot close to his body, like it was a precious jewel. At this point, bereft of offensive spells or weapons, Zantac considered it to be his only hope.

The hobgoblin that had been assaulting him apparently had the same idea. With a silent snarl, it rocked Zantac's chin back with a backhanded slap, and then grabbed hold of the iron pot.

_Well, that wasn't too smart_, Zantac thought as he watched the hobgoblin scream without a sound and fling the pot away before trying to blow on its burned and blistered hands. On the other hand, as he watched the last of the hot grease within spill out onto the dusty ground as the pot stopped rolling, he pretty much had no weapons whatsoever left now.

He did however, still have his legs.

Zantac took off at a dead run across the parade grounds, the hobbie at his heels.

As Cygnus' body was being crushed in a massive bear hug from in front, he felt his feet leave the ground. A groan was forced out of his lungs as he again stared into the malevolent eyes of the half-orc.

It took the magic-user's brain an additional moment to register the fact that his ears had heard his own groan.

Kairn had carried him out of the _silence_ field. As the partial cover of the wooden overhang appeared overhead, Cygnus realized that he was back inside the inner courtyard. He tried to shape his hands into fists and try to pummel his attacker, but he was dazed and in so much pain that they weren't responding.

The mage had a brief glimpse of hobgoblins pounding past him, heading in the opposite direction. The half-orc barked out orders at them as they passed, but he spoke in goblin, so Cygnus couldn't understand them.

Suddenly he was flying backwards, and then Cygnus landed on his back with so much force that he blacked out for a split-second.

When he regained consciousness, the half-orc was straddling him. Both of Cygnus' wrists had been firmly grasped and placed over his own throat. The grip his attacker had on him was so strong, Cygnus knew he was going to pass out again from the pain, and probably within a manner of seconds.

His brain clamored for it, promising a sweet release.

Kairn leaned in close. 

"What's the matter, wizard?" he hissed in Common. "Can't cast your little spells anymore?"

Cygnus gasped and looked up, past his assailant's head. He could see a few stars, pale and washed out in the cool light of the moons. He could see the dark, leafy shadows of the trees that went up through the overhang. A long thin object moved into his field of view- the silhouette of a massive sword strapped to his attacker's back.

For a moment, it all looked oddly peaceful.

Then he tried to breathe.

Cygnus's body began spasming as his lungs struggled for oxygen. He could feel his eyes bulging. This half-orc was choking him to death, and he could only think of one insanely impossible thing he could do about it.

And that one thing had a very good chance of killing him.

For some reason, that thought didn't bother him anymore. Even as his body was approaching death in agony, his mind had achieved a disconnect. A profound calmness settled back over him. Cygnus was ready to die. He'd already cheated death more than the most reckless adventurer could ever hope for. 

_Should have asked Talass for one of those strength spells. Ah, well. I look forward to meeting you, Lord Odin. I have quite a few questions for you, but only one request. Please look after my friends, and especially my son._

When I got home, I was going to bring him back and tell him how much I loved him.

The wizard grimaced and threw his last reserves of energy into one single action.

Moving his left wrist a distance of about one inch, just enough so that his left fist was pointing up at Kairn.

Cygnus' own voice sounded strange to him as he gazed into his attacker's eyes. It was a rough, raspy sound, seemingly from very far away. 

"I'll... let you... have this."

The half-orc's eyes shot over to the magic-user's left hand, and the glittering but plain ring on it.

Kairn smiled, revealing a mouth full of yellow, crooked teeth.

"Trying to buy me off, wizard?" He shook his head condescendingly, his smile growing even wider. "You can't fool me. That's not Icar's ring." 

Cygnus couldn't even nod with his head, only his eyes.

"I know," he croaked.

Somehow, he managed the smile... 

It just wouldn't have been the same without the smile… 

"Still going... to... let you... have it." 

Nesco's head whipped around at the first flash of light. 

From her current angle, the ranger couldn't see very far inside, but from the verdant interior of the inner courtyard came two more flashes from some type of explosions. Cynewine could of course hear nothing, but she could feel the subtle wave of pressure from the shockwaves.

She frowned. Some remote part of her brain had an idea what that might have been, but she just couldn't-

The hobgoblin that she had managed to knock down to the ground with a well-placed haymaker suddenly grabbed her ankle and yanked.

_Whoa,_ she mouthed into the _silence_.

Nesco landed hard on her butt, just about her only body part that hadn't been hurting up to this point. She snarled and launched a solid kick right into the hobbie's jaw, sending its head slamming into the ground and putting its lights out.

There was no time to kill the creature, however. More hobgoblins would be upon her shortly.

It was only as Nesco was painfully rising to her feet and unstrapping her sword did she realize that her _strength_ spell had worn off. 

She would have closed her eyes in grief, if she could have spared the moment.

_Even if we escape, Elrohir's not coming with us_, she thought.

Argo Bigfellow was also painfully aware of being at normal strength again.

The ranger was now back on his feet as well, Harve in hand.

The ranger had hurled the serrated dagger, now dripping with blood, at the nearest charging hobbie. The weapon hadn't really been balanced for throwing however, and had merely bounced off.

Over the heads of the onrushing mob Argo caught a glimpse of Zantac. The Willip wizard seemed to be pretty much running in a large circle, with irregular detours for evasive maneuvers that had little effect. A hobgoblin was doggedly chasing him. The creature was carrying a sword, but for some reason kept tossing it from one hand to the other, as if it hurt to hold the weapon for any length of time. 

Bigfellow took a deep breath as the humanoids came up. One launched himself immediately at Argo with a sword swing, which Harve parried.

The big ranger frowned, even as he settled into his battle routine. He had expected to be surrounded by hobgoblins, but the rest of the group had rushed right past him. He turned his head to see where they were heading.

Talass could hardly see anymore.

One eye was swollen shut from the savage beating this hobgoblin was inflicting upon her. It was almost literally holding the cleric up by her right hand, which it held as high up in the air as it could. Talass' feet only occasionally brushed the ground as the humanoid pounded her again and again.

The priestess of Forseti didn't want to give up, but nothing she had tried was working. Currently, she was pulling and prying at the hairy hand that was holding her aloft. It was in vain, though. The creature was just too strong.

_Wait a minute_, Talass thought suddenly. _Just how strong are you?_

The cleric suddenly pulled her feet up as high as she possibly could. The creature's grip held, dropping only an inch or two.

Talass eyed her attacker as best as she could.

_Hold that pose!_

Both feet shot out, slamming square into the humanoid's stomach. It gasped, staggered back a step, and then dropped her.

_Uh oh,_ Talass thought on the way down.

The impact momentarily stunned her. Gasping for breath in the midst of a temporary dust cloud, she could just barely make out her opponent, currently doubled over. Its mouth was moving, undoubtedly spewing out curses no one could hear.

Talass could relate.

The priestess looked around frantically for her warhammer, but between the dust and her currently distorted field of view, couldn't see it. 

She did however, see the hobgoblin straighten back up, draw its sword and advance towards her. Its face was twisted in a mask of absolute fury.

Talass began scooting backwards frantically on her rear, glancing around desperately for anything that could help her.

Or anyone.

Blood spurted over Tojo as the hobgoblin fell.

The Nipponese warrior glanced down. Three of the hobbies now lay dead or dying at his feet, but more were coming. 

And for some reason, most of the new arrivals seemed to be coming directly at him.

A grim smile passed over the samurai's face.

It vanished however, as he saw Talass, about fifteen feet away, clumsily trying to back away from her current attacker.

Tojo began to move towards her, and then stopped. 

His eyes narrowed to violet slits.

_What is he doing?_

Talass' sudden relief that Tojo had spotted her had just as quickly evaporated.

The samurai seemed to be gazing intently at her, rather than at the hobgoblin attacking her. 

Then he put away his katana.

_TOJO! _

Talass had forgotten about the _silence_ field in her panic. Her shout was useless.

She rolled to her left just as the hobgoblin's sword came slicing down.

The blade gouged a divot out of the packed earth instead of the cleric's body that had been there a moment before.

As her surroundings whirled about her, Talass caught another brief glimpse of Tojo. The samurai was now drawing his wakazashi from its sheath.

_Please, Tojo,_ Talass prayed, trying to keep an eye on both the hobbie and her fellow human. _Don't get all weird on me now!_

Without warning, the samurai suddenly hurled his short sword.

At Talass.

The cleric hadn't forgotten about the _silence_ field, but that didn't matter anymore as her mouth opened again reflexively in what she was sure would be her last scream.

The blade stopped in mid-air, about five feet from her.

Talass blinked.

She could spare the time for nothing else. Her attacker's sword dug through her chainmail armor as she managed to scramble to her feet. The wound may not have been a mortal one- at least, she didn't think it was, but she again threw an unheard cry of pain into the uncaring silence as the blade sliced into her right hip. She did manage to get her bearings, and saw that the hobbie was now also staring at the wakazashi.

The short sword seemed to be quivering as it hung in the air.

Blood started to appear near the hilt and drip to the dusty ground.

And suddenly, Tojo was there.

Talass' attacker turned around just in time for Tojo's katana to bury itself halfway into its neck. The cleric watched as Tojo pulled hard, finally managing to yank his blade free with a silent grunt.

_The poison,_ Talass thought. _Without the strength spell, he's weakening fast! _

Without warning, someone materialized out of nowhere in the space between Tojo and Talass.

A hobgoblin, blood pouring from the hole in its chest created as Tojo pulled his wakazashi free, twitched for a few seconds, and then collapsed on top of its fellow soldier that Tojo had just slain. 

Talass stared for a moment at the dead creature.

_The silence,_ she realized suddenly. _That hobbie was the center point for the silence spell! How did Tojo- _

But when she looked up again, she couldn't see the samurai anymore.

Six of the hobgoblin reinforcements had completely surrounded him.

Swords, some bloody and some not, glinted in the moonlight as they rose and then fell.

_Thank the Bringer! _

Talass' hand closed gratefully on the handle of her warhammer that she had somehow miraculously found. When she stood up again, the priestess saw another sight that gave at least a glimmer of hope to her heart. 

Argo and Nesco had charged into the mass of hobgoblins, now numbering eight, which surrounded Tojo. Two of the hobbies quickly went down, but more were still pouring out of the inner courtyard. Talass joined her friends in battle, trying to catch a glimpse of the samurai inside that deadly circle.

Tojo stood at the center of a red rain. Blood was spraying in all directions as he fought with one sword in each hand. Almost as fast as one hobgoblin would drop however, another from outside would replace it. For whatever reason, orders from someone or their own rage, their enemy had decided to concentrate all their numbers on the samurai. Only when directly attacked by someone else did a given hobgoblin deviate from this pattern. Every humanoid was now screaming in full battle fury, and every scream of rage or pain was swallowed up by magic.

For just a moment, Talass and Tojo locked eyes. He too was screaming something at her. She couldn't hear, but his meaning was unmistakably clear.

He was telling them to get away.

She shook her head at him. Talass wasn't going to let him die. A surge of anger surged through the cleric's frame. Despite everything that had happened, all the grief and heartache they had just gone through with Tojo, he and Aslan had worked out an agreement. Hadn't they? Wasn't all of this was supposed to be settled once this was over? Tojo had _promised_ Aslan, damn him! He had promised that he would... would...

The cleric gasped. _He promised that he would fight with honor._

Talass roared silently and crushed another hobgoblin's skull with a swing of her warhammer. _Please Lord, don't let this happen... _

Nesco was also trying to keep her eyes free from tears.

She too shook off Tojo's silent commands.

The ranger shot a quick glance around the rest of the parade grounds.

Zantac was still running. First in circles, and then zigzagging, the wizard was making an impressive effort at avoiding his pursuer. He was clearly tiring though, and as Cynewine watched, the red-robed mage broke out in a dead run for the east tower, their original destination.

Nesco tensed. Another hobgoblin was heading towards the wizard now. Between the two of them, they were going to cut him off.

Zantac wasn't going to make it.

Cynewine gave a last look to Tojo that she hoped would tell him to hang on, and then took off .

She could only hope she'd get there in time.

Argo was actually glad to see Nesco go. The big ranger had been about to leave himself, but he would just as soon let Cynewine save Zantac.

Elsewhere, the wolf-riding goblin and her entourage had stopped about thirty feet east of the stables. They seemed to be surveying the battlefield, but were taking no direct action themselves.

_I think we've learned that's usually a bad sign,_ Argo thought. Still, he couldn't spare any thought for them right now.

Bigfellow's auburn eyes roamed the grounds. They alighted on hobgoblin bodies, a discarded quarterstaff, Elrohir's petrified form, a kettle, pools of blood.

So many pools of blood.

There wasn't time for anything anymore. A decision had to be made, and Argo Bigfellow Junior, who he figured had probably made more wrong decisions in his life than the rest of his friends put together, was going to make it. The only thing Argo knew for certain was that he didn't want to die while still trying to decide what to do.

_Forgive me, Tojo. You'll never know how highly I thought of you._

With a muted growl- Lord, but he was getting tired of being in a silence field- Argo furiously fought past his hobbie's defenses and rammed Harve into the creature's chest.

He was already in motion again as the humanoid began to drop.

Talass had just downed another hobgoblin. She was in agony, she was exhausted. It was only a matter of time before she fell, but she couldn't stop now. There was too much at stake to-

Suddenly, a pair of strong arms encircled Talass' waist from behind. The cleric was lifted, struggling, into the air. She felt herself being carried backwards, towards the east tower. She could only gasp as she watched the circle of hobbies around Tojo grow smaller and smaller.

_What the- _

Talass gasped. This was impossible. She knew her vision currently wasn't very good, but she had just looked behind her a second ago, to make sure there were no enemies behind her! Argo was there, he would have seen if there were any-

Her head spun around.

_"ARGO! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" _

The big ranger had his famous pained smile on, but this time it was real. All too real.

"We're out of the _silence _field, my good lady, although I think you just ruptured my eardrums, so I can't really tell for sure."

Talass couldn't believe what she was hearing. Lord knows she'd had her share of fights with Argo over the years, but she'd never imagine him to literally pull her away from the most important battles of her life- and do nothing but crack jokes about it.

She screamed in rage and began flailing backwards with her warhammer, it's bloodstained surface coming dangerously close to Argo's face.

"Listen to me, Talass."

The priestess continued to struggle and scream for Bigfellow to release her.

_"LISTEN TO ME, DAMN YOU!"_

Talass' world suddenly spun as Argo whirled her around and threw her down to the ground at the foot of the east wall of the east tower. The impact was not hard, but every one of the cleric's numerous injuries screamed in protest, igniting a firestorm of pain. Her right hip especially was screaming for relief. She moaned and could do nothing but bring herself to a sitting position.

The door she was sitting by was partially ajar. A staircase led up from the bottom landing, with torch or lantern light visible from above. Talass gave all of it no more than a passing glance as she turned to stare upwards into Argo's face.

She had never seen Bigfellow look this serious. Every ounce of humor and lightness had been sucked out of it, revealing a countenance that she had never seen before.

It was lean, and it was frightening. It was tired and it was bloodied. It was old, and it had seen death. 

And it was still looking at it.

"Talass," the ranger said quietly, "put another _strength_ on me." He gestured wearily back towards the open ground. "It's only about twenty, twenty-five feet to Elrohir's body. I can drag it back that far. We'll try these stairs then. We may be able to find a window exit to the outer courtyard, or at least hole ourselves up somewhere for a few minutes."

Talass tried to assimilate this. Her heart was screaming for attention, but she threw it aside for the moment. Argo's words made sense. In fact, she could use the remaining strength prayers to-

The cleric nodded, slowly rising to her feet. "All right, Argo. You're right, that makes sense. I'll cast it on myself and Nesco, as well. The last of the hobbie reinforcements seem to be out there already. You bring Elrohir inside, and she and I will get Tojo-

"Talass." 

She looked at him.

"Talass," he repeated, nearly whispering now.

A tear might have rolled down the big ranger's face, but there was so much blood on it, it was impossible to tell. His eyes wandered blearily over her shoulder.

"Tojo sacrificed himself so we could get ourselves out of here." 

Talass looked at Argo. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe. She didn't want to look.

"He's already dead."

Talass turned around.

Tojo was in fact still standing, but Talass could see it wouldn't be long now. Horrible gashes covered what little of his body she could see. The samurai was so weak he could do little but parry now. There must have been twenty hobgoblin corpses in that pile, but the remaining eight attackers were berserk with rage, preferring to die themselves than to let the loss of their comrades be in vain.

And the odd thing was, Talass could understand that.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. 

"Argo! Talass!"

She whirled around, as did Bigfellow. Nesco and Zantac, sweating profusely, were staggering their way along the south wall of the tower towards them.

As they pulled up, Cynewine's face took in the situation with Tojo, and her eyes went wide. She looked over to her fellow ranger and to the priestess of Forseti, and saw the truth in their eyes. Her hand flew up to her mouth.

"No. Oh, gods, no."

"Talass," said Argo grimly. "Start praying. Myself only. Save the others for later."

Zantac had been breathing so heavily during this time that he hadn't been able to speak, although his face shared their agony. Now he looked up, one hand still on his chest. 

"...Stick," he mumbled.

Talass, who had just finished casting the prayer on Argo, looked at him, her brow furrowed. "What?" she asked.

Zantac stared at her as Argo ran off. Back in Rhizia, Talass had once seen a young boy who had come running into the temple. He had just lost his parents to a troll attack. He had seen them devoured alive.

Zantac's face looked like that now.

The mage forced the question out through sheer force of will.

"Cygnus," he said. "Where's Cygnus?"

Talass looked around. There was no sign of him. In all the confusion, she hadn't even-

_"Where is he?"_ Zantac screamed. _"WHERE IS HE?"_

Nesco suddenly gasped and pointed.

Flames were visible inside the inner courtyard. The foliage was ablaze.

Now Nesco remembered where she had seen those flashes of light before. 

This whole battle, Cynewine had been praying for another rain of comets to come and save them.

She had thought none had come.

But three of them had.

"My god," she whispered. "He's gone."


	87. Retreat

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

There really wasn't much Argo could do to make himself less conspicuous as he skirted the ring of hobgoblins surrounding Yanigasawa Tojo, en route to the stone statue of his party leader. He was in full plate mail, carrying a glowing sword, and moving quickly.

_Think invisible_, the ranger thought to himself.

At least sound was not an issue for the moment, Argo having just re-entered the _silence_ field. The nearby hobbies continued their overwhelming assault on the samurai. Argo couldn't see Tojo anymore, but the humanoids were still flailing away, so he must still be alive in that hell somewhere.

Somehow.

Bigfellow frowned as he looked to the southwest, towards where the statue of Elrohir lay. There was a hobgoblin lying on the ground about halfway between them. It was mortally wounded, but still writhing and moaning, and probably outside the field, as far as Argo could judge it. He'd see Bigfellow for sure, and the ranger didn't want to risk it raising an alarm for the rest of the fortress.

Argo continued west, hugging the gatehouse wall for a bit, and then stopped abruptly just short of the opening of the portcullis tunnel. Sound had come abruptly back to him, and he waited a moment to reacclimatize. He took a deep breath, and then dashed across the archway.

Two arrows came whizzing past, but both went wide. Argo spared a quick glance, and saw several hobgoblins on the far side of the gate motioning to someone outside of the ranger's line of sight.

Slowly, and with a screeching of metal upon stone, the portcullis began to rise. The hobgoblins behind put away their bows and drew their swords.

_Not what I needed_, Argo thought as he continued on, turning left to approach Elrohir's body from the northwest. He could see the goblin female astride her wolf was no more than thirty feet away from him at this point, but she still made no move to attack, only glaring at the ranger will hostile, pale yellow eyes. The other goblins around her uplifted their faces and raised their spears to their leader, perhaps hoping for an order to attack, but she remained as immobile as Argo's current quarry.

As Bigfellow approached the statue from the far side of the dying hobgoblin, he risked a glance south, inside the inner courtyard.

Smoke was issuing from the archway. Argo could see several hobbies inside, dipping buckets into the fountain's reservoir and throwing their contents at the sections of flora that were still ablaze.

Argo caught his breath. Lying off to one side was a body, burned beyond recognition.

His eyes went wide.

_Cygnus?_

He stared for a moment, not really seeing anything more, and then looked away.

_You knew he was gone, Bigfellow. You never saw him after that half-orc grabbed him and dragged him away. _

The ranger gritted his teeth as he bent over the statue and slowly brought it back to an upright position. He was relieved to see that the two pieces which had broken off of Elrohir seemed to be part of his backpack and his bow- not flesh.

"I've never been one to listen to my conscience before," Argo muttered to himself as he wrapped his arms around his friend and strained, keeping his back straight and pushing off with his legs. "It's impossible to make me feel guilty. I've already screwed up too much for that."

Trying hard to suppress a groan of exertion, he hoisted the statue about a foot off the ground. "I've been making bad decisions since I was six and traded my lunch to Gastar for that purple frog he found," he growled. The ranger bent backwards slightly, leaning the weight against his body as much as possible. "That body could just as easily be the half-orc."

_Then where is Cygnus?_

"Shut up," Bigfellow whispered and began to slowly head back towards the east tower.

A burning pain suddenly shot through his left shoulder. Argo cried out and tightened his grip on the statue. Through tears of pain, he glanced upwards just in time to see another arrow shoot down, this one bouncing off the ground at his feet.

The hobbies on the gatehouse roof, no longer concerned about striking invisible allies, were opening fire.

As more shafts like the one partially embedded in Argo's shoulder sped down, the ranger spun around and ducked his head. At least two arrows bounced off Elrohir's petrified features. Small chips of stone flew off.

_Sorry about that, old friend_, Argo thought. _Consider it payment for my having to lug your lazy-ass carcass around._

There was no more time for even an attempt at subtlety. Argo set off on a direct line for the east tower, stepping on the chest of the mortally wounded hobgoblin still lying on his back in the dirt. Bigfellow heard ribs crack with a _snap_ that left him feeling uncomfortably satisfied.

Arrows continued to rain down, but no others struck him.

Argo caught another glimpse of the wolf-rider out of the corner of his eye. She was talking to a hobgoblin, her position currently astride her mount allowing her to more-or-less look it in the eye. The ranger saw the goblin turn to eye him again, a frown tugging her black lips downward. She pointed Argo out to the hobbie.

The humanoid turned to stare at Argo for a moment, and then turned back to the goblin. Bigfellow couldn't understand him of course, but it seemed plain to the ranger that the creature didn't seem inclined to rush off into battle.

_Well, what do you know?_ thought Argo. _Perhaps being hip-dead in the bodies of their friends is finally starting to have an effect on these bastards._

The goblin, apparently using more vinegar than honey, screeched and gestured wildly at her larger kin, then pointed repeatedly at Argo. The larger humanoid looked back at Bigfellow again.

Argo smiled at them. He would have waved, but he didn't have a hand free.

The hobgoblin turned back to the female, said something that sounded not-at-all nice to her, and then slowly began to head towards the ranger, drawing his weapon as he did so.

_I love you too, sweetheart._

Bigfellow would have shouted it out to the goblin, but he had reentered the _silence_ field once again. Argo staggered on as fast as he could with his burden, hoping that his remaining allies would be able to deal with this new pursuer.

He certainly wasn't going to be able to without dropping poor Elrohir once again.

Zantac kept looking around the parade grounds.

The Willip wizard was again breathing heavily, but this time it was from grief, not exertion.

_Please, Cygnus_, he prayed._ Show that pale, skinny, ugly face of yours. I swear on Boccob's staff, I'll drink an entire gallon of green goop when we get back to the Brass Dragon, just... show yourself. I know you're out there._

The mage looked down at the ground beneath him, the tears filling his eyes not stopping him from Cygnus again, if only in the past. The tall mage sitting across from him in the common room of the Brass Dragon, toasting him with a mug of ale.

_Happiness and long life, my friend._

He looked up again, trying to concentrate on the approaching Argo Bigfellow and his hobgoblin pursuer, but he just couldn't shake his thoughts.

_You can't be dead, Cygnus. You're too much of a sneaky, manipulative bastard to be dead. All these people here may know you longer than me, but I know you only as another wizard can. You always have an angle. _

For what seemed like the thousandth time in the last two minutes, Zantac wiped his eyes clear again.

_You can't be dead._

Nesco and Talass were readying weapons, but it proved not to be necessary.

A hobgoblin suddenly lacking a right hand ran away from the circle of humanoids surrounding Tojo, its screams of agony lost in silence. The creature half-heartedly chasing Argo cast a quick glance at the trail of blood its fleeing compatriot was leaving, then at the two humans standing ready to meet it, and then changed course to join its allies in their relentless assault on the samurai.

Argo set Elrohir down by the tower door with a _thump_.

"Whew," he said, wiping his forehead. "No more rich foods for you," he admonished the statue, while trying to favor the others with a weak smile.

It was completely ignored. "Argo," said Nesco softly. "Cygnus. He-"

Bigfellow nodded, while deciding not to mention the charred corpse he had seen. "I know, Nesco. I know."

Argo bit his lip. If he stopped to think about any of this, he was going to collapse, so he didn't.

_Yeah. Simple as that,_ he thought sourly.

"Whether Cygnus is alive or not, he's beyond our help now, and we don't have the time to grieve. Not yet." The big ranger swung open the door and then winced at a fresh stab of pain.

Talass frowned as she examined the arrow she had just pulled out of Bigfellow's shoulder. Fortunately, it had only penetrated just enough not to have fallen out immediately. The cleric sighed, tossed it aside and then stared at Argo with a look he had trouble reading.

"Argo," she said. "Thank you for getting Elrohir. You'd better get him up those stairs before the _strength_ spell wears off again." She turned to the others. "Nesco, Zantac. You cover him." She then turned back to face the parade grounds.

"I had a vision," she stated, "and it's come true."

The priestess turned around to look at her friends. "We've lost one of us. We have no idea where his body is, so we can't even try to bring him back to Chendl."

Argo said nothing. Even if the body he had seen was that of Cygnus, there was no way he was going to have anyone else throw their lives away trying to retrieve it.

The cleric's eyes blinked rapidly. "He's… not coming back. The vision has come true. Everything else is up to us, though. We're not going to be magically saved just because Cygnus is gone. That's why we're going to keep moving. We're going to get into the gatehouse, find a spot we can defend, and we're going to hold out until Aslan comes back. No one else is going to die. Do you understand that?"

She looked sternly, coldly, at her three remaining companions.

"No one else is going to die," Talass repeated, her voice rising. _"I swear to my god, no one else is going to die!"_

The priestess again turned back to the nearby battle. When she spoke after a brief pause, her voice was level again, but it had fully regained that icy demeanor that they all knew so well.

"I'm going to get Tojo," Talass said.

And she was gone.

_"TALASS!"_ Argo screamed after her, but she was already halfway towards the battle.

_Damn it!"_ Bigfellow yelled to no one and everyone. "She's going to get killed! Tojo is past saving! You'd have to be a fool not to see that!"

"Or a Zeus worshipper," Nesco said.

Argo looked over at his fellow ranger. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the amazement off of his face.

Cynewine eyed him with a neutral expression.

"She must be hanging out with the wrong people," she said, then drew her sword and charged off as well before Bigfellow could say anything.

Argo turned to Zantac, only to find the red-robed wizard digging through his spell component pouch.

"No point in dying with one coin in your pocket, is there?" the mage muttered, not looking up at the ranger.

Argo Bigfellow looked again at the two women about to throw their lives away.

He thought of Caroline. Lord, how he wanted to be with her right now. A nasty but very present part of the ranger whispered that if it were a proven fact, he'd sacrifice all of his friends and companions for his wife.

In a heartless instant.

_I guess I have one more decision to make after all_, he thought.

The hobgoblins picked up the pace of their attacks on the lone human in their midst even more. Despite their frustration at the magical _silence_ denying them the almost bestial passions of hearing their own battle cries, they knew that the end of the long battle was at last in sight.

It would, of course, be safe to say that they never heard it coming.

Two bloodied, berserk, barbarian women hurled themselves into the midst of the group, slashing and smashing with their weapons. Two hobbies went down almost immediately.

As the humanoids dropped, Nesco and Talass got one good look at the samurai.

Their eyes locked, for just one second. If there was any expression left in that blood-drenched, corpse-like face that was Yanigasawa Tojo's, they couldn't read it.

The _silence_ field prevented them from hearing his battle scream as he shifted back to an offensive posture one last time.

It prevented them from hearing the sound of his katana slicing through the air.

Or the sound of a suddenly decapitated hobgoblin head tumbling down to hit the packed earth.

The only thing it didn't prevent was them seeing a hobgoblin's blade slide into Tojo's momentarily unprotected abdomen and plunge out his back, covered in fresh crimson.

And at that moment, the _silence_ expired, and an explosion of unanticipated screams of rage, sorrow and pain flooded into the larger sounds of chaos that was the slavers' stockade this night. 

Talass and Nesco targeted the hobgoblin that they had identified as Tojo's murderer simultaneously. The creature's brain and heart ceased functioning together in a sudden shower of gore. 

The remaining four hobbies finally broke and ran, but more were now pouring in from the outer courtyard, and heading for the cleric and ranger.

_"MOVE!"_

The women whirled around.

Argo Bigfellow Junior, still the proud possessor of superhuman strength, literally leapt at the onrushing mob of hobgoblins, hurling himself sideways at the last instant. The hobbies in front went down in a heap with the ranger, and those behind wound up tripping over the pile and sprawling on the dirt, as well.

Talass dropped down to her knees over the fallen samurai, and slammed her hands down on his chest.  
_  
The power is not mine, Forseti. It is yours._

The priestess literally grunted with the effort at forcing all other thoughts from her mind.

Only the healing power that she channeled mattered now.

Tojo's body jerked, and his last and most severe wound closed up.

There was no other movement, however. No breathing.

No sign of life at all.

Nesco stood guard as Talass continued to work on Tojo. She couldn't bear to look at him, so she looked at the samurai's backpack, its straps cut loose, lying on the ground.

She looked at a ring of two dozen hobgoblin bodies lying in a circle around the cleric and the samurai. 

She looked at Argo, wreaking such havoc on his foes that they were already starting to lose morale and flee.

And then she looked back at the east tower.

Zantac had opened the door to the tower wide open, and was standing in front of it, looking up the staircase.

Guttural, inhuman voices were issuing from inside. 

Shadows of figures rushing down the stairs filled the walls. 

But Zantac was casting.

The crack of the _lightning bolt_ made Nesco wince. A bright light seemed to flash on and off, again and again, within the confines of the staircase. The thunderous boom seemed to reverberate endlessly within those narrow walls.

From inside, she heard screams that died off to whimpers.

Zantac took a step back from the open door. A hobgoblin body tumbled down the stairs and landed by his feet.

It was followed by another.

And another.

The mage dove into the pile of corpses, pushing and kicking some aside to the left and others to the right. He seemed to be clearing a pathway into the tower, perhaps for Argo carrying Elrohir. Then, a snarl still on his face, he ducked into the staircase and was lost to sight.

More hobbie corpses came tumbling out.

"You are not going to die, Tojo Yanigasawa! Do you hear me? _You are not going to die!"_

Nesco looked back at Talass, who was apparently throwing another healing prayer at Tojo.

She wondered how many the cleric had left in her.

The samurai's body jerked again. Some more of his wounds closed. It almost seemed to Nesco that she saw Tojo's right hand twitch.

And then his body went limp again.

"Talass-" Nesco began, and then stopped.

Cynewine had no idea what she would say, even if her brain could make her mouth form the words. She felt like she was enveloped in a soft, thick fog. Terrible things were outside, but they wouldn't find their way inside if she'd only-

Nesco blinked. It was odd, the things she was noticing now.

"Er, Talass?" she asked. "Don't you have his name-"

The priestess jerked her head up to stare at the ranger. Nesco flinched. That steely gaze Elrohir's wife had just recently found was gone again.

Now she just looked.like a rabid animal. Her nose, broken recently by Tojo, had started bleeding again. Blood dripped down the priestess' face and over her lips.

Still glaring at Cynewine, Talass jabbed her finger into Tojo's unmoving chest. "I've never met Tojo's family, or his lord. _This man_..." and here the cleric had to pause to keep her voice from breaking, "this man is the most honorable man you or I will ever see in our lives, Nesco, and _he can't even see that!_ If his family, who are so important that they put their name ahead of his, if they look at this young man and all they can see is dishonor..." she swallowed hard before continuing.

"Then the Abyss can take them all. They don't deserve his loyalty. We certainly don't, and yet he gave it to us."

Talass turned back to Tojo and again placed her hands on his chest. She leaned in close over the samurai's face and murmured something.

Nesco looked around again. Argo was limping back towards them. The big ranger was sporting a new gash on his left thigh, judging by the blood seeping through the leg coverings of his plate mail.

_"YES!"_

Nesco spun back around. What she saw made her want to both to jump for joy and gasp in alarm.

Tojo lay on the ground, trembling slightly and breathing erratically. He was still unconscious, but he was alive.

He was alive.

Talass, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of losing her mind.

"I KNEW IT!" she shrieked as she stood up, her light blue eyes looking at something in the night sky only she could see. "I KNEW HE WASN'T READY TO GO, NO MATTER WHAT HE SAID!"

_Is it going to make any difference? We're all going to be dead within ten minutes, most likely._

Nesco was ashamed of her thought. She wanted to share Talass' optimism, but the cleric's view was shaped by faith and apparently, near-insanity.

The former was something Nesco was in desperately short supply of at the moment.

Insanity however, certainly had it's own appeal right now, Nesco thought as she listened to Talass' too-loud laughter slowly trail off.

Argo was back. The ranger took in the situation at a glance, but no elation showed on his face. He continued on to the statue of Elrohir, and again lifted it a few inches off the ground, the effort sending fresh tears of agony squeezing out of his auburn eyes.

"Well, what are you waiting for? _Bring him!"_ was all he said before disappearing into the tower. Zantac, who had apparently finished his gruesome work, was standing by the door again. The magic-user said nothing.

Talass and Nesco looked at each other for a moment, and the latter kneeled down by their fallen friend.

"I'll take him," Cynewine said as she slowly pulled the samurai crosswise over her shoulders, grimacing in pain. Her knees shook wildly, but the ranger managed to stand with her new load. She managed to toss a whisper of a smile at the priestess.

"Just paying him back for the help he gave me in Highport. I hope this won't offend his sensibilities."

Talass nodded. The excess emotion was already fleeing her face and leaving it pale and tired. She was now as subdued as any of them. The cleric glanced down at her feet.

Tojo's katana and wakazashi lay there, every square inch of their silver blades covered in blood.

The priestess took a deep breath, picked them up and headed towards the door, slipping past Nesco. "That's a narrow staircase. Keep in the rear," she murmured to the ranger. "We don't know how many hobbies are still up there."

Zantac made a wry face. "Aslan had estimated three to four dozen in the fortress total before we entered." The wizard's face didn't hide his disdain. "I'd say it was probably twice that."

"Doesn't matter much now, does it?"

Argo's voice was muffled, his face pressed against the back of Elrohir's stone neck, but it still carried downstairs all too well.

The Willip wizard was about to retort, but then just shook his head.

"Suppose not." 

Nesco was entering the tower now, trying to avoid knocking poor Tojo's head against the doorjamb. The ranger's eyes noticed a glint of metal on the door. She looked up to meet Zantac's gaze. 

"That's right," the Willip wizard said, actually managing a real smile. "This door has a lock on it too, and it locks from the inside." The mage looked back at the pile of dead bodies where the samurai had made his last stand. "I guess we can be glad they left the door open in their rush to get to Tojo. Hopefully, it'll take them a while to find someone who's got a key." 

Nesco grimaced. "I guess," she said softly, as she slipped inside.

Zantac took one last look around. The wolf-riding goblin was now in the center of the parade grounds. She was yelling and screeching at the hobgoblins that had just fled from the wrath of Argo Bigfellow Junior. They were standing around nervously for the most part, looking around for a face of recognized authority.

Apparently, the goblin didn't qualify on that score. The small humanoid was yelling and pointing at Zantac, but the hobbies would only look at the mage, and then turn and mumble amongst themselves.

The wizard's eyebrows rose. _Had enough of us, have you?_ he thought. _The feeling's mutual._

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"OH, LORD!"

The exclamation was forced out of Argo's lungs as the ranger finally emerged from the staircase.

It had nothing to do with the content or appearance of the guard room that he had just emerged into the middle of. It was unexceptional, perhaps thirty by fifteen, with a cup-shaped sconce on the west wall holding a small amount of burning oil, now getting low. No furniture or other objects were visible, only a thin flight of wooden stairs leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling, and a door in the midst of the north wall.

The cry had been from the expiration of Talass' latest _strength_ spell on Bigfellow, which had allowed him barely enough time to deposit his burden just past the top of the stairs. Elrohir had swayed alarmingly upon the rough landing, but Argo had managed to steady him.

The ranger grimaced at the pain in his arms and shoulders. He felt certain that his arms had grown several extra inches in the last twenty minutes or so. It hurt to move either one though, so he just stood aside and concentrated on taking deep breaths as Talass came up, followed by Nesco, still carrying Tojo, and Zantac.

Argo had to admit, none of them looked like they were feeling any better.

Zantac walked over to the door and examined it. "Damn," he muttered, turning back to look at Argo. "This door opens outwards." He pressed his ear to the wooden surface for a few seconds.

"Faint voices," he said as he shrugged and looked at Argo again. "Can't make 'em out. Hobbies, I'm sure." The mage looked thoughtful for a moment. "I've got a _wizard lock_, Argo, if you think-"

"Why are you asking me, Zantac?" Bigfellow snapped at him. "Do I look like the leader here?"

The wizard was silent for a moment, and then continued.

"As a matter of fact, right now you do, Argo."

"Then we're dead for sure" Argo shot back. "In case you haven't realized, my friend, I have neither the aptitude nor the desire for leadership. If I did, I'd still be back at the Lone Heath with my father!" He jerked his head over at Nesco. "Ask Lady Cynewine here. She's worked with the Knights of Furyondy. Or Talass," he added. "She's always the one for law and order." 

Argo watched as the two women exchanged glances, and then looked back at him.

"Well?" he said, exasperated.

"Argo," Nesco said tentatively. "We're asking you to lead us."

This would have been the perfect time for Bigfellow's pained smile, but right now he didn't even feel like that. "Nesco," he said slowly but with as much patience as he could muster, "you're just as good as I am. You-"

"No, Argo, I'm not," Cynewine interrupted. "I wish I was, believe me, but I'm not."

"I don't lead, Nesco!" the big ranger shouted back. "I just go my own way! Elrohir knows that! Even Aslan knows that! It drives him crazy that he can't change me- a fringe benefit sure, but that's not why I do it! I just do whatever I have to do at the moment, and-"

"Then right now what you have to do is lead, Argo Bigfellow Junior."

Now the famed smile made a cameo. "You too, my good lady? I though you'd be the last one to ever take an order from me."

Talass matched the smile. "The gods have their own ways, Argo. We just follow, and endure. You told me you'd give us one percent. Well, you did, and we're still alive. That's a sign to me if ever there was one. Now please hurry. Nesco won't say anything, but I'm sure carrying Tojo is hurting her, and we need to know if we're going to stay here or not."

Argo looked over at Zantac. The wizard's face was devoid of even a trace of humor.

"I could care less, Argo," the mage said. "I know as well as you do that we're dead no matter what, so tell me which door you want the damn _wizard lock_ on, and let's get on with it."

Bigfellow closed his eyes.  
_  
I don't believe this. I actually wish Aslan was here._

He opened them again. The faint image of Caroline that was starting to form in his mind's eye again faded away like a wisp of smoke.

The big ranger walked up the stairs and examined the trap door. There was no bolt on it, at least from this side. Argo squinted. He could just make out a faint flicker of light coming through the seam, but he could hear no noise from above.

He turned back to the others. "One more _strength_ please, my good lady. I want higher ground, if possible…"

Five minutes later, the four active remnants of the party lay gasping for breath.

It had taken Argo, Zantac and Talass' combined efforts to push Elrohir through the trap door. The ranger's petrified posture did not allow for an easy fit, and in the end the frame in which the trap door sat on the floor had been damaged, so that the door no longer closed securely.

They were now in a larger room, about thirty by forty. This space, lit by torch sconces on the north and south walls, appeared to be some kind of officer's quarters.

"The half-orc?" Nesco had asked.

Argo had looked towards the sconces, and then back at his fellow ranger.

"If so, he's sharing it with a human," he'd said.

A desk with two chairs sat in the western half of the room, perhaps ten feet from the door. Nesco had laid Tojo out on the table while Talass went through the boxes that were stacked in the room's southwest corner. The cleric had been pleased to find that they contained bandages, various foodstuffs, small tools for armor and weapon maintenance, and so on. 

"Private stash for the officers," she'd guessed.

Zantac had cast his _wizard lock_ on the room's eastern door, while Argo had just managed to wedge Elrohir up against the door opposite before the _strength_ spell wore off again.

Bigfellow wasn't happy. Elrohir was not in a position to keep the door totally closed, but he should be able to stop an intruder long enough for the others to hold the door closed.

Now Talass was bandaging up the worst of Argo and Nesco's wounds as the two rangers sat in the chairs, eyeing each other over the samurai's unconscious form. Zantac had pulled one of the two cots lying in the room's eastern half over, and was sitting slumped over, staring at the floor.

All four of them had taken additional food and water. As Zantac had pointed out, there wasn't going to be an overland return trip anyway.

"We're going to make it, Zantac," Talass told him.

The red-robed wizard looked up and gave the priestess a sour look. "Aslan won't be back for hours, Talass, even if we assume the clergy of Heironeous didn't kill him on the spot. And besides," he shrugged, "so what if he does come back?"

Talass looked at him curiously, as did Nesco. Argo, who had been idly looking over a supply requisition form he'd found in a desk drawer, now buried his gaze in a mug of ale he had found on the desk. He knew exactly where Zantac was going.

"The sooner Aslan comes back, the less Talent he'll have in reserve," the wizard pointed out. "Even at full strength, he can't _teleport_ all of us out of here." Zantac looked over at the stone statue and took a deep breath, not wanting to look Talass in the eye now.

"And there's no way he can help Elrohir."

Talass glanced over at her petrified husband and then back at Zantac, frowning. "He doesn't have to do it himself, Zantac. The Valorous Church in Chendl will-"

Argo couldn't let this go on any longer.

"Talass," he cut in.

The cleric looked over at him.

Argo's face held that sad expression that she knew meant he was ahead of Talass on something, and she wasn't going to like it.

"How much weight can Aslan transport, Talass?"

The priestess stared at him for a moment, and then her face went chalk-white. Her hand flew to her mouth. and she sat down so heavily on the edge of the desk, that Nesco reached out to steady her.

Talass didn't seem to be looking at anybody. "My Lord," she whispered. "Please... provide for your faithful." Her blue eyes shut tight. "Please..."

Zantac got up and walked over to the southern wall. It contained an actual window. True, it was small and was barred, but the mage could see some of the parade grounds from here. He stayed about a foot back from the window, not wanting to make himself an easy target for some hidden archer.

He could see the wolf-rider down below, and her attendent goblins. There were perhaps a dozen hobbies visible as well, but they seemed to be engaged in clean-up tasks such as piling bodies together, grabbing a quick drink or bite to eat, or cleaning their weapons. There seemed no sign of an imminent attack, at least from the surface.

Then he heard the voices.

His head snapped towards the western door just as the others did likewise.

The voices were indecipherable; the language, goblin.

But one voice rose loud and clear above the others, and suddenly there was the sound of armored boots running. Running directly towards them.

Argo, the closest to the western door, exploded out of his chair. Just before he reached the door to brace it, the door started to fly open. It stopped quickly when it hit the statue, but before Bigfellow could slam the door shut again, the blade of a sword slipped through.

Nesco's first thought was that the weapon was glowing, but that wasn't right. Not exactly. The blade seemed to shimmer as if... as if it were reflecting sunlight on a bright day. Cynewine actually looked over her shoulder for a moment, as if she might see the sun somehow, even in the dead of night.

Groaning with the effort, Argo pushed against the door, but his exhaustion was now overwhelming. Talass joined him, but she had no more left than he did. The blade rotated so that it was now positioned horizontally. The edge of the weapon bit deeply into the wood of the door's edge. Suddenly, a solid kick sent the door back hard enough to tip Elrohir over. Talass shrieked and managed to guide her husband's fall so that he hit the wall first, slowing the statue's descent so that the impact with the floor knocked no additional pieces loose.

Without Talass' aid, though, Argo was unable to completely hold the door. A second kick opened it just enough for the sword's wielder to start squeezing through.

He was human, perhaps thirty-five or so, Nesco thought even as she was coming around to confront him. The man was either pure Oeridian or close to it, with a tanned, circular face and dark brown hair, cut straight with short bangs. He wore banded armor, nearly identical to that of the half-orc. His left hand held a small metal shield, but it was on the far side of the door and little could be seen of it. The man's dark brown eyes registered each occupant of the room.

The tactical glance of a warrior, Cynewine knew. This man was gauging each potential opponent. Their possible capabilities, their current health, their numbers. Perhaps even subconsciously, this man was making calculations without numbers and within seconds, would be coming to a conclusion.

This wasn't a man given to idle boasting. Nesco just thought he didn't have the face for it. If he felt this was a fight he couldn't win, this man would withdraw. Even if he had but a small doubt, he would withdraw.

If on the other hand, he was certain that he could kill them all, Cynewine didn't think he'd have any hesitation in doing so.

The man's face carried a lot on it. His expression showed mostly a grimace as he threw his weight against Argo's. It was at least some relief to Nesco that his strength seemed to be at best, equal to Argo on his worst day.

There was anger on that face too, though it seemed to have been there even before he attempted to crash through in on them.

_Disappointed in his troops?_ Nesco thought suddenly.

But then the man caught sight of Nesco as the ranger came up to intercept him. His gaze traveled from her shield, to her sword, and then to her face.

He made no move to retreat.

"Well, well, well," the man said with a cold, angry smile, staring straight at Cynewine. "And what do we have here?"


	88. The End Draws Near

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

With a sudden, final effort the warrior squeezed the rest of the way through the open space. Argo slammed the door shut behind him as Nesco held her sword in a threatening posture, still hoping to somehow stop this fight before it started. The man flattened up against the wall just to the right of the doorway. His sword was also held ready for battle, but his left arm was stretched out alongside the wall so that his shield was turned away from his opponents and completely unready for use.

_Odd_, thought Nesco, frowning. She didn't like the man's question, or the way he was still looking at her.

Talass now came up to stand at Argo's right, the three of them forming an arc surrounding the intruder.

Behind them, Zantac slowly moved towards one of the torch sconces. 

Bigfellow shook his head grimly. "You shouldn't have come here."

The fighter turned to eye him, his smile fading away to match the ranger's soberness.

"Funny," he said. "I was about to say the same thing to you." 

Argo's voice resumed at least some of its usual carefree nature as he slowly drew Harve from his sheath. "So, which one are you? Captain Gorbin Stalworth or Lieutenant Kairn?"

The warrior's eyes darted to his desk.

"Reading my private papers?" he queried in a faux tone of betrayed trust. "How rude," he concluded, his grin returning even as his eyes took in Harve's red glow.

Argo copied his smile. "Where are my manners?" he quipped. "I forget the protocol when dealing with slavers and mass murderers. Must be why I'm never invited to those palace functions."

"Let's dispense with the chaff," Talass cut in, glaring at the officer. "Surrender Markessa up to us, and we'll let you live. You must know we've killed nearly everyone else by now. If you have any more brains than your hobgoblin troops, you'll see it's the smart thing to do." 

"Curious," the man responded, his brown eyes briefly alighting on Tojo's unmoving form lying on the desk behind the trio.

His gaze returned to Talass' face. "One would think that people who travel with a samurai would know even the slightest bit about honor."

"You don't know the meaning of the word," snarled Nesco.

"Don't I now?" the warrior responded. "The glare from your self-righteousness outshines either of our swords, I'm afraid. Just because I'm a practical man doesn't mean I know nothing of honor. My loyalty is to Markessa, and so I refuse when you ask me to betray her. At first, I thought you were mercenaries, but since I now know you're not, I ask you- How would you respond if I asked you to betray King Belvor?" 

Nesco started momentarily, but then realized the truth after a brief glance down at her shield, with its insignia of the Order of The Hart. She kept her gaze level with the man, but said nothing. 

He continued. "We're no concern at all to Furyondy, yet her paladin king sends still more forces down here to destroy us. You can call that noble if you like." The warrior's face grew stern again. "I call it inserting your face where you have no business being!"

Talass shook her head. "I'm not even going to pretend that justice means anything to you. Let's stick to plain truths then. Markessa is an unworthy master. If you surrender her up to us, the others here will follow your lead, and you need fear no retribution."

The fighter's eyebrows shot skywards.

"I was wondering how much you really knew," he said softly. "Now I know. Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Then enlighten us," Nesco replied, trying hard to keep the growl out of her voice.

"Forgive me if I think that giving information to the enemy is a poor idea," the man responded. He indicated Elrohir and Tojo again with a flicker of his eyes. "You people are so afraid of death, you drag the corpses of your fallen ones around with you." He shook his head pityingly at them. "Do you have a High Priest hiding nearby in the hills, or do you honestly think to escape from here to civilization carrying them?" His mouth grew taut. "Sellswords at least would have been more realistic-minded."

_He thinks Tojo is dead_, thought Talass. _Can't blame him. He certainly looks it. Well, I for one won't say anything._ The cleric looked at her companions, and was relieved to see the same idea flash through their faces. 

"So, who was your late friend?" asked the fighter. "An old enemy of Icar's? Lord knows he had a few." The man's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. Nesco would still swear she could see the sun's reflection in the blade.

"First you kill Icar, and then your wizard friend sees fit to blow himself to pieces just to take Lieutenant Kairn with him..."

_Captain Stalworth, I presume then_, thought Argo.

The officer was starting to tremble with anger as he continued. "You may not care when I tell you you've killed some fine warriors this day..." 

The others tensed up as he raised his sword in a preparatory attack motion. That cold, hard smile was back.

"But I'm just a soldier. I leave the negotiations to others. My job is to defend this stockade."

And he bought the shield around.

Nesco stared.

Her jaw dropped open. Just enough of her mind kept tabs on the position of Stalworth's sword, so that she wasn't attacked unawares.

But that shield.

Talass couldn't quite see the device from her angle, but Argo could. The big ranger's eyes widened momentarily.

_Oh, no,_ he thought. His gaze darted to his fellow ranger on his left...

Nesco knew.

The antlers on the azure field were the same, but that was only the beginning.

There were numerous new scratches, gouges and dents adorning that metal circle, but she knew.

She just _knew_.

"Miles," she whispered.

The ranger looked up. The captain's eyes were already waiting for her. 

"Sir Miles Cynewine," she said, her voice slowly climbing in register. "Where did you get my brother's shield?" 

Gorbin said nothing, but his smile grew wider, and colder, and suddenly became the one thing she hated more than anything else in the entire universe.

_"WHERE DID YOU GET THAT SHIELD?"_ Nesco screamed as she attacked.

Stalworth was ready. He sidestepped one more step to the right, pivoting slightly to his right while bringing the shield up, fast and forward. 

Nesco was caught off-kilter. The sight, sound and feel of her sword striking her brother's shield somehow seemed like an obscenity to the ranger. That moment of hesitation allowed Stalworth to push her back a step. The captain's sword came around, but was forced to change course in mid-arc to intercept the incoming Harve. Stalworth pushed back a moment before Argo did, sending the big ranger back a step as well. Talass' downward hammer strike fell short, barely glancing off Gorbin's left shoulder.

Cynewine recovered, her rage flooding back with another scream as she swung again.

The warrior ducked under her blow while bringing his weapon back into position.

The smile was still frozen on Stalworth's face. 

The captain shook his head at Nesco. He didn't even avert his gaze from her as his shield stopped Argo and Talass' attacks again. "Seems like they're letting anyone into the Azure Order these days," he said as he and Nesco feinted simultaneously at each other. "Apparently, all you need is a pretty face and a sibling to grease the wheels."

There was a part of Cynewine that was shouting at her to take notice of what was going on, but it was a small voice swallowed up in another wordless scream of rage.

Her blow was wild and unfocused. Stalworth caught it on his sword. 

"Driven by passion, Lady Cynewine? That's a mistake versus any opponent."

Then the smile was gone.

"Versus Sundancer, it's fatal."

And somehow his sword had already gone down, swung up in a curved arc and had leveled out, a horizontal swing coming right at Nesco. There was no time to dodge. Her shield wasn't in position, but her sword was. Nesco brought it up in plenty of time to parry.

And Sundancer turned her blade to glass.

Hundreds of small shards, all reflecting an already reflected sunlight scattered into a glittering cloud, many of them spraying in Nesco's face. She had a brief glimpse of perhaps a foot-long cracked glass shard protruding from her weapon's hilt. 

All that was left of it.

Nesco heard Harve shout out something, and then Argo. She couldn't register either shout.

The impact had altered Sundancer's trajectory, but it was now coming around again, low and to Nesco's left. The ranger felt the hot impact of steel burning into the chain links of her armor. The blow was powerful enough to cause her to gasp and stagger back.

Now she heard Talass screaming. It was hurting Nesco's concentration, and Cynewine wondered how Stalworth could have struck the priestess so quickly after hitting herself. If he hadn't it certainly wasn't helping their cause for Talass to be distracting them all with such piercing cries. She was enough of a battle veteran to know better. 

Nesco was about to open her mouth to rebuke Talass when she realized it was already open.

She was the one who was screaming, and the ranger realized why as she saw her life's blood, more than she had yet shed today, splash out of her left side and stain the wooden floor.

Cynewine went down. The small of her back struck one of the chairs by the desk and sent it skittering across the floor. Before this new pain could really make a difference, the back of Nesco's helm slammed into the edge of the table.

The room tilted, and then went black.

Talass really did want to scream now, but she didn't. There wasn't time. 

Stalworth had turned to the left, trying to keep his remaining two combatants from flanking him. His constant strikes were keeping them on the defensive.

Gorbin's advantage was apparent. Neither Argo nor Talass carried a shield, so parries made up a significant portion of their defensive maneuvers. This was now a very risky business indeed. There'd been a few already, and neither weapon had yet shattered, so clearly there was some kind of limitation on Sundancer's magic, although they had no idea what it might be.

_Once per day, I hope_, thought Argo as he came in on Gorbin's left, a stab aimed at the captain's shield arm. 

Sundancer came up fast, and the two swords rang out together. 

And Harve screamed.

That sound alone was enough to pull Bigfellow back. Even Stalworth paused.

Talass shot a quick glance backwards.

_Why won't anyone ever let me die in peace?_

The thought evaporated, pushed from Cynewine's brain by a fresh pain from her left side.

The ranger opened her eyes. All she could see was a brown, fuzzy blur. 

She couldn't really move, so Nesco figured she might as well wait and see if the blur resolved itself into something recognizable. 

It did. It turned out to be Zantac's hair. The wizard's head was turned to the side, his attention concentrated on putting more bandages on Nesco's wound. She could see the mage had been forced to tear away a section of the chain links to get to it easier. It didn't really matter, she thought. Nesco's armor was in just about the same shape as its wearer.

Finished.

"Don't move, Nesco. Let me see what else I can find to help there." Zantac gave her left hand a quick squeeze before heading back off to the stack of boxes, which they had moved to the far cot.

Nesco watched him for a moment, and then looked down. Her right hand still clutched the useless remains of her sword. The ranger tossed it aside.

Cynewine looked up and to her left. Argo and Talass continued to battle Captain Stalworth.

Something abruptly brushed and then slid off the top of her helm.

Nesco started, and then realized it was Tojo's right arm. Her impact with the table had apparently disturbed the samurai. His head was slowly lolling from side to side. She couldn't tell if he was going to regain consciousness or not.

Tojo's lips parted, but only a small dribble of blood came out.

Nesco stared at him for a moment. Her lower lip trembled.

And then she reached out and took his bloody, filthy hand in her bloody, filthy hand.

Slowly, far too slowly, she managed to get to her knees. The pain was so intense all she could concentrate on was not blacking out. Nesco could feel the blood everywhere. On her side, and on the back of her head against the inside of her helm, dribbling down through the ranger's hair and onto the back of her neck.

Nesco looked at Tojo. Talass had carefully replaced the samurai's swords back into their sheaths. Tojo's face showed his pain. He seemed to be fighting, but whether it was a struggle to wake up or to remain in painless oblivion, she didn't know.

She leaned over him as far as she could.

"Tojo," she whispered.

She couldn't believe what she was about to ask. Not after everything that had happened.

"Tojo," she repeated. "Please. I can't... I can't fight anymore. I don't even have a sword. We..." she tightened her grip on his hand, "I... need you to wake up. We need your sword, Tojo. I know you can beat him, Tojo, and I'm sorry for asking you like this. It seems like all you ever do is throw your life away for us, and all we ever do is ask you to do it one more time."

His eyes might have flickered, but Nesco just couldn't see well enough anymore to be sure.

"Please, Tojo... please wake up. Just one more time... we need your sword..." 

The captain dodged Talass' warhammer again. Argo couldn't help but wince as Talass, focused on Sundancer, didn't see Stalworth's shield until it smashed right into her face. The priestess staggered back, what was left of her nose once again spurting blood.

"RETREAT! RANGED WEAPONS, BIGFELLOW- THAT'S THE WAY TO GO! READY THAT SLING, DRAW THAT BOW!"

Argo managed his pained smile even while dodging out of the way of Gorbin's latest attack. "What's the matter, Harve?" the ranger asked as he counterattacked with his glowing sword. "Aren't you ready to die heroically?"

"Let's not and say I did, okay?"

"I can't believe Dak actually came back for you," Argo muttered as he stepped forward, thrusting Harve through a split-second gap in Stalworth's defenses. The captain was forced to step back, twist to the left _and_ parry with his own blade to avoid being impaled, but he managed to do so nonetheless.

Gorbin and Argo came forward at the same angle at the same time. Their swords crossed again and slid up to lock at the hilts, pulling both fighters' arms upwards.

"OW!" shrieked Harve. "I'm not with him!" the sword squealed to Stalworth.

The captain's cold smile returned as he pressed forward against Argo. "Your sword has more sense than you do, Bigfellow," he snarled.

Argo nodded conspiratorially. "I hear that a lot."

Gorbin was just a second too late responding as Bigfellow's mailed fist smashed into his right cheek. Even as his face was rocked backwards, Stalworth managed to force both swords down, but Argo brought his right foot up just a little higher than the captain would have thought possible for a fighter wearing plate mail, and slammed his boot into Gorbin's groin.

Gasping for breath, Stalworth stepped back.

Talass was still doubled over in agony, trying to get past the pain.

Stalworth now continued to turn to the left, and now launched a furious barrage of blows, aimed more to put Bigfellow on the defensive than any serious attempt at injury. Gorbin used the seconds of time gained to start forcing Argo backwards towards the door.

And Bigfellow could hear a noise from the other side.

_Hobgoblins. He's got them on the other side_, thought the ranger suddenly. _They'll stab right through the door if I back up into it. He's had this planned from the start._

Talass tried to turn her moans of agony into battle cries, but she was little more successful at it than Zantac had been earlier. Even as the priestess headed back into the battle, she thought she heard the wizard's voice coming from her left.

"Er- Nesco? Do you think that's wise?" 

Talass had no idea what Zantac was referring to, but Gorbin was currently blocking her line of sight to the table. The cleric rushed at Stalworth. The captain took her hammer strike on his shield, but then suddenly cried out in pain as at last, Harve found its mark. Argo jerked his sword out of Gorbin's right leg.

_"You'll pay for that!"_ Stalworth shrieked at Argo-

And then swung at Talass.

Argo tried to warn Talass of the feint but it was too late. The cleric parried, but a shattering sound filled the air as her warhammer exploded into a pile of glittery debris. Gorbin, accustomed to attacking into the middle of Sundancer's display, stabbed low, and the priestess cried out and staggered back again, her hands clutched to her stomach.

Bigfellow didn't know how bad it was. For the first time since the battle began, Argo roared with anger and began furiously attacking. Not Stalworth, but his sword.

The captain's eyes went wide as he began parrying with Sundancer, faster and faster. He didn't know what the big ranger was doing, but he knew the fool would lose in the end. All he was doing was pushing Gorbin back a little, towards the middle of the room. Stalworth knew Argo would exhaust himself in just a few seconds, and then it would be all over.

It happened. Bigfellow overextended himself on a swing. Stalworth pushed it aside with his shield, and Sundancer began its move. His mark was there. It was-

Captain Gorbin suddenly jerked upright. His lips forced themselves open, and a cry of absolute, utter agony escaped his lips as his eyes saw the blade of a katana erupt from the center of his chest...

_All over_, he thought sadly.

Stalworth could see Argo's smile. He could hear the hot breath on his left cheek. He couldn't believe he'd made such a stupid error. He could have sworn the samurai was dead.

Slowly, he turned his head- and looked deeply into the hazel eyes of someone who was not Yanigasawa Tojo.

"_This_ is what we have here," gritted Nesco Cynewine.

Stalworth opened his mouth, but if he meant to reply, no one ever heard it. Nesco lowered her arms as the officer slid off the samurai sword and collapsed to the ground.

He did not move again.

Nesco stared at the captain's body as her hands opened of their own accord, and Tojo's katana dropped on top of his corpse.

She looked up. A long way off, it seemed, Argo was going over to Talass. Suddenly, Zantac was there by her, his hands guiding her by the elbows back towards the table.

"I think you'd better sit down, Nesco."

_That seems like a pretty good idea_, was Cynewine's last thought before consciousness left her like a ballista bolt.

Nesco was getting more and more surprised every time she was able to open her eyes.

_Still not dead?_

The thought rang through her brain. Considering the amount of pain she was in, the ranger was unsure whether to consider that a blessing or a curse.

Cynewine was lying on the floor, about ten feet east of the table. She waited patiently as the odd blobs in front of her slowly coalesced into things she could recognize. Like the faces of people kneeling over her.

Faces like... Nesco frowned... _Tojo's? _

The samurai's smile was like a thousand healing spells, if perhaps with not such long-lasting effects. She smiled weakly back at him, and tried extra-hard to avoid any exclamations of pain as he slowly helped her into a sitting position. The room began to spin again, and Nesco put her head between her knees, signaling the others with a hand gesture to wait.

They did, and after a time Cynewine slowly raised her head. When she did, she saw Argo practically forcing Tojo to lie down on one of the cots. Zantac was fussing over Talass, who sat in one of the chairs. Nesco could see the cleric's abdomen swathed in bandages, her chainmail in the same tatters now as her own. Talass gave her own weak smile and nod at Nesco.

"Are you all right?" the cleric asked.

Cynewine nodded. "Considering the situation, I guess." The ranger looked soberly at the priestess. Talass' nose looked like a smashed and bloodied egg yolk.

"You look terrible," Nesco said wryly.

Talass gingerly touched her face and nodded again. "That's all right," she said wistfully. "There's nothing in here I wanted to smell, anyway."

Laughing would have hurt her side too much, so Nesco settled for a silent chuckle. The ranger looked around.

Stalworth's body had been dragged across the damaged trap door. The table had been upended and jammed against the western door.

Argo, currently pulling the other cot next to Tojo's, explained to Cynewine about the hobbies that had been lurking behind it. "They fled when Stalworth fell," he explained, his voice quiet, "but they'll be back. It's only a matter of time. In the meantime, you need to lay down." 

Nesco was hurting so bad she didn't even put up a false pretense, but just eased herself slowly onto the cot. The ranger tried to focus on the bare ceiling above.

She frowned. "Argo," she said, craning her head to find her fellow ranger. "There's a trap door up there."

Bigfellow nodded and pointed. "Yes, but it's bolted from this side." 

"Oh." Nesco leaned back again and closed her eyes. 

Things seemed unnaturally quiet. She could hear an occasional fragment of conversation around her, but they were muffled and indistinct. Cynewine sighed and opened her eyes again. Tojo, on her right. appeared to be asleep again, his hands clasped in front of his chest. Nesco noticed that his katana was once again in its scabbard. 

_He has to know_, Nesco thought. _He has to know that we've at least handled his swords, if not used them. What will he think? _

Wincing, she rolled over onto her left side. Argo was trying to reinforce the table blockade with one of the chairs. Talass sat in the other chair, her eyes closed and her lips moving in silent prayer. Zantac stood about a foot from the window, staring forlornly outside, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

No one was talking anymore.

"We put up one hell of a fight, didn't we?"

Argo Bigfellow Junior turned around from his efforts. Efforts that he knew were ultimately futile. The door might hold for a few minutes at best, and then the hobgoblins would come pouring through. He was the only one left of the group who could still fight for more than a few seconds, and he knew he wouldn't last long. The big ranger eyed Nesco Cynewine. She was propped up on one elbow, her sometimes hazel-sometimes green eyes glistening at him.

Argo's smile was uncharacteristically weak. "Yes, Lady Cynewine, we certainly did."

Talass opened her eyes.

"We're not going to die." She announced to the room at large, standing up and clutching her holy symbol tightly. "We are going to get out of this."

Zantac shook his head, scowling. He did not turn around as he replied. 

"Your vision?" A look of anger that only Nesco saw passed over the mage's features momentarily. "The gods will only go so far, Talass. They'll only go so far."

Now Zantac did turn around. "Is there anything besides blind faith that tells you we're going to be rescued?"

Talass stared back at Zantac, and her face, her composure began to shake. Trembling, she walked slowly over to where the petrified Elrohir still lay against the wall, like a piece of discarded furniture.

The cleric stared down at her husband as she spoke quietly. "Because this can't be how it ends. I've always known death was a possibility. I've always known that we might fail. But... I always thought we would go out in a blaze of glory, fighting for justice. Fighting for what's right."

Talass looked back at Zantac. "But there's nothing noble about this. We're going to die like caged rats. That's not how the Justice Bringer would have wanted it."

She again turned to what was left of her husband. "I have to believe that the last thing Elrohir sees in his life will not be the … face of a medusa. I have to believe, if only once, I will be able to feel Elrohir's living arms around me again, and I will be able to look him in the eye and tell him how much I love him, _without_ our deaths being at hand."

The cleric buried her face in her hands. "This can't be the end. It can't. I never told him. I..."

Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. Zantac dropped his eyes to the floor. Nesco couldn't bear to watch, either.

Talass kept on crying, but she didn't care anymore. She wasn't even going to stop when the hobbies came crashing through the door. She'd just stay here and-

The priestess batted away angrily in reflex the hand that lifted her chin, but she stopped when she opened her eyes to identify the transgressor.

Argo Bigfellow Junior kept his auburn eyes on Talass even as he tossed his helm to the floor. The cleric looked at the ranger's dark blonde hair, matted with sweat and caked with blood.

"I know you love him, Talass," he whispered, "just like I love my Caroline." His voice broke and he looked away, his eyes moist. "She was a fool to marry me. I told her that. She would have been happier with someone else." Argo gulped, his voice cracking. "Still, one last hug would have been nice..."

And then somehow they were together, hugging each other until the end of the world, the tall ranger's tears falling into Talass' blonde hair. Argo breathed in deeply, and he could just make out the scent of crushed flowers that Caroline liked to use when she washed her hair.

Talass could feel the muscles in the arms around her; the combination of strength and gentleness that she had felt the very first time Elrohir had done this.

Nesco and Zantac watched in silence.

Eventually, they both pulled away.

"So," Argo said with an expression both sad and embarrassed, "was I all right as a stand-in, my good lady?"

Talass sniffled, wiped her eyes and lifted her hand to cradle Argo's cheek.

"You were fine, Argo. You were just fine."

Bigfellow gave her one last pained smile, took Talass' hand in his, and kissed it softly before releasing it and wiping his own eyes clear.

When he looked back, Talass was looking at him pointedly.

"Um... yes?" he asked.

The cleric put her hands on her hips. "So how was I?"

Argo stared back at her. Talass could see it. Just a little whisper of a smile.

_That bastard._

"How were you what?" Bigfellow asked as innocently as possible.

Talass slowly put her hands around Bigfellow's neck. "How was I as Caroline?" she asked with exaggerated sweetness.

Argo put on a thoughtful look that was beginning to irk Talass as much as that smile did.

"I don't know," the ranger mused, stroking his chin. "It's kind of hard to compare." He suddenly looked over at Cynewine and beckoned her with a crooked finger.

"Oh Nesco, could you come over here for a moment, please?"

And Talass squeezed through their joint laughter.

Nesco managed only a half-smile before suddenly bursting into tears herself.

When she finally managed to stop them, she saw just what she didn't want to see.

Everyone standing by her, the pity in their eyes. They knew exactly why she was crying.

Cynewine got to her feet as quickly as her injuries would allow and stalked over to the window, heedless of any sniper danger. She didn't even look down- only up to the night sky, with its clouds, stars and moons.

And unfulfilled promises. Nesco could remember a little nine year-old Cynewine girl staring up at this very same sky. That girl had heard the promise in the night wind, the breeze that said she would someday find her true love.

She'd never even found a false one.

The voice behind her was little more than a whisper.

"Nesco-san."

She turned around slowly. Tojo was standing behind her, at his standard respectable distance.

The samurai's head was down. He did not look at her.

"You come back for me outside, Nesco-san. Why did you do this?"

Despite herself, a shot of disappointment went through Nesco's frame. She knew this wasn't the question she was hoping Tojo would ask but, as she reminded herself, it was a little too late for that anyway. She took a deep breath.

"You're my friend, Tojo. How can I explain that so you'd understand?"

Tojo chewed on his lip. With the slowness of a glacier, his head began to rise.

"You... afraid to die?"

Nesco clenched her fists. "Yes, Tojo, I admit it. I am," she said. "I'm not proud of it, and I envy you for it not bothering you, but I am!"

Tojo's head shook as it continued its ascent.

"No. My aporogies, Nesco-san. That not what I mean. I not wish to die, but am ready to do so. What I mean is... there are... things... you wish to experience first?"

Cynewine's breath caught in her throat. She didn't know how to answer that.

Tojo's head was now up. Those purple orbs flitted around the room like a butterfly, but at last came to rest just to the right of Nesco's face.

"Yes, Tojo," she whispered. "There are."

The samurai looked troubled. His gaze went down to the floor for a minute, and his hands twisted uncomfortably at his side. Tojo tried to take a deep breath, but the pain of the attempt cut him off, so he took several rapid, shallow ones instead before looking back up at Cynewine.

"I not experience these things either, Nesco-san," he said quietly.

Nesco's heart was suddenly pounding in fear. Tojo seemed a little bit closer than he had just been.

And then Tojo took her bloody, filthy hand in his.

Nesco couldn't help but gasp. She stared for a moment, as if that was someone else's hand down there. When she looked up again, the samurai's eyes were looking directly into her own.

He was smiling.

Nesco's lips had gone completely dry. There was a pounding in her ears that she kept trying to tell herself was from blood loss. Cynewine was completely paralyzed. All she could do was gaze back into those violet eyes, and wait.

Yanigasawa Tojo slowly let go of Nesco's head, stepped back a pace and bowed deeply.

"Sometimes, I… think I onry one, Nesco-san. It… gives me peace to know I not arone. I… I know that most difficurt for you to share… thank you."

_What?_ Nesco thought. _Umm…what?_

Tojo turned and walked away.

_Huh? Did I miss… but…_

Nesco could move now again, but only to tremble violently. She put a hand over her heart, and stared as Tojo sat back down upon his cot, closed his eyes and again began breathing regularly.

Unlike a certain ranger.

Nesco's face was as red as it could be under the circumstances. She couldn't believe it. She felt like she'd just been slapped. How could he have just done that? Cynewine's breaths came in great irregular gulps. There was pain, but she welcomed it, anything to try and take her mind off the terrible, horrible thing that Tojo had just done to her.

She caught a quick glimpse of Argo, Talass and Zantac looking at her. All three sent their gaze shooting off elsewhere so fast Nesco was sure she could hear the ricochets.

Anger surged through Nesco even as her eyes welled up with tears again. _Why? He had to have seen how she felt! Why had he done that? WHY? WHY? WHY?_

Nesco whirled around, looking for something through blurry eyes. It took a few seconds, but she found Stalworth's body. Sundancer still lay next to it.

Cynewine stopped down and snatched up the sword.

It felt good in her hand. She liked the way the fake sun glinted off of it. She liked the way it felt in her hand.

_Sundancer_ wasn't going to unexpectedly let go of her hand…

"Nesco!"

She paid no attention to Talass' shout as she advanced slowly upon Tojo. Her clarity of purpose dried her tears instantly.

It felt good not to be crying anymore.

Still, the sword hung down as she stepped in front of Tojo.

The samurai opened his eyes. He glanced briefly at the longsword in the ranger's hand, and then up at her face. Without hesitation.

Nesco blinked. There was something on Tojo's face, but she couldn't read it. It wasn't his usual blank mask. It wasn't fear, it wasn't anger, it wasn't even confusion. The samurai sat absolutely still, gazing into Nesco's eyes just as she gazed into his.

Just as they had done those long, long, seconds- a lifetime, ago.

And like a glass weapon exploding into a thousand shards, it struck Nesco. Tojo's conversation with Aslan back in the kitchen.

_"I did not feel dishonored." The paladin's voice was soft. "I felt honored that a good friend would confide in me so."_

Still looking down, Tojo shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips. His voice was also soft, but it carried an air of finality. 

"You are gaijin. You wirr never understand." 

But now, he COULD understand.

_"It… gives me peace to know I not arone. I… I know that most difficurt for you to share… thank you."_

And now Nesco understood as well. Tojo, a man who was from a land further away in customs and attitudes and upbringing than any amount of dimensions or physical distance could ever hope to achieve, had been able to see things from their side- from _her_ side, and to appreciate it. Perhaps this was a new beginning. More probably, it would never happen again, but it had happened this one time, and with Nesco Cynewine.

And now she knew she wasn't really in love with Yanigasawa Tojo. In fact, she had known that all along. It was just the fact that she was about to die that had raised up that terrible hole in her heart, a hole that she had always assumed she would have the time to fill… someday.

But that wasn't up to Tojo. That was up to her.

Cynewine's whole body shook with relief, and a shaky smile appeared somehow on her face. She looked at the samurai, and could see he knew she had made the connection.

_He really does look a lot better when he smiles_, thought Nesco. _But there is no way in Olympus I'm letting him off THAT easy._

She squatted down in front of him and leaned forward. The samurai's eyes never left hers, but they widened slightly as her face grew nearer to his.

"You don't mind that I shared my… dishonor with you, Tojo?" she asked, with a fierce smile.

Tojo cleared his throat, his eyes bouncing around now like they'd been shaken loose from their sockets.

"Uh, no Nesco-san… I, er… I do not."

Just a fraction of an inch closer. She could see him start to sweat.

"That's not like a samurai, is it, Tojo?"

The samurai's regular breathing was long gone. Tojo flung his gaze around, perhaps hoping for some help, but once again three sets of eyes that had been spellbound at this spectacle disappeared. With a great effort, Tojo wrestled his eyes back to at least the general vicinity of that face. That face that was so close he could feel her breath; a soft, warm, invisible mist.

"No, Nesco-san," Tojo admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Not as a samurai should be."

Tojo never thought his eyes could open so wide…

The samurai's hand shot up to his cheek. His fingers could still feel the impression, the wetness, that lingering electric jolt. He gazed in astonishment of Nesco Cynewine, who stood up now, stepped back and then bowed deeply to Tojo, a sly smile on her still-moist lips.

And then she turned around and walked away without a word, calmly retrieving her shield from the floor.

Tojo was aware that his mouth was hanging wide open- a trait he'd always noticed and disliked in _gaijin_- but nothing short of a hammer and nail was going to close it.

He did manage to hear Argo's voice however, coming from somewhere.

Are you _certain_ you couldn't help me out on this comparison business, Lady Cynewine?"

There was a loud slap, and a yelp of pain from the big ranger, but before Tojo could refocus to see what was going on, the western door suddenly shook with a tremendous crash.

Argo was instantly by the door, Harve in hand. Zantac stood next to him, holding a torch.

Tojo and Nesco moved to join them, but suddenly, the eastern door- the one wizard locked, by Zantac, began shuddering under an assault as well.

_So much for retreat_, Nesco thought, as she turned around to guard that entranceway. To her right, Yanigasawa Tojo, katana in his two-handed grip, looked over to her.

"Sword hander werr, Nesco-san?"

The ranger grimaced, moving the blade through a few practice swings. "Don't know yet, Tojo. I guess the proof will come when-"

And then she stopped, stricken.

She could see Captain Gorbin Stalworth's fresh blood still on Tojo's katana. No one had bothered to wipe it off.

The samurai eyed his blade, and looked at Nesco. One eyebrow shot skyward, that faint smile returned to his lips.

Then, before Nesco could even think of something to say, he winked at her and returned his attention to the door.

_Thank you, Tojo,_ she mouthed weakly. She watched the door shake in its frame, and could vaguely hear the shouts and yells of the hobgoblins on the other side.

_This is it. This is really it._

Nesco Cynewine stole one more glance out the window. From here, all she could see was the roof of the fort, the dark silhouette of the guard tower, and several stars in the sky.

_I don't know who you are_, Nesco thought, _but you saved us back in Highport. Whether you are mortal or god, I beseech you. Save these people one more time. Take my life in payment if you wish, but spare them. They… they deserve to live._

The pounding continued. Small splinters of wood began to fly off both doors.

The stars waited.


	89. You!

**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

Gulyet's face fell.

"Dead?" she repeated disbelievingly, hoping that she had heard wrong.

The hobgoblin nodded. He didn't look at the goblin adept, but rather stared uneasily at the winter wolf beneath her. The creature's unearthly blue eyes seemed to pulse through the small cloud of ice crystals it generated when it breathed.

He continued. "We heard the captain fall. We," he hesitated, "regrouped. I was chosen to inform you, and to find out whom else may be available to aid us. The humans are still holed up in the officers' quarters, and from I saw when Stalworth broke through, only four are still alive, and all near death. Sergeant Roryx is still planning to rush them from both sides. I don't know exactly when he's going to give the order, but it might be at any moment."

The hobgoblin finished, rubbing his chin and looking back up at the gatehouse's third floor, frowning. Gulyet could tell he wasn't sure if he wanted to be back up there, but it was clear he certainly didn't want to be here, talking to a mere goblin.

Gulyet grumbled loudly in her throat, giving the impression she was considering the hob's request when in fact she was displaying her dislike of him. Rime of course knew her mistress' body language and snarled just so at the large goblinoid, but Gulyet's six goblin bodyguards also choked up on their spears a little and increased their glowers at the hobgoblin.

Not intimidated by them, the hobgoblin snarled back. Gulyet was not paying attention, though. She was thinking about how this had started out as just another night, and how it had all somehow gone terribly wrong.

She hadn't even wanted to be outside, above ground, in the first place. It had been required, however. The actual hobgoblin priest, Adhu Nazeryet, had been gone for almost a week now. The chief of the Dripping Pus tribe (_only a hob would think up a stupid name like that_, she grimaced) had summoned Adhu back to their territory, and he was not expected back for another week at the earliest.

And so Gulyet had been forced to conduct Maglubiyet's ceremonies for the hobgoblins as well as for the dungeon's goblin contingent. She didn't mind that too much. Although not a true cleric, she was the spiritual leader for the fort's goblins, and could expand that for the hobs when needed. She knew the big goblinoids didn't really like her, though. Snide comments and jibes would follow her sometimes, and they never listened to her like they did to Nazeryet.

And so, rather than being at Markessa's side as her apprentice, Gulyet had been pulling security duty tonight. She hated that, although it did at least give her the chance to ride Rime.

The goblin kept one hand on the reins while absentmindedly stroking Rime's white fur with her other hand. The winter wolf was still a pup, about five months old and only about half her full-grown size. Markessa's agents had acquired the wolf cub from the black market in Highport, and she had given the pup to Gulyet to raise, on condition that she be used in the defense of the fort when needed. The two had bonded fast, although the goblin had only been riding her for about three weeks now. It was made clear to the adept that when Rime became too big for Gulyet to ride anymore, she was to surrender her to someone else of Markessa's choosing.

Gulyet didn't like to think about that, so the goblin pushed that thought aside. She figured that was five or six months away at least, so she and Rime could remain together for a while. And besides, she certainly couldn't fault Markessa. The master of the slavers' stockade genuinely seemed to like having the goblin as her apprentice.

And considering who Markessa was, that was very unusual.

It probably helped that Gulyet had a strong stomach.

The adept shook her head. She was again getting distracted. The goblin frowned and tugged at the collar of her chainmail armor. It was magical, and had been taken off a recently arrived slave; a female gnome warrior of some kind. Gulyet had heard that magic armor resized itself to fit anyone of similar size, but that clearly wasn't true. The armor was as tight around the neck, uncomfortable on her shoulders and loose on the sleeves as it had been the day she'd been given it. She only hoped that if it ever came down to actual battle, the discomfort would be worth it.

"Besides Roryx, what other officers are left?" she asked.

The hobgoblin's eyes went dull for a moment as it thought.

"Sergeant Herash on the curtain wall. As far as I know, that's it. The others- Chork, Griston, Kezz- all dead." The goblinoid then regarded Gulyet again, as if it were daring her to come up with an order that sounded smart enough for him to follow- voluntarily, of course.

Gulyet sighed, adjusting herself in the saddle. She'd been astride Rime for most of the night, and her rear was hurting something fierce, but there was no way she was going to dismount right now and have to crane her neck to stare up at this oaf.

She'd been surprised when the alarm went out that intruders had been spotted on the parade grounds. She'd been taking a quick break in the stables, both her and Rime grabbing a few hunks of beef (smoked for her, raw for Rime). Gulyet admitted to a secret feeling of relief when the invaders had managed to penetrate the fort proper before she could engage them. The adept really didn't like combat, and certainly not a straight-up fight with what by all accounts was a band of terrifyingly powerful humans.

Then, when word came that the intruders had slain Commander Icar and were trapped in the kitchen, she had been stunned. The imposing human had always treated Gulyet kindly. In fact, he treated everyone the same. Gulyet assumed that because the giant man couldn't see, everyone was the same to him, and of course, no one ever dared to treat the Commander with anything but the utmost respect. She couldn't believe that anyone could ever kill him, but then the rumors started that one of the invaders was also a Kara-Turan, and what's more, a samurai warrior, the same as Icar.

Then Captain Stalworth had called Gulyet over and told him that Lieutenant Kairn was going to lead the charge to slay the humans inside. She had actually felt a brief pang of concern. She liked the half-orc. He wasn't as consistently kind to her as Icar was, but he was smart and strong and appreciated Gulyet for her skills. Captain Stalworth treated her all right as well, but maintained a certain aloofness from the adept, treating her as a useful tool more than anything else.

It was Stalworth who had created the backup plan for a squadron of hobs to attack the invaders silently and invisibly, should they escape from Kairn's troops. Gulyet herself was only to attack as a last resort, which suited her just fine. Then, Kairn came running out of the fortress at full speed, looking almost panic-stricken. That had made Gulyet feel so nervous, she'd nearly fallen off her mount. She had cast her last _invisibility_ spell on the lieutenant as he requested, and then retreated to watch the battle. Captain Stalworth, in a last-second change of plan, had placed Kairn in charge and had himself retreated to the gatehouse. "A backup for our backup," he had said with a grim look.

Gulyet didn't know if that was typical behavior for humans. She didn't know many humans.

And she didn't know whether Blackthorn qualified.

Then the humans had come charging back out of the inner courtyard as predicted. Gulyet had been astounded to see that one of them had been petrified, and was being carried by two others. This amazed the adept on two counts. First, the rumors that Icar actually had an imprisoned medusa as a treasure guard were apparently true and second, that humans were a lot stronger than she thought they were. It was only later that she had guessed that magic might have been at work there.

The goblin had smiled as Stalworth's trap went off as planned, and the humans were pulled down. Most of them, anyway. The samurai proved to be just as awesome a fighter as Icar, and started laying hobs waste left and right. Distracted by this, Gulyet had only a momentary glimpse of Lieutenant Kairn carrying one of the humans' two mages back into the inner courtyard, no doubt to dispose of him there without interference. Then there had been a flash of light, a brief pause, and then two more flashes. Gulyet had guessed the worst, and it was confirmed later when they found the half-orc's charred, blasted body. The wizard, apparently having set off some kind of contingent _fireballs_ or something, had fared even worse. Nothing of him was recovered same some charred pieces of clothing and the melted and ruined contents of his backpack- including the remains of a spellbook. That had been too bad. She would have liked to have recovered that.

The samurai just would not go down, and the others started regrouping. Gulyet was screaming for every available hobgoblin to reinforce their troops, but with the loss of Kairn and Stalworth nowhere in sight, their morale was starting to slip, and as she had feared, the hobs showed little inclination to obey her.

Then a squad of curtain wall hobgoblins, Herash's troops, having not yet seen the power of these humans firsthand, came rushing in. The samurai finally went down, but the humans had grabbed his body and retreated into the gatehouse, their other wizard having killed who knows how many hobs inside with a _lightning bolt_.

Gulyet had tried to assume command, but her efforts achieved limited results as best. It was all she could do to keep the soldiers from panicking and deserting the stockade entirely. There had been a brief period of relative calm when it was ascertained that the humans were once again trapped, this time somewhere on the third floor of the gatehouse. Gulyet had been certain that Captain Stalworth and Sundancer would put an end to this menace once and for all.

But now he was dead, too.

The goblin sighed. _There's nothing for it_, she thought. _We need help. I have to send word down to the dungeon. One of them has to come up here, or we'll all perish for sure._

Gulyet bit her lip.

_But which one?_

It wasn't really a decision, no matter how much she might pretend otherwise. Deep down, Gulyet knew this. Markessa would certainly be a capable combatant, and ordinarily the adept wouldn't have a moment's hesitation that she could finish off the intruders, especially in their weakened state.

However, thirty minutes ago, she would have thought the same about Commander Icar.

Furthermore, Markessa was their leader, and as far as Gulyet knew, had no more love of battle than she did. It was known for sure that she could erupt into a terrible rage if disturbed while working, and other goblins were not immune to the repercussions of that anger. Gulyet didn't want to risk spoiling her unique relationship with her master.

That left Blackthorn.

Gulyet closed her eyes. She didn't like Blackthorn. In fact, she hated him. That was all right to admit though, because everybody hated Blackthorn, with the possible exception of his three personal bodyguards. Blackthorn was even more likely than Markessa to kill someone who summoned him without what he considered due cause. Even Markessa hated Blackthorn, and Gulyet knew that the only reason she tolerated him was that he had been assigned here by-

The goblin opened her eyes before even more unsettling thoughts could establish a foothold, and glanced again at the hobgoblin. The brute had lost interest in the stare down and was now trying to scratch underneath his leather armor at a spot Gulyet wasn't particularly interested in looking at. The adept turned her attention to her six goblin attendants.

Which one did she like the least at the moment? None of them had annoyed her of late. More so than usual, at any rate.

"Tcherg," Gulyet said, addressing the poor unfortunate who had been the last to turn his eyes away. The goblin continued to look at the hob's legs, as if he hadn't heard her.

"Tcherg," Gulyet repeated.

The small goblinoid sighed and slowly raised his eyes to her. "Yes, my mistress?"

The adept leaned forward. "Go down to the dungeon, and get Blackthorn. You know what the situation is. Explain it to him."

Tcherg tried to work his mouth, but nothing other than a little drool came out. Gulyet noticed that even the hobgoblin was looking concerned.

"I'd rather face his anger at bringing him up now here than his anger when we tell him the humans have escaped." Gulyet's statement was for everyone in listening range.

"Does that mean I can say I'm requesting his help on _your_ authority, mistress?" Tcherg squeaked.

_You damn jackal. If Blackthorn gets angry, that won't save your sorryass hide_, Gulyet thought. "Yes, Tcherg, you can say that."

His eyes firmly fixed on the ground in front of him, Tcherg slowly walked off towards the inner courtyard. Gulyet noticed the silver moonlight reflecting off the metal shortspear that the goblin was dragging behind him.

She glanced upwards at Luna. Gulyet was skilled in reading signs in the clouds of the daytime sky. It was said that a very skilled seer could even discern omens in the faint patterns sometimes visible in the ever-present veil that covered the face of Oerth's larger moon.

_Oh, great Maglubiyet_, she prayed. _Show that you are mightier than the gods of the humans. Give me a sign that I may-_

Gulyet stopped suddenly in dismay as a small cloud she hadn't noticed before slowly covered the face of the full moon.

The adept dropped her head down, while trying to steady her suddenly wildly beating heart. She clenched and unclenched her fists several times, and then looked over at the hobgoblin again. The soldier was looking upwards with a slight frown on his face. He then turned and regarded Gulyet again. The hob's arrogance was gone. Now he only looked nervous.

Gulyet chewed on her lip again. "What's your name?" she asked him, trying to keep any trace of impatience out of her voice.

The hobgoblin hesitated for a moment, and then replied, "Yaruk."

"Gather what forces you can together, Yaruk" Gulyet said quietly. "If Sergeant Roryx means to rush the humans from both sides, you'll also need to cover the trap door in the floor, to prevent them from fleeing that way. We don't want those humans coming back out here, do we?" she finished with as intense a stare as she could manage under the circumstances.

Yaruk seemed to get at least the general picture. The hobgoblin slowly nodded assent, looked back towards the east tower, and then back at Gulyet. He now bore an almost sheepish expression. That was never an easy fit on a hob face.

I need the keys to the tower door," he mumbled.

She frowned. "Didn't you just come from there?"

Yaruk shifted from foot to foot, blowing steam through his nostrils. "I closed the door behind me when I came out," he said, and then looked back up at Gulyet. "I didn't want the humans to escape!" he added in a defiant tone.

The goblin couldn't stop her eyes from rolling. _Of course you didn't, Yaruk_, she thought. _How far thinking for a hob, you moron._ Yaruk, having caught Gulyet's eye roll, was scowling at her again, and the adept suddenly wanted to get rid of him one way or the other. This just wasn't worth the effort.

"The sergeants have the keys, don't they?" she demanded crossly. She saw the hob glance back north, towards the curtain wall, so she cut off his train of thought. "Don't waste time going to Herash!" Gulyet pointed towards the massive pile of hobgoblin corpses in the eastern half of the parade grounds. "I'm sure one of the other sergeants is decaying in there somewhere- get the keys from him. Now move!"

Yaruk's eyes went wide, and a truly vicious snarl began on his lips, but was cut off instantly by a thin layer of frost that coated his entire upper body.

Rime had won the snarling contest. Yaruk stalked off, throwing a hateful glance over his shoulder as his gait picked up in pace.

The goblin adept was watching Yaruk's retreating form when underneath her Rime suddenly began growling.

"What is it, Rime?"

The winter wolf continued looking towards the east. Her gaze was not on Yaruk, or seemingly any of the other hobgoblins about. The animal's head slowly moved back and forth, her nose sniffing furiously.

Gulyet could see nothing, and couldn't really concentrate on this right now. In addition to all her other aches and pains, she now had a splitting headache. She leaned in low over her mount and slowly stroked her ivory fur.

"It's all right, girl. You're just nervous. I am, too. It's been a rough night, but it'll be all over soon. Either those stupid hobs will actually get lucky and finish off the humans, or..." and here Gulyet's mouth grew taut, and her grip tighter, "Blackthorn will take care of it."

Rime turned her head to eye her mistress. A sound that might almost have been a whimper escaped the wolf's throat, as if there were something it wanted to convey to her, but couldn't.

Gulyet patted her fur. Don't worry, Rime," she said, straightening up now. "We'll be the ultimate victors here tonight. I think those accursed humans have run out of surprises at last..."

Yaruk was still muttering. When he wasn't blowing on his hands and trying to rub the frost off his face, that is.

The other half-dozen or so hobgoblins about looked up from their work of piling corpses to catch his arrival. Several grinned at him, which only soured Yaruk's mood further. He waded into the corpse pile, shouting "I need the keys to the east tower! Some of us actually have fighting to do tonight!"

"About time you started, Yaruk! You look pretty fresh so far!" a hobgoblin nursing the bandage-wrapped stump of it's right hand shouted back.

" It's not my fault if you fight like a gob! Cry to your mate and don't bother me about it!" Yaruk yelled in response as he picked his way carefully through the pile of death. Oddly, the bodies were still arranged in a ring fashion, leaving a five-foot diameter hole in the center. Apparently, this was where the human samurai had made his last stand. Yaruk could still see the human's backpack, lying torn apart and picked through. For a moment, he wondered if there had been any good swag in there, but then shook that thought off. He had a job to do, and would be very happy to get it done before Blackthorn showed up. He hoped the horrid human would vent his anger on Gulyet. That arrogant gob and her stupid wolf pup deserved to be at the bottom of this corpse heap, as far as Yaruk was concerned.

He eventually found the remains of Sergeant Griston. It wouldn't have taken as long if his head and body hadn't been so far apart from each other.

Yaruk grabbed the key ring and then straightened up, listening to the muscles in his back crack as he stretched. He was about to start gathering his fellow hobgoblins together when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

On the far eastern edge of the parade grounds was a steep pile of earth and broken stone; it lay underneath the rampart parapets situated about twenty-five feet above.

There was a rope hanging down from one of the parapets.

Yaruk slowly walked over to the rope. No one else was about.

There was nothing exceptional looking about it, he saw. It was perhaps a quarter-inch thick. The rope was wrapped several times around one of the inward-facing parapets of the rampart above. About five feet or so of the rope lay coiled on the ground.

The hobgoblin stared upwards, frowning. Had one of the humans tied this here on their initial foray, intending to use it as a possible escape route later on? That seemed logical, although he couldn't quite figure out how they had managed to tie the rope around the parapet from down here. And if it had been hanging here that long, why hadn't the perimeter guards noticed the rope by now, and removed it?

Yaruk was about to call out to the guards above when he heard something.

It was a short phrase, spoken by someone very close by.

The hobgoblin whirled about. He saw no one.

Yaruk hadn't understood the voice. He was pretty sure the language was the tongue of humankind, but who would-

From behind, the end of the rope suddenly wrapped itself several times around Yaruk's neck.

Yaruk gasped and pulled at the coils with both hands, the keys falling to the ground forgotten. His eyes bulged as they flew about wildly. There was still no one about- _the damn rope was doing it on its own!_

The hobgoblin pulled with all his might, and managed to stop any further constriction. The chokehold was still too tight for him to cry out for aid, but if he could just reach his dagger-

Again the unseen voice spoke an unintelligible word.

Knots began appearing in the rope at one-foot intervals. With each knot, the rope jerked and shortened. Yaruk was lifted off his feet.

He couldn't hold out against the added pressure. Other hobgoblins were running towards him now, but it was too late. Yaruk's arms flailed uselessly even as the choking turned into a strangling, which turned into darkness.

When the hobbies had finished cutting Yaruk's body down and someone finally thought to look for the keys, they were nowhere to be found.

Sergeant Herash nervously paced the western walkway on top of the curtain wall.

The hobgoblin officer's hands were clutched tightly on his bow. He squinted constantly, peering at the outer courtyard beneath him. An occasional hobgoblin could be seen running to or from the archway of the gatehouse, but that was about it. Faint shouts could be heard coming from the gatehouse and beyond.

Herash wiped the cold sweat off his forehead with his hairy forearm yet again. This was bad. Things were not going well at all.

He didn't know what was going on right now. The last update he had received was that the intruders were holed up in the officers' quarters in the gatehouse, and that Captain Stalworth was preparing to storm the room. Dozens of his fellow hobgoblins were said to be lying dead on the parade grounds and inside the fortress itself. Some of his troops were saying that the so-called humans were really demons in disguise.

He was luckier than most, he supposed. Herash only had twelve hobgoblins under his command. Three were dead, and six others were currently on the parade grounds. Herash didn't know whom they were reporting to.

The gatehouse and the fortress had taken terrific casualties, the hobgoblin messenger boy had said. Perhaps four dozen between them, including Lieutenant Kairn and of course, Commander Icar. The sergeant gulped and exchanged a nervous and patently fake grin with the lone soldier sharing the walkway with him. He was young and newly assigned as a soldier. Herash looked out after him, determined that the youth would soon be a fine warrior and worthy of his post.

The sergeant looked out again over the nighttime scene. By The Mighty One, Herash knew that even more heads were going to roll once this was over, and he wanted to make sure no one could find any fault for what he had done during this assault. He wasn't going to do anything rash or stupid. He would-

"Sergeant..." the sound was a choked off gasp, born of terror.

Herash looked over to his left. The soldier was standing about ten feet away, looking straight down the stone wall. He was pointing down with his right hand, his face a study in horror. The officer followed his man's gaze.

Right below them, a white mist was issuing forth from one of the arrow slits. One of the arrow slits on the second floor.

As the two hobgoblins stood, rooted to the spot, the mist slowly assumed a rough goblinoid shape. Two dark holes near the top might have been eyes.

Silently, it started to slowly rise towards them.

"No… this isn't possible..." Herash whispered.

Judging from the scream that suddenly erupted from his subordinate's throat, the sergeant's opinion was not a unanimous one. The younger hobgoblin then bolted for the door to the western guard tower, yanked it open and ducked inside.

Herash was right behind him.

The two hobgoblins on the eastern walkway spun around as Herash and his subordinate came tearing out of the eastern guard tower.

"It's- it's coming!" The younger one shouted, trying to take deep breaths at the same time.

The two soldiers looked at each other, then back at the new arrivals. "What's coming?" one of them asked.

"The haunt... _the haunt from below!"_

The other soldier made a face of contempt. "Impossible! It can't leave the second floor- you know that! Adhu said-"

"Here it comes!" Herash shrieked.

And indeed, the creature now came serenely floating through the open doorway of the eastern guard tower.

Four hobgoblins bolted for the far end of the walkway. Leaning up against the south wall there was the stockade's spare ladder. Herash silently thanked Captain Stalworth for the human's insistence on keeping an extra one in stock.

"Don't push! Hold on! One at a time!" he shouted.

It was in vain. The three hobgoblin soldiers were piling onto the top of the ladder, clawing and shoving. Herash gasped as the youth swung outwards, holding on by one hand and one foot, but he managed to regain the ladder. The sergeant glanced back. The haunt had slowed down to almost immobility, but it was still inching forward. It almost seemed that short tendrils of mist were reaching out from it.

"Not on my watch!" Herash yelled out with a sudden surge of bravery. He moved over to the ladder and grabbed hold of it, determined that the panic of his charges, while shameful, was not going to result in their deaths. One of the older soldiers, apparently thinking that Herash was trying to get on board the ladder as well, grabbed his right hand and flung it off.

"Stop it, you fool!" The sergeant bellowed. "Calm down! You don't need to-"

The ladder began to pull away from the wall.

_"No!"_ Herash yelled, trying to get his right hand back on the ladder. The three goblinoids on the ladder, feeling what was happening, increased their struggling even more.

Herash screamed out with the effort of holding on, but he suddenly realized there was more at work here.

Something was _pulling_ the ladder away.

Herash leaned over the wall. There was no one down there, but the officer could tell from the feel that the opposing force was coming from below, where it had more leverage than he did.

With a mighty jerk, the ladder tore free from Herash's left hand. The young soldier grabbed wildly for Herash's right hand, but their fingers only touched briefly.

Four screams rent the night air, but only one lasted more than a few seconds.

What's going on?" Gulyet shouted.

No one answered her. Hobgoblins were running north, heading towards the outer courtyard. Gulyet heard a terrible crash, not unlike the one she had heard earlier tonight.

_Not again_, she thought.

This was _not_ going to happen again, the goblin vowed to herself through clenched teeth. Blackthorn was not going to come out here to find another scene of chaos. She knew he would go straight to her, demanding answers she would not be able to give.

"Ride, Rime!"

The adept spurred her mount forward, and the two dashed towards the open gatehouse portcullis. Despite themselves, hobs stood aside for her as the moonlight brightened slightly and Luna again shone down unfettered.

It was as bad as Gulyet had feared. Their ladder- their _second_ ladder, lay flat on the slope of the outer courtyard. Only now it was three bodies who lay sprawled unmoving nearby, rather than just one.

She ignored the hobs rushing to check on their fallen comrades and turned her attention upwards.

A lone hobgoblin- Sergeant Herash, she guessed, was standing atop the eastern walkway. It looked like he had his sword out, and was swinging at- some kind of mist?

Gulyet had Rime trot up to within about twenty feet of the curtain wall's foundation. Craning her neck, the adept could just barely make see the sergeant above. What was that he was fighting? It almost looked like-

Gulyet's eyes widened. _No_, she thought. _It can't be!_

The goblin's eyes suddenly narrowed. _And it's not. Not tonight. Too many coincidences tonight._

And Gulyet let her power manifest.

"Herash!"

The hobgoblin sergeant, swinging wildly in panic at the amorphous mist in front of him, looked around frantically.

_That's Gulyet's voice_, he thought, _but it sounds like she's right here! What's going on?_

The voice of the goblin continued to come from the thin air beside him.

"Listen to me, Herash! That is not the haunt before you! It is an illusion- my powers tell me this! I am in the courtyard below you, using a spell called _ventriloquism_ to speak to you. Look and see!"

_Is this a trick?_ Wondered Herash, but the hobgoblin slowly backed away from the haunt, towards the southern wall, and glanced down.

It was Gulyet, all right, mounted on Rime, her winter wolf pup. The goblin waved at him.

Herash eyed the mist again, slowly resheathed his sword, and then grabbed his bow, drew an arrow and fired as fast as he could. The shaft sped right through the haunt.

And then there was no more haunt. It had vanished.

"We're under attack, Herash!" Gulyet's disembodied voice continued. "I don't know by who or what, but I'm going to try and find out! Be warned- Blackthorn has been summoned, and is on his way up! Stand fast, and be alert!"

Herash looked again, but he only caught a brief glimpse of the goblin as she and her mount thundered back through the gatehouse archway.

As Gulyet returned to the parade grounds, she could see that her five remaining goblin retainers had been shunted off to the west. More hobs, perhaps seven or eight, were coming out of the inner courtyard. Gulyet recognized them as belonging to the guard tower garrison- the late Sergeant Kezz's troops. She slowed down and pulled Rime to the right, where the other goblins encircled her again.

An idea was starting to form in Gulyet's head.

A terrible idea.

One of the newly arrived hobs, a brute with a large scar bisecting his forehead lengthwise, spotted the adept and came striding towards her.

"You!" he shouted angrily. "Did you summon Blackthorn?"

Gulyet has absolutely no patience left for the kowtowing this idiot was obviously expecting.

"Yes, I did!" she shouted back. "And where in Acheron is he? We'll all be dead soon if he doesn't bother to show his face!"

The hobgoblin was momentarily taken aback. He hadn't expected her to criticize Blackthorn (no one criticized Blackthorn, even obliquely), nor had he expected such a grim appraisal of their situation.

"Well, he's coming," he grumbled, "Although he doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry. Things had better be as bleak as you say," he scowled at her. "We don't need any-

A sudden cacophony came from the tower. Not the east tower, though. The west tower. The stables.

It sounded like every animal within had suddenly gone berserk.

"You were saying?" Gulyet shouted, Rime already carrying her towards the scene, her assistants struggling to keep up.

Just as the adept approached the west tower, the animals came charging out.

Since the door of the stables faced towards the west, and the pile of earth and broken stone on that side, no one was immediately trampled. Gulyet could see their horses, mules, cows and oxen all running in abject terror. It was a sea of white, rolled-up eyes, frothing mouths and thundering hooves.

The stampede turned when they hit the barrier at the edge of the stockade wall, and was now heading southeast. Right towards Gulyet and her allies. One ox went off-course as the empty wagon it was hitched to overturned, but the others pressed on in a cloud of dust.

Gulyet shifted her position and jerked the reins, and Rime veered off to the right. Four of her retainers just managed to jump away in time as well, but the fifth made the mistake of throwing his shortspear into the approaching dust cloud. Gulyet didn't see whether the spear hit anything, but the resulting scream moments later left no doubt as to its hurler's fate.

Gulyet had no magic that was of direct aid here, so she steered Rime around the animals and headed into the stables. Three younger hobgoblins, two males and a female, were huddled in a corner together. One of the boys appeared to have an leg that was badly hurt; possibly broken.

"They just went crazy!" the uninjured boy was yelling. "We heard someone talking, but we couldn't understand him, or even see him. Then the animals went mad! Kyorg here tried to stop them, but-"

But Gulyet had already turned Rime around and was heading out.

_"Hey!" _the boy shouted out after her. "Come back here and heal Kyorg, you stupid gob!"

The adept hardly heard him as she rode off. Not that it mattered anyway; she had used up all of her healing prayers long ago this night.

_A spell_, thought the adept, as that terrible idea in her head grew stronger. _A spell caused those beasts to run amok..._

The hobs still in the parade grounds all looked very nervous now. A few were still chasing the animals that were running around the grounds perimeter, but most were either talking in groups of two or three or starting to edge their way northwards, towards the gatehouse arch. The pile of hobgoblin bodies lay unattended to. Three of Gulyet's remaining four goblins were wailing over the body of the fifth one.

Gulyet ran her hand through her hair. Her headache wasn't getting any better, and this wasn't-

"Gulyet! Mistress!"

That was her other goblin. Clix, she thought. His voice was also coming from the north.

The adept looked that way. Clix was heading back towards her, but more hobs were heading the other way, past the gatehouse portcullis and down the slope of the outer courtyard. Slowly, almost dreading what she might hear, she had Rime trot forward to meet him.

"Mistress!" Clix panted as he pulled to a stop, breathing heavily and leaning on his shortspear stuck into the ground. "We... we are trapped! The drawbridge... we cannot get to it... it..."

_"What are you babbling about?" _Gulyet yelled, more loudly than she, or her throbbing forehead, really wanted to.

The goblin caught his breath, and looked up at the adept.

"Ice, my mistress. Ice!"

Gulyet shifted in her saddle as she sat silently upon Rime, staring at the scene in front of her. Clix and the others silently came up behind.

A short tunnel, roughly ten feet in all dimensions, contained the outer portcullis that led to the small drawbridge that was the only entrance and exit to the stockade.

A solid wall of ice filled the tunnel. Gulyet couldn't see how thick it was from here, but judging from the frantic efforts of the hobgoblins now massing in front of the wall, hacking and chopping with their weapons, it was thick enough to last a while.

Those goblinoids not involved in trying to breach the ice had retreated again to the parade grounds. A low rumble of discontent from back there was swiftly growing to a roar. Gulyet closed her eyes, but only for a moment. She had a job to do. Feeling like a ball being batted back and forth between two children, the goblin spurred her faithful mount back to the south.

She could hardly get through the portcullis this time. Hobs were coming back northwards again. Lots of them this time. In fact, more than she had known were outside earlier. Using Rime, she bullied her way through them, ignoring their shouts and threats. Gaining the parade grounds, she turned left.

It was again as she had feared. The door to the east tower was open, and hobgoblins were pouring out, yelling wildly and heading for the archway. Morale was starting to collapse even as Gulyet watched.

_Damn your ugly eyes, Blackthorn! Where are you?_

She moved as close as she dared to the fleeing mob.

"What's going on? Why are you deserting your posts?" Gulyet yelled, loud enough to make her nearly cry from the pain of her pounding head.

"We're not going to stay here to die!" one of the hobs shouted back. "There are invisible assassins everywhere! Haven't you heard? How are we supposed to fight that?"

That seemed to trigger an avalanche of shouted statements and questions.

"I heard that even Markessa is dead, but Blackthorn won't tell us!"

"Where is Blackthorn?"

"I heard he's been killed, too!"

"The exit's been sealed up with ice- We're trapped, and those monsters will pick us off at their leisure!" We've got to get out of here!"

Gulyet tried to jam her way into the "discussion" at this point, hoping for some real information. "Monsters? Do you mean the humans? Where are they? Are they still in the officers' quarters?"

"They're not humans- they only look it! They're some kind of fiends-they can't be killed! The Kara-Turan- they've brought him back to life!"

Gulyet frowned. She didn't know whether to believe that or not- but then again, for all she knew, Markessa and/or Blackthorn might indeed be dead now. The adept tried to keep the conversation going on track.

"Are they still in the officer's quarters?"

"Of course they are!" came the shouted reply. "Roryx and a few still stupid enough to follow him are still trying to break through from the east!" The hobgoblin glanced around at his fellows surrounding him, and seemed to draw strength from their nods of encouragement. "We're not ready to throw away our lives so foolishly, though! We came down from the western stairway, underneath them! We're getting out of here! Those monsters have killed everyone they've come across! If Commander Icar couldn't stop them, what chance have we?"

Gulyet backed Rime up about twenty feet, took a deep breath, then cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled as loud as she could, trying hard to ignore the resultant pain.

_"Listen to me, all of you! Get back to your posts! We are not going to die! Don't let fear get the better of you- THAT is what will kill you! I believe I know who is behind these latest attacks, but I can't do anything about it if you don't-" _

"STUPID GOB!"

Gulyet whirled around. The hob with the forehead scar was standing in front of her, glaring murder and breathing furiously. The ice chips scattered throughout his dark red hair gave testament as to his most recent activities. It was the longsword clenched in his right hand however, that most concerned the adept at this point.

"Why have you done nothing but run around since this started?" the hobgoblin roared.

Gulyet started to reply, but the goblinoid, clearly not interested in a dialogue, cut her off immediately.

_"Did that wolf of yours create that ice?"_ he yelled.

Several of the hobs stopped and turned their heads.

"Rime couldn't do that even if she wanted!" Gulyet shouted back "And why would she? We're-"

"You wield magic- why haven't you done so?" the hobgoblin bellowed, overriding Gulyet's attempted interruptions. "We're all dying here, and you tell us to return to our stations- and to certain death! Where is Markessa? Why has she betrayed us?" The hob's yellow eyes bore down on Gulyet now with undisguised hatred. "Everyone knows you're her pet! Have you cooked up this scheme to weed out those who might oppose her and Blackthorn? Well, your plans have gone awry, gob! Even those who were loyal to Markessa are being killed! You've brought doom upon us all, but you won't get away with it!"

"You're insane!" Gulyet shrieked, but the hob's sword was already in motion.

Before the adept could react, the large goblinoid suddenly screamed and stiffened up, his sword stroke going wild.

Gulyet could just make out a shortspear jutting out of the hob's back. Hanging on for dear life, his feet hanging off the ground, was Clix.

The hobgoblin roared with rage and spun around, but that merely brought Clix swinging around, as well. Gulyet caught a glimpse of her follower, a quick smile on his face as he held onto the spear with one hand while attempting to draw his dagger with the other.

Unfortunately for Clix, the goblin's spear thrust had not penetrated as far as he would have wished. The weapon bent down suddenly, and then popped out of the hob's back as he turned around one more time. Clix was dumped onto the ground, and managed to make it back to his feet only in time to have his opponent's longsword slice down through his shoulder, through his ribcage and into his lung.

The hobgoblin's last act was to yank his sword free of the goblin's body. A howling blast of air accompanied the white cone that enveloped him, freezing all the water in his body instantly and snuffing out his life. The hob's body, his skin now a dark blue, toppled over to the ground, encased in a thin sheet of ice.

Gulyet turned her attention to the mass of hobgoblins, preparing for a sudden rush, but they just stared at her with a mixture of fear and hatred, and then redoubled their stampede towards the portcullis.

She tried one last time. "Please!" Gulyet shouted. "Don't run! Go back! _Go back!"_

The adept stared as the last of the hobs disappeared through the archway, then buried her face in her hands. She barely noticed her remaining three goblins walk slowly over and kneel down over Clix.

"He's still alive, mistress, but I think the wound is mortal." The small goblinoid lifted a hopeful face to her.

She sighed. "I have no more healing tonight. Do what you can with him," she said, turning Rime around to the south. "I'm going to get Blackthorn out here if I have to-"

_"Gulyet."_

The goblin froze. That voice had spoken in Common, and it was coming from somewhere in the inner courtyard.

She put her wolf in motion at a small walk, and slowly headed inside.

Gulyet's heart was pounding even more now than it had been previously. She didn't recognize the speaker.

But she had a guess.

As they approached the fountain, Rime started to growl, but Gulyet bent low over her mount.

"Quiet, girl," she whispered. "I'm going to see if I can make our foe give away his position. I think between us we can still destroy him."

Step by step, she slowly came around the fountain. The air still hung heavy with the scent of burnt vegetation, now brown and dead and dripping with water.

"You're very clever," Gulyet said aloud in the human tongue. The reply came quickly, from somewhere ahead of her.

"As I've told others, it's not what you have, but how you use it."

The goblin narrowed her eyes. It sounded like the voice was coming in front of the door leading into the fortress, but she wasn't sure yet, and she didn't want to risk him slipping past her.

"_Invisibility_ won't save you forever," the adept said.

"I don't need forever," came the unsettling response.

_He's by the door all right_, Gulyet thought. She again leaned over Rime as her left hand closed on a patch of the winter wolf's mane. "When I pull," she whispered in goblin, "breathe right at the door."

Almost imperceptibly, Rime's head bobbed. It was a signal she knew well.

Gulyet stopped about fifteen feet away from the door. The goblin looked all around the courtyard, as if not to make her knowledge of her enemy's location apparent. Staring at one of the trees, she only wished her headache would go away.

For a moment, there was only the sound of dripping water.

"The game is over, human!" Gulyet yelled as she tugged on Rime's fur and snapped her head back to the front, drawing her throwing dagger as she did so. The winter wolf's breath weapon was dimmer in the limited moonlight that filtered down from above, but the effect was no less impressive than before. The door, already damaged earlier, blew backwards off its hinges, crashing into the corridor wall five feet back and falling down to the floor with a crash.

For a moment, there was nothing. Gulyet had her arm raised to throw, peering for all she worth, looking for some sign of her foe. Then, she heard the voice again.

From behind her.

_"Ventriloquism_. Lovely little spell, don't you think?"

Gulyet's eyes went as wide as they had ever gone in her life.

"You're right, goblin. The game is over. Believe it or not, I'm almost sorry."

There was more, but the voice was no longer talking. It was incanting.

Gulyet wheeled Rime around, but she could already see the tiny orange sphere, no larger than a pea, streaking towards her.

And as the adept had just enough time to realize she had failed, she finally saw the figure. He was standing in the fountain basin, looking at her.

For what it was worth, Gulyet knew she had been right.

_"YOU!"_ she screamed, but then the _fireball_ exploded in front of her, and the flames took her eyes and her ears, and then her lungs and mercifully, her life.


	90. Escape

_Author's Note: As I am sure you are all aware by now, I am no longer posting chapters only in response to reviews. I shall continue to post until I reach the point where the story currently stands (approx. chapter 115). However, I shall offer a new incentive to those of you who have their own D&D stories posted here. Review my work, and I shall faithfully review yours. Be forewarned, though- my reviews shall be, as they always have been, my honest opinion. I have no interest in either undeserved compliments or pointless flaming for my writing, and will bestow neither on any work I do review. I thank all of you once more. _**3rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Zantac whipped his head around.

"That sounded like a _fireball_," he said softly, staring out the window.

"Also sounded like someone got caught in it," Nesco added, catching his eye.

The red-robed wizard nodded in agreement, then glanced back at Argo.

The big ranger, who had not bothered to retrieve his helmet, still had his right ear and both palms pressed up against the uneven, splintered, badly damaged but intact wooden surface of the west door. It had been nearly five minutes since the assault of the door had ceased, and then the sounds of the hobgoblins without faded with their apparent retreat.

Bigfellow noticed Zantac looking at him, and favored the mage with a raised eyebrow and a sly smile.

"You have my permission to go over to the window, Zantac. Talass and I will hold the fort."

The magic-user walked over to the window and took in the tableau before him. "Any more damage to this place and you may literally have to," he mumbled to himself.

There was again smoke issuing forth from the inner courtyard, although not nearly as much as before. Zantac could see no sign of flames, and assumed they were further back, towards the fortress. What looked like a dead goblin was laying on the ground about twenty feet north of the archway that led into the courtyard. Zantac watched as three goblins who were kneeling or squatting by the prone figure suddenly drew their short swords and started to advance towards a point that Zantac couldn't see- it was too close to the gatehouse wall, possibly near the door to the east tower.

He was however, able to see the goblins suddenly start and then run shrieking back to the west, vanishing from sight as they turned towards the gatehouse tunnel.

"Enemy purr back from this side, too."

Tojo's comment, spoken to the room in general, grabbed everyone's attention, even Zantac's.

It was true. The east door, in better shape than its counterpart due to the _wizard lock_ upon it, no longer shuddered under assault from the other side.

"Well, every extra minute helps in theory." Nesco managed a quick grimace at Zantac. "Still, we could really use another miracle like we had-"

She broke off as Tojo, his katana once again held at battle readiness, suddenly began moving towards the body of Captain Gorbin Stalworth.

"Someone in room berow us," the samurai said in a low voice, his eyes down and his face furrowed in concentration. "May try to come up through trap door."

Cynewine could see Tojo close his eyes briefly in fatigue, and his body sway slightly. She knew the combination of his injuries and the medusa venom was taking its toll on the samurai.

"I'll handle it," Nesco said, and quickly dropped down to her knees, facing the broken trap door. She gestured to Talass, who rolled Stalworth's body off to the left.

Slowly, the ranger drew Sundancer from her sheath and held the sword horizontally, ready to stab at the first head that appeared up from below.

When in fact the door was pushed open from below and the head appeared, it was not recognition that stayed Cynewine's attack- it was shock.

The man- a human- had sustained horrific burns. The skin of his face was black from soot, except where it was red from where the skin had been roasted off. It was particularly bad on the top of his head, where whatever hair he might once have had was gone. Even his eyebrows had been reduced to two curves of scar tissue.

Nesco could only see a little of the man's body from her position, but he was bare-chested; his thin, burn-covered body dotted only with tiny patches of clothes that had melted onto his skin.

The brown eyes in that fire-ravaged visage stared at Nesco. Like Cynewine, the man seemed to be in shock, struggling for recognition.

And then the combined voices of Argo, Zantac and Talass broke through the silence like a blast from an angel's trumpet...

_"CYGNUS!"_

Their friend stared up at them, blinking slowly.

"Yes?" he asked.

Nesco, shaken out of her stupor, dropped her sword and reached her arms out to pull the mage through the opening.

The wizard simply looked at her.

"Thank you," responded Cygnus slowly, his gaze moving to the reflected sunlight of the sword lying on the ground. "Is it morning already? I've kind of lost track of time." Only then did the magic-user seem to notice that Cynewine was reaching out for him. "I'd just as soon you didn't, Nesco," he said, slowly trying to maneuver his frame up through the opening without any part of his body touching the floor. "I'm pretty sure anything you touch will flake off in your hands."

The others watched in silence as Cygnus came through with agonizing slowness. A portion of his trousers remained, mostly about the mage's hips, but they weren't whole, and didn't completely cover- everything.

Nesco coughed and shifted her gaze just slightly. Oddly, Cygnus' belt remained, as did the spell component pouch that hung down from it; a small, swinging sack of dark red, scaly hide of some kind. It-

_No. Wait. Yes. All right_, Nesco thought. That was in fact his component pouch, and not-

The ranger got to her feet and moved off, trying to hide a blush she felt was completely inappropriate under the circumstances.

Talass cleared her throat.

Argo and Zantac locked eyes, and tight smiles appeared on both their faces. Argo in particular looked as if he were inclined to make one of his patented wisecracks, but the big ranger watched Cygnus wince in pain as he finally made it all the way into the room. Tears appeared in the wizard's eyes from the agony he was obviously enduring.

The smile vanished from Bigfellow's face as he stepped forward. "Is there anything we can do for you, Cygnus?" he asked quietly, gesturing towards the boxes stacked in the corner. "We have a few bandages left and some water, I think. We could-"

But Cygnus had already turned towards the party cleric, ignoring Argo completely. "I'd be much obliged if you could spare a healing spell, Talass, or perhaps even two. I'm afraid I'm in rather a bad way. In fact, I suspect I may be in shock."

"You don't say?" Zantac put in.

Talass flushed red and gulped. "I'm sorry, Cygnus," she responded softly, keeping her gaze held high. "I've used them all up for today."

Cygnus bent over, peering closely at her.

"Hmm," he remarked. "You should have saved a few for your nose, Talass. You look terrible."

"Thanks," the priestess mumbled, looking down. Cygnus straightened up again and regarded everyone around him.

There was a brief silence.

"So," Cygnus said. "Sorry I'm late. What'd I miss?"

Zantac rolled his eyes, took a step forward and before anyone could stop him, slapped Cygnus hard on the back.

The tall wizard screamed, his fists clenched tight as his head jerked towards the ceiling. Tears trickled out from underneath burned eyelids.  
_  
"Why in all the infernal realms did you do that, Zantac?"_ Talass shrieked at the Willip Wizard.

"We need him back with us all the way, Talass," replied Zantac, folding his arms across his chest and speaking loudly to be heard over Cygnus' continued wail. "Right now, he's as much use to us as Elrohir is."

Talass glared at Zantac, her customary cold fury returning to her eyes.

"I see. It's nice to know that's how you judge your companions, Zantac. I'll keep that in mind."

The red-robed wizard shook his head, exasperated. "Come on, Talass. You know that's not what I meant! It's just that we don't have the time to wait. You know I think the world of Cygnus-"

_"Do you now?"_

Cygnus, still trembling with pain, had now whirled to face his fellow wizard and was now adding his fire to Talass' icy glare.

"Thank you, Zantac!" Cygnus continued. "Thank you so much for your concern for my well-being! Once I've memorized another _fireball_, remind me to congratulate you properly!"

"All right," Bigfellow contributed. "I don't agree with his method, but he _did_ snap you out of it, Cygnus, and as usual, we're all mere minutes away from death. Do you know what's going on out there, and can it help us escape somehow?"

Cygnus did not reply for a minute or so, as he concentrated on regulating his breathing. He looked over at Tojo with clear envy in his eyes. The samurai looked little better off than he did, and yet his face displayed nothing but his old passivity.

Tojo bowed to his friend.

"It is good to have you back with us, Cygnus-san."

"Yes," added Nesco, somewhat embarrassed that this particular notion had not yet been expressed. "We thought you were gone, Cygnus."

The tall mage nodded. "Understandable, Nesco. I'm a little surprised myself that I'm still kicking... and _screaming_," he said, the last word punctuated with another withering glare at Zantac. The Willip wizard, his mission apparently accomplished, favored him with a shrug and a weak smile. Cygnus then seemed to remember something and turned back to Cynewine.

"But there's no time for that tale now. We've got to get out of here, and fast. Argo's plan gave us one percent back in the kitchen, and I think I can make it two." He pointed towards the east door. "We have to get out onto the rampart and-"

"Cygnus," Talass said, uncommonly quiet now.

The magic-user glanced over at the cleric. Talass' eyes again started to fill up with tears as she looked towards the petrified Elrohir, still lying on the floor. "Cygnus," she repeated, "Elrohir. He's too heavy for Aslan to _teleport_, even if by some miracle he should return. I only have one more scroll of strength left. How far can we move him with that? It's not enough. There's no way we can bring him with us." The priestess' gaze locked onto the mage's face. "You're back, Cygnus. You're alive, and I thank Forseti for that. But that means someone else is the one who won't be coming back, and..."

She broke off, her eyes again turning to the statue on the floor.

Cygnus walked over to Talass. He made as if to put his hands on her shoulders, but reconsidered at the last moment. "First of all, Talass," he said evenly, "and I tell you this as a fellow Asgardian, I'd get my money back on that vision."

Talass frowned and seemed about to protest, but Cygnus cut her off.

"As far as I'm concerned, there's a ninety-eight percent chance that we're _all_ going to die, so let's go on that assumption and just think happy thoughts, okay?"

The priestess looked at him, confused. "Er-"

"Do you still have your prayer of _stone shape_, Talass?"

She blinked at him. "What? Oh, um... yes- I do, Cygnus," the cleric managed to get out. "But," and here she turned to look again at Elrohir and then back at Zantac, anguish in her blue eyes. "I can't cast that on Elrohir, Cygnus! All it would do is kill him!"

Cygnus shook his head. "I have no intention of you casting it on him, Talass. It's all part of my master plan."

"Uh, Cygnus," opined Zantac. "Your master plans generally fail."

"No time for trivialities," Cygnus responded, waving a hand in dismissal. "Everyone, gather up whatever you're taking with you. When everyone is ready, Talass, cast your last _strength_ on Argo. Bigfellow, I need you to carry Elrohir solo one last time. Can you do it?"

Argo took a pointed look at each one of his arms, sighed and then gave Cygnus his legendary pained smile. "Ligaments are overrated anyway."

"That's the spirit," the tall mage replied. He was about to say more, but a sound from outside the window drew all their attention.

It sounded like a short but intense gust of wind.

A cold wind.

Cygnus and Zantac reached the window simultaneously and peered through the bars.

There was no more smoke coming from the inner courtyard.

Zantac glanced over at his fellow wizard. "The winter wolf?" he asked.

Cygnus shook his head. "I killed it."

The red-robed mage pondered for a moment. "Maybe they've got another."

A figure slowly walked out of the inner courtyard.

And Cygnus, despite his having gathered no information whatsoever about this person's physical appearance while he was outside, knew instantly and instinctively who this was.

And he now knew that they might very well no longer have even that two percent.

"Blackthorn," he whispered.

The humanoid (distance and poor light made it impossible to determine its exact race) was very tall, perhaps as tall as Icar, but shockingly thin. A hundred and fifty pounds at most, the two wizards guessed. Despite his great height, the figure was hunched over, his shoulders nearly as high as his head, which stuck out straight forward on a neck improbably, but not impossibly, long for a human.

Blackthorn's shoulders were broad, but his torso narrowed significantly down towards his waist. He wore a large but ill-fitting chain shirt, which hung loosely from his shoulders. Short sections of chain links covered portions of his arms and legs. He carried some kind of polearm with an unusually long handle and a slightly curved, bladed tip.

He was completely bald, with a skin color that looked almost like the greyish tone of a half-orc, although that was probably due to the moonlight. Blackthorn sported a large, bulging forehead. His features seemed almost skull-like, with eyes sunken so deep Cygnus doubted they'd be visible unless you stood right in front of him.

The head swung slowly around, taking in the surroundings. Blackthorn's movements seemed so casual, one might have assumed he was looking for a spot to lay a blanket down for a picnic rather than tracking down invaders to be destroyed. He occasionally twirled the polearm he held around in a languid fashion.

Then he looked directly up at the window.

Cygnus and Zantac froze. Blackthorn's eyes were still hidden in the shadowy recesses of his face.

But they could see his smile from here.

"Zantac!" Cygnus yelled. "Get that door open! Talass- cast that spell! Let's go, everyone. Move, move, _move!"_

The humans poured out onto the wall walk.

This section of the parapet that connected to the officers' quarters was about twenty feet wide and perhaps fifty feet long, turning at the end to the south and narrowing to a ten-foot width. A log stockade surrounded the wall walk on both sides, the sharpened tips of the logs reaching to over six feet in height. Every ten feet, a two-foot wide section of the logs had been chopped out at a height of about five feet, allowing visual access. Numerous arrow slits also peppered the stockade wall.

There was no one on the wall walk, but twenty feet down from the far corner, chained to the east stockade wall, was one of those small, dark blue creatures with a bulbous, bald head and large ears that they had seen on the slave convoy on their trip here. It spotted the party, extended an unnaturally long arm at them and set up a high-pitched screaming that made everyone want to cover their ears.

The east parapet extended down over two hundred feet to the end of the fortress. Since it had no log stockade on the inside, the party was able to discern a number of hobgoblins about halfway down, some carrying torches, start moving back towards them.

Zantac, currently occupying the middle rank of the marching order (or as he preferred to think of it, the _fleeing-blindly-in-panic-to-our-deaths_ order) with Talass, turned around to yell at Cygnus, directly behind him.

"Time to impress us with your master plan, Tindertwig!"

"I'm still finalizing a few details, but we need to gain that corner there!" The younger mage pointed over to the northeast. "Nesco! Tojo!" He yelled to the front rank. "Take out that creature if you can! I don't want it teleporting on top of us!"

The ranger and the samurai looked back at the mage, nodded acknowledgement and then turned to each other.

"We're not going very fast, what with Argo carrying Elrohir," Cynewine said, a mean smile creasing her face. "What say we go on ahead and pretty much go wild?"

Tojo raised an eyebrow. "Go… wired?"

"Just follow," Nesco groaned and started running towards the chained creature, the samurai close behind. She drew Sundancer en route, although the samurai, who had resheathed his katana when they had left the tower, made no move to re-draw his sword yet.

The creature stopped its caterwauling long enough to witness the two humans bearing down on it. The thing's eyes fairly bulged from their sockets, and then with a _whoop_, it disappeared, the neck chain clanking down against the logs.

Nesco and Tojo pulled up as they reached the corner. A quick glance southward showed the hobgoblins to be about fifty feet away, but they had slowed their advance to a near crawl. It was plain to see that the humanoids did not seem overeager to attack at this point. Perched on top of the log wall by them was the blue creature, gibbering wildly.

Cynewine turned to her partner. "Should we charge them, Tojo? In narrower quarters, they couldn't slip past us and-"

Without warning, Tojo's right hand shot out to push Nesco's forehead head down and away so hard that the ranger fell backwards. Simultaneously, the samurai bent his knees and dropped down, himself his upper torso bending back.

"What?" cried a startled Nesco, but suddenly a long brown shaft- like a spear, only bigger- flashed by her eyes. A split-second later, there was a tremendous crash as it plowed into the section of the east wall by the duo. Splinters of wood went flying.

When Nesco got her bearings back and stood up again, a five-foot section of the log stockade had pretty much been destroyed.  
_  
You have GOT to start paying more attention to what's going on around you_, she chided herself, looking back now to the west. _You saw the trap door on the ceiling. You knew there had to be something up there, didn't you?_

Directly above the officer's quarters was the top of the eastern guard tower. A hobgoblin could be partially seen over the wall, turning a wheel crank furiously. The ballista was apparently bolted to a moveable platform of some kind, because the siege weapon was now swinging around, the hobgoblin adjusting the angle of attack. Another hobbie was already busy reloading the ballista.

Suddenly, an opaque cloud of brownish-red vapors enveloped the half of the tower roof containing the ballista and the two hobgoblins. Coughing and retching noises could be heard from within.

Zantac turned to eye his peer as the four remaining adventurers rejoined Tojo and Nesco.

"At least _I_ used all of my spells early, for the benefit of the party! I didn't hoard them on the off-chance that I might get a chance to show off later!"

Cygnus turned from the _stinking cloud _he had created and grinned. "Well, that was officially my last spell, so I hope that makes you feel better, my friend." He made a wry face. "Can't say it does much for me."

"Your last spell?" Talass cried, aghast. "And exactly how are we going to get off this wall?"

"Ahh," came the response from surprisingly, Tojo.

The samurai eyed Cygnus with a slight smile, bowing as he spoke. "Cygnus-san retrieve my _rope of crimeing_. Very crever."

"Umm, actually…" Cygnus began, looking even more red than he had been, which considering his burns was no mean feat.

The bow stopped in mid-descent.

"I had to use the _rope of climbing_ to strangle a hobgoblin to get the keys to the tower," Cygnus said sheepishly, very gently running a hand over the top of his head. "Of course, once the hobbies started fleeing, they left the door open, so it turns out I didn't need the keys after all, and by then your rope had kind of been… been…"

Tojo slowly straightened up, eyeing the tall wizard without expression.

"...cut to pieces," Cygnus finished with a rather lame attempt at a smile.

"Cut to pieces," the samurai repeated, nodding slowly, his fingers drumming along the sheath of his katana. "That sound rike good idea."

Cygnus' eyes went wide. He stared hard at Tojo. It almost looked like there was the hint of a smile there, but considering how much everyone's view of Tojo had changed since this expedition began, he didn't want to assume anything.

"You… you _are_ kidding... right, Tojo?"

The samurai shrugged, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Depends on how good master pran is, Cygnus-san."

"Cygnus."

The voice was Argo's. Cygnus glanced over and then followed Bigfellow's gaze.

Blackthorn was still standing in the parade grounds, staring up at them. Cygnus frowned. He'd hoped that Blackthorn would have headed into the east tower after them, which would have meant he'd have to contend with Zantac's _wizard locked_ door, but the giant, cadaverous man simply continued to gaze upwards at the party.. and smile.

Argo grimaced, adjusting his grip on their petrified party leader. "I assume that's someone we don't want to meet."

"Not even for a second," Cygnus breathed, then shot a quick glance back at the ranger. Bigfellow was staring at the wizard, sweat pouring down his forehead from his burden.

"Spell duration, Cygnus," he said worriedly, jiggling Elrohir. "Time is magic, time is magic."

The tall magic-user clenched his fists, letting the pain that action generated flood into him. He needed to focus. There was no more time left. Everyone was looking at him.

_Some master plan_, he thought. _Some great big, brilliant master plan you've got there, Cygnus. You're saved from certain death by a miracle, and now everyone else is going to die because they're following you._

"All right!" Cygnus yelled, looking around him at five expectant faces. "You want to know what my master plan is? I'll tell you!"

He pointed at the destroyed section of the log wall that they were all standing by.

_"We jump!"_

The silence that followed was not total. Some kind of argument seemed to be going on among the hobgoblins; the small blue creature was still jabbering like some odious monkey; somewhere, disturbingly close, the howl of a wolf split the air.

But there was a distinct pause before the words started sputtering out.

"What?" Talass gasped.

"You... you _are_ kidding... right, Cygnus?" Argo asked, using the wizard's own recent words.

"I have to admit- I was hoping for a little more," said Nesco Cynewine, with a heart-rending look of disbelief on her face.

Tojo said nothing.

"I should have slapped you harder- you're still nuts!" Zantac shouted. "If you didn't have a plan, why not say so? Why lead us up here?" The magic-user took a step over to where the wall had been destroyed and peered down. "That's got to be at least a sixty foot drop! What are we supposed to do, dammit- _fly?_"

He whirled back to face Cygnus, but his fellow mage was now waving something in his face.

It was crumpled and wrinkled.

It was scorched around the edges.

Heat and moisture had made their attempt to obliterate it entirely.

But Zantac still recognized the scroll from Icar's treasure hoard.

The two wizards locked eyes. Zantac's mouth dropped open.

_"Feather fall?"_ he squeaked.

A light somewhere between triumph and insanity shone from Cygnus' blackened face.

_"You got it, Tubbo!"_ Cygnus shouted back, and with a maniacal grin suddenly lunged forward and shoved Zantac as hard as he could, while a single arcane syllable shot from his lips, followed by one word in Common.

"FLY!"

Cygnus never even looked down. The pitch of Zantac's scream told him that his fellow magic-user was falling at the expected velocity, so he turned to Talass.

"Jump!"

The cleric glanced briefly back to Argo, still struggling with Elrohir. "Cygnus!" she cried. "What about-"

"I'll tell you what to do once we regroup down below! Please, Talass- jump!"

The priestess closed her eyes tight, took a deep breath and jumped off. Her attempts to stifle her own scream were pretty much a total failure.

Nesco, currently peering over the edge, gulped. Despite the name of the spell Cygnus was using, it seemed like her compatriots were falling a lot faster than an actual feather would. She gave the magic-user a fearful look.

"Uh, Cygnus, I'm really not used to this type of thing. Maybe I could just climb down instead?"

Cygnus inclined his head. "Tojo. If you would?"

The samurai never laid a hand on Cynewine, nor did he need to. He simply took a step forward so that he was standing right in front of her, and thrust his face at hers, as if to kiss her.

Nesco cried out in surprise and tumbled backwards off the wall.

Cygnus shook his head after uttering the magical syllable. "You enjoyed that, didn't you, Tojo?"

The samurai gazed thoughtfully at the wizard, but said nothing as he turned around on the edge of the precipice, crossed his arms across his chest, closed his eyes, and fell backwards.

The wizard saw Tojo off with another casting of the scroll. He turned to Argo, who was looking dolefully at Elrohir.

"Will the spell work with me carrying him, Cygnus?"

The mage bit his lip. "In theory, given your present strength, Argo- yes. But it's not anything I've ever tested."

Argo nodded glumly, and then his auburn eyes widened as he looked over Cygnus' shoulder.

"Cygnus- get back!" Bigfellow said loudly.

_"Human!"_

The magic-user looked to the south, where that last shout had originated. The hobgoblins had now advanced to within thirty feet of their position. In the lead was a particularly muscular hobbie with skin a somewhat brighter orange than its fellow humanoids. He held a metallic shield in his left hand that was festooned with savage-looking spikes, including a large one jutting out from the center. He carried no weapons, but his right hand was encased in a metallic gauntlet that was also covered with short metal spikes. In that hand he carried a small vial of liquid. He was pointing at Bigfellow, who was still carrying Elrohir.

"You strong, human?" the hobgoblin shouted.

"No, me Argo," the ranger replied easily.

"If I'm not mistaken, that's Sergeant Roryx," Cygnus informed his companion. "A real diehard type."

"I prefer the die easy type, but I'll work with what we've got," Bigfellow quipped, then shot a hard look over at Cygnus. "Get to the side!" he snapped. "I'll handle this." Cygnus obediently took several steps back to the west

Roryx, now about twenty feet out, stopped. With one of the spikes on his gauntlet, he punctured the wax seal on the vial and drained its contents with one gulp, then belched and glared at Argo while flexing his muscles.

"Now _me_ stronger!" he bellowed.

A telescoping spike a foot long suddenly shot out from the knuckles of the gauntlet.

"Now that's just overkill," Argo murmured, as he set Elrohir down and stepped to the side.

Roryx roared and charged.

For some reason, an image came suddenly into Bigfellow's mind. An image of Elrohir fighting hobgoblins in the corridor earlier this evening.

A gift to Argo, and to Harve.

Bigfellow smiled and gave the petrified form of his friend a quick glance. "You always come up with the right idea at the right time, Elrohir," he whispered. "Thanks."

He made no move to draw Harve. He just studied the approaching hobbie, noting exactly how high he was holding his shield, how high he was holding his right hand.

At the last possible second, just as Roryx reached him, Argo squatted down suddenly, grabbed the hobgoblin around his waist and then straightened up, hurling the humanoid up, over his head, and back.

Roryx's scream, unlike the others, indicated a rapid descent. The other hobbies turned tail and fled.

Argo wasted no more time in pithy remarks. Perhaps sensing the imminent demise of the _strength_ prayer, he grabbed Elrohir, lifted him a few inches off the rampart floor with a mighty heave, and half-walked, half-stumbled over the edge to Cygnus' accompanying spell. The mage stood on the brink and watched them fall at the correct rate.

"Hello, Cygnus."

The wizard spun around at the sound of that unfamiliar, hollow voice.

Cygnus hadn't jumped yet, but that didn't stop him from wanting to scream.

Blackthorn was flying slowly up from below. He now gently touched down upon the rampart, and began to walk swiftly towards the magic-user. The polearm twirled over his head in a steel circle.

"Perhaps you and I could have a little chat?"

Faster than fast, the polearm was flying at him. Cygnus knew his fear was quicker than his conscious mind, so he let himself shriek, stumble backwards and fall.

Unable to ignore the bone-chilling sound of Blackthorn's laughter, he had almost hit the ground before he remembered to shout out his final spell.


	91. Markessa and Blackthorn

**4th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"Hold still," the surgeon snarled.

The creature strapped down on the table was in no condition to obey. Despite being restrained with two leather straps on each limb, one around its waist and one around its forehead, it was still able to writhe about slightly, and continued to do so.

It comprehended nothing that the surgeon had said. The unrelenting pain of the operation had driven it insane.

It couldn't scream. Its vocal cords lay in a bucket of blood at the foot of the table, along with its right hand and several pieces of skin that had been cut from its body.

Despite the numerous mutilations that had been performed on its person, the creature was not bleeding, except in one area. A faint network of pink scars ran across the pale white flesh of its naked form, crisscrossing in many areas.

The creature's mouth had been cut open on its right side to within two inches of its right ear. This had been done mainly so that the surgeon could insert both hands into its mouth. At the moment, the surgeon was attempting to sew a small ball of foreign matter to the inside of the creature's cheek, but was finding it extremely difficult to do so. Despite the extra room, there was still no room for the surgeon to see inside. Blood dribbled out of the deformed mouth and down the creature's neck.

"Would you _stop_?" The surgeon yanked the creature's head so as to glare directly into its eyes, despite knowing there was nothing left there but madness. "I'm trying to _improve_ you- can't you understand that?"

The creature's body convulsed briefly, or at least as much as was possible under its restraint. Then its eyes rolled up to the back of its head, and it went limp.

"Oh, _not again_," the surgeon muttered, turning around and reaching over to a small workbench, on which was scattered numerous vials, beakers and flasks, many of them empty. A small vial of milky white liquid was snatched off a holder and poured into the supine creature's mouth, the surgeon massaging the liquid down its throat. After a moment, the creature gasped and started shaking again.

The surgeon reached back inside the creature's mouth and pulled out the small ball with one hand while picking up a bloody scalpel with the other, frowning all the while. "Do you know how much it costs to work on subjects like you? Subjects who won't cooperate?"

A large set of double doors about twenty feet from the surgeon's operating theater abruptly began to open. Seven pairs of goblinoid eyes looked over to the doors. The surgeon's gaze did not move from the subject.

The doors opened, and Blackthorn came in.

The gaunt man blinked as he entered. The numerous _continual flames_ that illuminated the laboratory were not blinding, but the corridor leading up to this room was pitch-black, so it took his sunken gray eyes a moment to adjust. His loose chain shirt swishing as he walked, he slowly approached the table on which the unfortunate creature lay.

Blackthorn's mouth tightened. The subject had probably once been a male human, although that was admittingly a guess. It's right hand had been removed and replaced with a minor's pick, and its left hand looked as if it had been stretched out on a rack several times past the point of breaking and then healed, so now it was about half again its original length.

The tall man allowed himself an momentary expression that spoke of disgust, but not sympathy. He then turned his attention towards the surgeon that stood next to the table. Blackthorn bowed slightly, smiling. Belying the ashen gray color of his skin, his teeth were a brilliant white, and all in suspiciously perfect condition.

"Markessa."

The elf looked up at him.

Markessa was small even by high elven standards, standing perhaps four and a half feet tall. Her skin was perhaps a shade paler than the elven norm, and her hair sparkled golden in the reflection of the _continual flames_. Her amber eyes were even more almond-shaped than most elves, giving her the appearance, Blackthorn thought, of being from Kara-Tura herself or at least of having a human ancestor from there. She wore a bloodstained smock over studded leather armor.

She dipped her eyes momentarily, but her own expression spoke of little beyond repressed loathing. "Blackthorn."

Blackthorn was not carrying his polearm, but his long, bony fingers were holding a small, leather-bound ledger. He brushed away a buzzing fly with his free hand, and then assumed a subservient pose that irritated Markessa all the more because she knew it was false.

"It is over, my lady."

Markessa seemed to spend a few moments composing herself, and then looked up at Blackthorn's skull-like face again. "How many of them escaped?"

The cadaverous man shrugged, exaggerating his already unusual posture. "We'd had no sighting of the one called Aslan for some time, so his status is unknown. The fighter they called Elrohir was still petrified from Icar's medusa, so we assume they had no magic available to cure him. The other six took him with them when they fled."

Markessa eyed Blackthorn steadily now, all the while tapping her scalpel against the surface of the operating table.

"Let me see if I understand this. Six humans, including at least two I had been told had died, and all of them allegedly at death's door, managed to flee the stockade while carrying the petrified form of another one of their own, pretty much under your very nose. Is that fairly accurate, Blackthorn? Or does your account differ dramatically from what I have been told by others?"

Blackthorn glanced around momentarily. The goblins on the balcony that ran around the laboratory on three sides studiously avoided his gaze, as did the goblins and the lone hobgoblin female that stood near Markessa. The giant seemed unconcerned, however. His smile did not waver.

"Indeed, Markessa. It is most unfortunate that I had to expend my best... abilities trying to restore order topside. It would have been a further waste of life to confront them while so weakened."

"And how did they get away carrying a god-damned _statue_?" Markessa hissed.

"Unknown, my lady," Blackthorn replied nonchalantly. "I have of course dispatched hunting parties, each equipped with a boggle. And yet..."

"And yet _what_?" the elf asked through gritted teeth.

"While I have no doubt the boggles can track down our quarry, their hobgoblin handlers might be... reluctant to confront the humans after losing so many of their number to them." Blackthorn shrugged again. "I'm afraid we have been dealt a very serious blow." His sunken eyes carried the hint of a smile. "I am somewhat surprised that you heard none of the combat above, my dear lady. Covered up by screams, no doubt." He indicated the wretch on the table.

Markessa either missed or ignored the tone in Blackthorn's voice. "I really should just cut out their vocal cords at the beginning," she mused. "It would save time." She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then turned her attention back to the large figure standing before her. "How many did we lose?"

Blackthorn's grim expression was all too real. "Pretty much everyone. Captain Stalworth, Leiutenant Kairn, the tenebra complexor-"

Markessa gave him a puzzled look. Blackthorn sighed and continued. "The, um, cloaker," he grimaced. "Commander Icar, of course-"

"That's a damn shame," Markessa said softly, looking away. "He was a good man, and loyal."

Blackthorn raised an inquisitive eyebrow just in time to meet the elf's return gaze. "We are _all_ loyal, my dear lady."

Markessa stared coldly at the giant for a moment.

"Yes, Blackthorn," she said at last. "Of course you are." She forced a polite look back onto her face, while raising an eyebrow of her own. "By the way, Blackthorn, I heard that all three of the wereboars were slain, as well. Where are your three... _friends_?" she finished with only the trace of a sneer.

The thin man smiled casually. "Oh, they're on leave." He waved a large hand absently in the air. "Tonight's a very special night for them, but I daresay they're not far off." His dazzling smile returned as his eyes focused above the elf's head. "And where is your bullish friend tonight, Markessa?"

"Around," was the curt reply. "Do you think I need him by my side, Blackthorn? I thought you said the danger was over."

"As long as these humans survive, my lady, there is always the possibility of sudden danger."

Markessa looked as if she wanted to come up with a sharp retort, but just couldn't. She eventually just sighed and said, "Continue."

Blackthorn crossed his arms behind his back and did so. "Every single sergeant except Herash, about four dozen hobgoblins, three or four goblins, and sadly, Gulyet."

_"What?"_ Markessa snapped, her eyes growing wide. She hadn't heard about that.

Blackthorn merely shrugged again.

Fury twisted the elf's face. _"Damn it!"_ she shrieked, burying the scalpel in her hand deep within her patient's chest. It jerked spasmodically; it's deformed mouth hopelessly trying to scream, before abruptly going still forever underneath a final pool of blood.

Blackthorn was not easily unnerved. This action did so, although he quickly recovered his composure. Markessa noticed, but brushed it off.

"He wasn't working out anyway." She dismissed the corpse with a wave of her hand. "How did this happen?" Her voice was still raised. The elf, apparently staring off at a far corner of the room at something Blackthorn couldn't see, suddenly whirled back around to face the giant.

"Who are these people, Blackthorn?" Markessa demanded. "You said earlier that they're the same group that nearly wiped out the Highport complex. I know you've been asking questions. Tell me what you've found out. I want to know who these humans are!"

The tall, skinny man looked thoughtful. "We still believe them to be mercenaries from Furyondy, except for the Oeridian female. She is a member of the Azure Order, and we presume, the leader of this band. Her name," he hesitated slightly, "is Nesco Cynewine."

Markessa eyed him impatiently. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"

Again that perfect smile made an appearance. "As you may recall my mentioning at the time, five months ago a band of seven Knights of Furyondy attempted to enter the Highport temple. They were detected beforehand by Blucholtz's forces. Five of the seven were killed, one escaped, and one was taken captive." His gray eyes locked onto the elf's amber ones. "The captive's name was Sir Miles Cynewine. Husband or brother or some such to this Nesco, I would assume. He was delivered here, and placed under your... tender mercies." The last two words dripped with sarcasm.

Markessa was silent for a moment, searching her memories. Then the elf grunted softly. "Ah, yes. I remember." She glanced briefly towards the rear of the laboratory. Another door was situated in the left wall, near the back end. "Wound up going to the caves, as I recall," she said quietly.

"My guess is that King Belvor decided to send a band of mercenaries with his precious knight this time around. The ones called Argo and Elrohir are of course warriors, though of no mean skill, as we've seen to our sorrow," Blackthorn continued, glossing over Markessa's memories. "The Kara-Turan, Tojo, is of course a samurai."

That drew back Markessa's attention. "I'd always wondered if there really were more of them," she said with a bitter smile, "or if Icar was just having us on." The elf frowned. "With such fighters at their disposal, I'm surprised that Kara-Tur hasn't invaded and conquered the Flanaess by now."

Blackthorn shrugged, clearly not interested in the thought. "They have two magic-users, Zantac and Cygnus, the latter particularly powerful. The Suloise female is a priestess, although of no god we've heard of." The cadaverous figure took a deep breath, although it was hard to tell. "The other one, Aslan, is most interesting. He seems and acts the fighter, yet we have numerous eyewitness reports of him polymorphing and teleporting." He now smiled his skull-smile again. "It is possible that this Aslan is one of those exceedingly rare individuals who can function as both warrior and arcanist," he finished with another bow at the elf before him. "Imagine that."

Markessa did not return the smile. She continued to glare at him.

"Of course," Blackthorn added as he straightened up, "we cannot be sure of this. If this Aslan is indeed such an accomplished shapechanger, who can say for sure what his natural form might be?"

Now the elf finally smiled, although it was cruel and devoid of any real mirth.

"Someone who goes around polymorphed all the time, in a form not their own?" she shot at Blackthorn. _"Imagine that."_

Blackthorn's smile vanished. His mouth tightened again, but he said nothing.

After a moment, Markessa spoke again. "Bring me a piece of these people. Tattered clothing, pieces of armor, anything that will aid in scrying."

The tall man nodded.

"Well, there's no sense in crying over what's happened," Markessa continued. "We have to rebuild."

She seemed about to say something more, but Blackthorn noticed the elf's eyes wandering around the room, as if she were tracking something. Another frown appeared on her slender face.

"My lady? Are you all right?" His expression of concern real or feigned, Blackthorn seemed at least curious.

Markessa seemed to be trying to capture a thought that remained just out of reach. "Yes," she said at length. "I though I felt... something. No matter," she continued, shaking her head clear. "Send messages to the appropriate goblin and hobgoblin chiefs in the hills. We'll need replacement sergeants and soldiers. I'll also need another apprentice. I'd like a goblin, if possible."

The goblins in the laboratory smiled and returned to their tasks of cleaning and straightening. The hobgoblin female responded to Markessa's hand gesture and slung the dead subject over her shoulder and headed towards the rear door.

"Also, contact Highport," the elf continued. "Have Rezshk tell whatever buffoon he's installed as figurehead to send us more officers- the best he's got."

Blackthorn's frown deepened as he held up the ledger he carried. "All this will be tremendously expensive, my lady," he intoned dolefully. "Our esteemed bookkeeper Kyvin Trist has supplied me with some preliminary figures, and I must say the replacements you request will cause yet more red liquid to flow; red ink in this case," he finished, unable to repress a small smile.

"I expect my treasurer and my bookkeeper to be able to handle that." Markessa scowled.

Blackthorn bowed again, but his smile remained. "Of course, my lady, but this does beg the important question."

Those amber eyes were waiting for the tall humanoid as he straightened up again. Blackthorn paused for what he considered the most effective interval.

"Do we contact... _The Nine?"_

Markessa folded her arms across her chest and glared at Blackthorn again. "And why would we do that?" the elf asked, every syllable loaded with ice.

The giant man arced an eyebrow. "We have lost the tenebra- excuse me, the cloaker," he stated. "We're certainly not capable of acquiring another one on our own-"

"We got along just fine before we got the cloaker," cut in Markessa. "We'll do just fine without one again."

Blackthorn's smile, if possible, grew still larger. "Indeed, my lady, I doubt not. However, according to Trist, the cloaker alone was responsible for a 35 reduction in our slave processing costs. Without a replacement, the difference will be noticeable enough for The Nine to contact _us_... and I daresay we do not desire a contact initiated in that fashion."

Markessa drummed her fingers on the surface of the operating table for a few moments before looking back up again at Blackthorn. When she did so, the elf's face had lost any pretense of courtesy.

"I will contact Suderham _myself_," she seethed. "_That_ is how it was arranged."

Blackthorn bowed again. "Of course, my lady. And now if you will excuse me. The fortress itself sustained some minor damage here and there during this unfortunate incident. Carlstar Wiorfether should have his repair estimate ready for me by now. I do hope it will not be too distressing." The gaunt man moved back towards the double doors. Just as he opened them again, he turned around one more time. Markessa was still glaring at him.

"Tell me, Markessa," queried Blackthorn. "I don't believe I've ever asked you. Are you particularly religious?"

If possible, the elf's expression soured even more, although a trace of that bitter smile returned. "Been speaking with Mordrammo again?"

Blackthorn said nothing, his skull-like face settling into a neutral expression. Markessa raised her hands in the air.

"Why not?" she cried out with a short laugh. "Perhaps the Earth Dragon will send us a sign!"

Blackthorn smiled one last time.

"Even better, my lady. Perhaps the Earth Dragon will send _them_ a sign."

He left, quietly closing the doors behind him.

Markessa stared at the closed doors for a while. She was aware of her goblin servants bustling about, trying to keep busy while avoiding her glare.

She considered. For all that she loathed Blackthorn, his last statement had been encouraging. Why not, indeed? Perhaps this situation could be salvaged yet, as long as she stayed alert... and one step ahead of Blackthorn.

And at least that odd feeling that she had earlier of being watched was gone.


	92. A Sign

**4th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj  
(About 3 miles due west of the Slavers' Stockade)**

Everyone was hurting.

The party sat on the rocky ground under a large overhang of rock that formed the base of a large hill. It was only about three feet high, so the six individuals were forced to not only sit, but to sit hunched over.

They were cold, but Argo and Nesco had vetoed the idea of a fire. It was just too dangerous, they said, until they had put some more distance between themselves and the fortress.

They were hungry and thirsty, but their rations had been exhausted and there was no time to spend hunting.

They were tired, but there was no time for any rest beyond this five-minute breather.

Deep down, most of them felt that it didn't matter much, anyway.

They didn't expect they were going to get very far.

Argo Bigfellow Junior stared morosely at the section of the landscape that he could see from under the overhang.

Although it was the same terrain that they had traversed on their journey to the stockade, it somehow looked considerable more depressing now. An endless chain of hills, rocky and uneven ground, and large boulders. No vegetation other than the occasional scrub or lichen. Even the moonlight did little but accentuate the bleakness of their surroundings.

The air was cold, and it was silent.

Argo sighed and spoke aloud, not looking at any of the five individuals seated to his right.

"We should probably be moving on soon."

The responses to this proclamation ranged from silence to resigned sighs to grumbles and mutterings.

Argo tried on a smile.

"That's not speaking from any kind of a leadership position, of course." 

Not even the hint of a return smile greeted him. Nor did anyone make a move to get up.

Argo eyed Talass, who was sitting to his immediate right. The cleric had drawn her knees up, laid her arms across them, and was resting her head there, facing Argo. Her eyes were tightly closed, although he knew she was awake. Bigfellow tried to look past the horrible sight that had once been Talass' nose, but the rest of her face was little better, being covered in dirt, cuts, dried blood and old tear tracks. It was a sad sight, and the big ranger knew it mirrored how Talass must be feeling.

Argo chewed on his lip. Prior to this expedition, he would have been hard-pressed to recall a single instance of seeing Talass cry, but ever since Elrohir's petrification, it seemed almost impossible for the priestess to hold back her tears. Argo honestly hadn't been sure she'd had the capacity, sometimes thinking that Talass was as cold as the land she came from.

Although Bigfellow was somewhat ashamed to admit it- even to himself- he'd often thought that Elrohir and Talass didn't have as strong a relationship as he and Caroline did. Certainly, they were not as demonstrably affectionate towards each other in public as Argo and his wife were.

Looking at her now, though, Argo remembered how she had trembled in his arms when they had hugged, and then relaxed, drawing strength from the mere memory of her husband's embrace. The bedrock between Elrohir and his wife was there, all right. Argo knew that now, and furthermore he doubted that he would have been able to carry on as Talass had if it had been Caroline who had met the gaze of the medusa.

"Talass," Bigfellow whispered.

Two blue eyes opened to regard him.

"He'll be all right, Talass," Argo continued. "He'll be okay until we can come back for him. They won't find him."

"Even if we could get back there, we'd never get back to civilization with him," she whispered back. "You know that, Argo." 

Bigfellow smiled and bumped her shoulder with his own. "Hey, you're the priestess, remember? When we need a miracle, whom else do we turn to?"

Talass lifted her head slightly.

"You know, it's funny," the cleric said thoughtfully. "I've always prayed to Forseti for deliverance when things are desperate, and I always harangued Elrohir to pray to him as well, or at least to the All-Father, for the same. Sometimes he did, I think, but sometimes I think he would look elsewhere."

Argo frowned. "Whom did he look to?"

In happier times, the expression on Talass' face might almost have been called a smile. 

"You. Me. All of us."

Argo's eyebrows nearly hit the stone roof overhead. The ranger turned away, trying to digest that thought.

He didn't know how to respond to it. 

"Tarass-san."

The priestess turned her head to the right. Tojo had been talking quietly to Nesco, on his right, but now the samurai was addressing her, although his eyes, as usual, would not meet hers.

"Nesco-san say that you awso come back with her to save me, and that- that your prayer hear me." The samurai, unable to bow in these cramped quarters, did so with his eyes. "How you aber to do this in midst of batter?" 

Talass kept up her almost-smile.

"Just lucky, I guess, Tojo-sama."

Tojo seemed to consider this, and then turned his head forward again. Talass however, leaned slightly towards him.

"May I ask you something, Tojo?"

The samurai's violet eyes darted back to the cleric. Talass could feel his body, so close to hers but not touching, tense up. He said nothing, but she decided to go ahead and ask anyway, as she knew it was not the personal type of question Tojo was undoubtedly dreading. 

"That hobbie you killed with your wakazashi- he was covered by both _invisibility_ and _silence_. How could you possibly have known where he was?"

Tojo raised his eyebrows in the matter he always did when he felt a question had an absurdly simple answer.

"Ground very dusty, Tarass-san," he shrugged. "I see footprints appear in dirt as he move." 

Talass shook her head. "You're unbelievable, Tojo. You know that? You're absolutely unbelievable."

The samurai grunted, uncomfortable with the praise.

"Not so, Tarass-san. I not even think to rook until too rate. Ambush awready happen by then. I- not as crever as I shood be."

She hadn't been planning to, but Talass suddenly decided to take a chance. Trying to keep her real motivation out of her voice, she asked casually, "do you hope to do better in the future?" 

Tojo frowned. "Awrays try to increase skirrs, Tarass-san."

Now Talass gave a real smile as she sprang the trap.

"Does that mean you intend to be around to try, Tojo?"

The samurai took a deep breath. He clearly was not happy that the cleric had brought up the subject, but he couldn't find it within himself to ignore her. After a moment, he calmed himself and looked away again.

"We wirr see, Tarass-san. We wirr see."

Nesco was shaking her head in amazement as she listened to Cygnus, on her right, relate his tale of his guerilla warfare against the stockade's inhabitants. "There's one thing I still don't understand, Cygnus," she said, shaking her head. "Back at the very beginning. I was in the _silence_ field, but I could still see the three flashes of light coming from the courtyard. How in the world did you survive three of your own _shooting stars_?"

The tall mage, bent nearly double at the moment, smiled guiltily. "It was actually only one, Nesco. When I set it off, the blast hurled the half-orc off of me and straight up into the air. It felt like a monstrous force had pushed me down into the dirt, but I was still alive, so I thought I had somehow miraculously escaped without serious injury." The magic-user's eyes grew distant with memory. "Just as he reached the apex of his, er... flight, it suddenly came to me that I could fire off the other two _shooting stars_ at that precise moment without catching myself in the blast. I could see he was still alive, so I let him have it." Cygnus paused before continuing, his voice more sober now.

"That killed him all right, but now his body was falling right back onto me. I rolled out of the way, and it was then that I realized I was on fire. Luckily, my rolling around in the dirt put it out, but then the pain hit." Cygnus swallowed, his eyes roaming over his charred skin. "I was in agony. I ran over to the fountain and jumped in- thank Odin there was still water in the basin." He paused for another moment before continuing. "Somewhere I could hear voices in goblin, getting closer. I don't know how I was ever able to cast my _invisibility_ spell, but somehow I did."

He shrugged, and was silent. 

"But," Nesco said, a little embarrassed as she indicated Cygnus' pelvis with her eyes. "Your spell component pouch- how did it survive?"

The magic-user smiled and held up the pouch, indicating the dark red, scaly material. 

"Salamander hide," he said. "When I trained up at the Guild, Zantac convinced me to buy one. Said they were all the rage." He shrugged as Nesco gazed in wonder at the identical pouch Zantac was now waggling at her across from Cygnus. She'd never taken a good look at them before.

"I've seen luck in my time..." Zantac said, shaking his head in amazement. Cygnus turned to regard his fellow wizard.

"You realize of course, that if you'd only let me have that damn ring of Icar's, I wouldn't look like I got left overnight on a spit right now." 

Zantac hung his head down without replying.

Cygnus frowned. He'd been expecting a snappy retort.

"I'm sorry," Zantac whispered, barely audible. "I'm sorry..." 

Cygnus stared in amazement as he watched the tears roll down the Willip wizard's face.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," he repeated, bumping Zantac's shoulder. The red-robed mage hastily dried his eyes and turned back to Cygnus, his expression of disdain contrasting oddly with the sorrow still in his eyes.

"Two rings for you?" Zantac replied hoarsely. "Aren't we the greedy one? You want to try wearing my bracers, too?"

Cygnus smiled. "Well, _someone's_ got to get things done around here."

"I know," Aslan called out. "That's why I came back."

The paladin winced as five separate cries of pain echoed out from under the overhang as five heads collided with the rock roof overhead. Only Tojo had not instantly tried to erupt into a standing position.

Aslan shook his head in bemusement as his companions staggered out from under their shelter, but his expression turned to shock as he saw how much worse they looked than the last time he had seen them.

Then it turned to horror.

_"Elrohir!"_ he cried out, stopping the approaching party members dead in their tracks. _"Where is he?"_

Argo held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. "He's not dead, Aslan, so listen up. Icar's quarters contained a medusa, and Elrohir was turned to stone before we- before Tojo that is, slew it."

"That much I know," interrupted the paladin. "But where is he now?" 

The party exchanged glances. "How could you know that, Aslan?" Talass asked, not without some suspicion.

Aslan gestured impatiently. "I've been searching the fortress for you- what did you think? I heard things. But continue- where is he?" 

After a brief silence, Argo continued. "In Icar's hoard, we found a scroll of several _strength_ spells, which was just enough for us to get Elrohir outside the fortress." The ranger indicated a large boulder about ten feet behind Aslan. "Just before the last spell ran out, I lifted up the edge of one of those boulders like that one- they're all over the place just outside the stockade- and Talass used her _stone shape_ prayer to hollow out a space in the rock's underside just big enough to hold him. Then we put the boulder back down over him and fled."

The paladin nodded slowly while trying to return his breathing to normal. He exhaled loudly while wiping his forehead with his forearm. "That was some pretty quick thinking there."

Cygnus took a bow, smiling. "Thank you. I thought so." The mage straightened up and turned back to Zantac. "Like I told you- getting things done."

His fellow mage just shook his head. "I've seen conceit in my time..."

The party had by now reached Aslan. His very appearance gave them pause, despite the fact it was about the best they could have possibly hoped for. Aslan looked as fresh as a daisy. He was without wound or blemish, and his plate mail gleamed like new.

It was hard not to feel jealous.

"Aslan," Talass said, trying hard to keep her voice from breaking, "Elrohir. He weighs too much as a statue for you to _teleport_." The priestess clenched her fists in frustration. "What are we going to do?"

The paladin thought for a moment, and then held up a finger. "I have a few ideas, Talass, but you're going to have to wait a little while for that."

The cleric's face fell, but Aslan continued quickly. "All of you," he swept his arm to cover the whole party. "I need an article of clothing from each of you." 

There followed one of those peculiar silences that Cygnus was beginning to think was unique to his friends.

_I wonder if other adventurers ever have these problems_, he thought. 

Talass blinked her eyes and cleared her throat. "Um... excuse me?"

Argo shook his head sadly. "I've heard those stories about the priests of Heironeous, but..."

Aslan scowled. "Yuk it up, Bigfellow. You won't be laughing if a boggle finds you."

"A what?" Nesco asked.

"A boggle," replied the paladin. "Those gangly, blue-black creatures. They're faultless trackers, from what I've heard, and hobbie hunting parties employing them are out looking for you right now." Aslan's face grew hard. "In fact, one of them is less than a mile off as we speak."

The party glanced around uneasily.

"They track by scent," Aslan explained. "I'm going to turn into a bird, and drop off the clothing at specific spots to create false trails. I've got to move fast though, so let's have it. Come on!"

It took about a minute, not counting the obligatory risqué comments from Argo, who insisted on standing near Nesco and Talass. However, modesty was preserved as armor fragments and a swatch of a fire-red robe were piled into Aslan's backpack, which now lay at his feet.

Cygnus could do little but smile sadly, shrug and glance down at the pitiful remnants of his trousers.

"Not happening, Aslan." 

The paladin rolled his eyes. "I'll manage, Cygnus." He pointed towards the west, and then looked back at the party. "Argo, Nesco. Keep leading them that way. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can, but I don't know when that'll be."

Nesco stepped forward. She had to fight off a sudden urge to throw her arms around the paladin for a hug. In her current state, she couldn't help but think of him as her savior. Perhaps the very one she'd prayed for at the window.

Or perhaps the other one she'd sought. Long, long ago.

Aslan glanced at her, curious.

Cynewine smiled nervously. "I know I should wait to ask you this, Aslan, but I'm just curious. I was... worried that... in your state... you might have attacked the priests of Heironeous before they could cure you. Did you... have any problems like that?"

Aslan looked at Nesco for a moment, and then an embarrassed grin spread over his own face, which flushed.

For some reason, Nesco thought Aslan looked cute like that. She turned her gaze politely off to the side until the paladin was ready to continue.

"To be honest Nesco, I don't know. The last thing I remember clearly was being in the kitchen. Everyone was talking about were-creatures, and then..." Aslan's face registered only confusion. "Everything after that is pretty much a blur until I woke up laying in the temple, with Garaeth Heldenster praying over me."

Nesco nodded, satisfied, but Aslan's eyes suddenly narrowed. The paladin took a few steps towards Argo and stopped, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Although now that you mention it, I _do_ seem to recall _someone_ insulting the heck out of me at one point!"

All eyes turned towards the big ranger, but Argo merely flashed a brilliant smile, walked up to Aslan and put his arm around the paladin's shoulder in a fatherly fashion, glancing down at his friend.

"Well, that just goes to prove what I've always said about life, Aslan."

Aslan sighed loudly. He'd walked into another one, and had no choice but to see it through.

_"What?"_ he asked brusquely.

Argo, still smiling, leaned in closer to his friend's scowling face. Strangely, Bigfellow's eyes seemed to contain not mischief, but genuine affection.

"It's the important things that stay with us," he said softly.

The big ranger winked at the paladin and moved off. Aslan couldn't help putting his gauntleted hand over his eyes and groan.

"I could've just bit him. I could've just turned into a wereboar and bit him."

"You can always _polymorph_, Aslan," he heard Cygnus call out.

Aslan took his hand down and looked back at the magic-user with a wistful expression. "No, Cygnus. It just wouldn't be the same."

But as he turned back for one last check on his backpack, Aslan couldn't help but take note of the smiles he had seen on every one of his friend's faces. It contrasted so vividly with the despair he had seen written there mere minutes before as he had flown in front of the overhang in fly-form to confirm he had heard their voices before risking turning back into his true form.

_Is this part of my sacred duty, Lord Odin?_ he wondered.

The party watched as the large owl flew off to the east, the straps of a backpack clenched in its talons. It grew smaller and smaller, and finally swept down below a distant hill and was lost to sight.

Nesco took a deep breath and turned back to her companions. _Well_, she thought. _Argo keeps saying I'd be a fine leader. Let's try it out for a few minutes._

"I'll take point for a while," she told her fellow ranger. "You cover our rear, Bigfellow. I'll try to find us the smoothest path to follow. The rest of you, once we're underway, try to avoid unnecessary conversation. Sounds can travel very far in the hills on nights like tonight."

She was pleased to see there were no apparent objections. Smiling, she turned back to the front, and they were off.

For all of one minute.

"Nesco!"

Cynewine sighed and turned around at Zantac's shout. Before she could ask what was going on, she had followed the wizard's outstretched hand to where it was pointing.

Argo Bigfellow had stopped dead about thirty feet behind Zantac. He simply seemed to be staring into space, although as the party backtracked and approached him, it was evident that he was speaking. Or at least, his lips were moving, but they stopped just before anyone could make out what he had been saying.

"Argo. What is it?" Nesco asked as they all came up to him.

It was bad; she knew that at once. Bigfellow, his awareness of his surroundings coming back to him, glanced at each of his companions. His face couldn't hide his worry.

"I- I just received a _sending_ from Monsrek," he said.

There were sudden intakes of breath. Everyone glanced at each other rather than face Argo. Eventually, Nesco swallowed hard and did so.

"What is it, Argo?" she asked. "Is-"

She stopped, unable to get the word _Caroline_ out of her throat. "Is… everyone all right?"

Bigfellow's auburn eyes quickly settled on her. Slowly, he nodded.

"Yes, Nesco. No one was hurt. But- there…"

"What is it, Argo?" Talass asked quietly.

Argo took a deep breath.

"An earthquake," he said. "There's been an earthquake back at the Brass Dragon."


	93. Other Women

**8th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Temple of Heironeous, Chendl, Furyondy **

Argo Bigfellow Junior sat, along with five of his companions, in the main chapel of the High Valorous Temple of Chendl. 

For the Worshippers of the Invincible One, this was widely considered the most holy location in all of the Flanaess. Located within the Royal Palace itself, it was said the power of the Archpaladin's righteousness pulsed through the very chapel walls. It was whispered that the god's loyal adherents could sometimes see the myriad frescoes of Heironeous turn their heads, as if looking directly at them. It seeped into the air directly from the priests' censors, and could supposedly be inhaled as an invigorating tonic by the faithful. It flowed along the marble-tiled floors; rumored by some to be detectable by the pious as a slight tingling in the feet. 

This was the Seat of Valor, and the Home of Courage. Evil fled from its halls, and justice flourished.

Argo was bored. 

His feet were in fact tingling, but the ranger was pretty sure it was due to ill-fitting shoes and not religious fervor. He had spent the previous day, as he had the day prior, engaged mostly in shopping expeditions. Bigfellow had acquired a few items he was seeking, but the main one had proved to be completely unavailable, and he had been in a sour mood all morning.

The ranger grimaced and tugged at the collar of his tunic. Like all the others sitting with him, Argo had been very happy to dispose of his old clothing. He had been wounded so much during this last expedition that the clothes in his backpack had become soaked in blood, along with everything else therein. The tailor had given him a rather forced smile when Argo had plunked the blood-soaked coins into his outstretched hand.

Bigfellow currently sported a short, light green tunic along with gray trousers, both of spun flax. He had also purchased a traveling cloak in a green and red plaid, but he had this currently folded up and placed beneath him as a cushion. Argo found the hard wooden pew on which he was sitting to be no more comfortable than the rocky ground of their overhang shelter back in the Pomarj. 

The tunic and the new boots he had also bought had all seemed to fit fine when he had purchased them, but now they both seemed too tight. Argo grimaced, reached down and gave a outwards tug on the lining of his boots, drummed his fingers on his knees, blew air through his lips, sighed loudly and looked around with exaggerated interest, as if new and fascinating sights that hadn't been there a minute ago were now just waiting for his discovery.

An almost subsonic growl emanated from his right. Bigfellow turned to see Talass glowering at him. Argo smiled and hugged himself while shivering, to indicate that he had received her icy message. The cleric's scowl merely deepened, and she turned away from him.

Argo rubbed his eyes. He really did feel sorry for Talass, whom he knew was now nearing the end of her agonizing wait, to one result or the other. He felt that he should be more sympathetic to the priestess, but he also had concerns of his own.

Aslan had caught up with the party on the following morning after his brief reunion with them. He had taken Cygnus, their most seriously wounded member, back to Chendl while Talass, now fresh again with prayer, had begun healing the others of their most grievous wounds.

When he had returned that evening, Argo had been chosen as the next to go, but he had strenuously requested to be transported back to the Brass Dragon rather than Chendl. He had made no secret of his desire to be reunited with Caroline as quickly as possible. Aslan had refused, stating his desire to keep the party together. He said that after matters had been dealt with at the capital, they would all indeed return home.

Argo had not been satisfied with this response, and had asked, and then demanded, to go back home, saying that his presence or absence at Chendl would make little difference one way or the other. The paladin however, had remained steadfast, as he always did regarding matters involving the use of his Talent. When Argo had persisted, Aslan had retorted with words to the effect that the party didn't need people who put members who weren't even present over the welfare of those who were.

He hadn't really meant to, but Bigfellow had snapped back that the paladin's view might be colored just a touch by his complete and utter lack of experience in terms of what real love was really all about, and had then followed that up with a rather nasty suggestion as to what form Aslan might try _polymorphing_ into in order to correct that deficiency.

Aslan had not lost his temper. Worse, he had merely gazed at Bigfellow with that half-pitying, half-moralizing look that he got when he was in "full paladin mode," as Argo called it. The discussion was at an end, he had told Bigfellow quietly. Argo could either accept Aslan's offer of a _teleport_ to Chendl, or he could walk home. 

The chapel was fairly empty, Godsday being another four days off. The few people passing through were mostly lay workers, involved in cleaning the building or the maintaining the various stocks of weapons and supplies kept in readiness here in case of need. Occasionally, a chainmail-clad priest would walk by on one errand or another, or a worshipper would quietly walk up to the altar at the front of the chapel, and kneel down to pray for several minutes before getting up and leaving just as quietly.

Bigfellow stole another glance to his right at his companions. He smiled again as he noticed that they had all unconsciously arranged themselves in the exact same order they had been sitting in under the overhang. The ranger supposed there might be some significance to this, but right now he couldn't concentrate on any one subject for long before another image of his wife came into his mind. Argo would then gulp, and then lose his smile as he listened to his heart splashing down into his stomach again.

Talass tried to keep herself together.

Yes, it was true that Bigfellow was getting on her nerves, but that was hardly anything new. Talass could sympathize with Argo's agony at being separated from his wife, whom he believed to be in mortal danger, but the cleric knew that the Bigfellows would soon be reunited.

She didn't have that certainty for herself and Elrohir.

Once more, Talass glanced over to her right. The party had moved this particular pew from its customary spot in the back of the chapel to underneath one of the large stained glass windows on the west wall. About twenty feet to the right of their new location, they could see a small niche in the back of the chapel. It was empty save for the large symbol of Heironeous that had been painted upon the floor- a hand grasping a lightning bolt.

This was the memorized location for _teleportation_. Here, Aslan had appeared in the form of an ogre five nights previously (and from what they had heard, it had caused a bit more ruckus than the paladin had remembered).

And it would be here that, if Aslan's daring plan worked, he would be returning here with her husband at any moment.

The priestess closed her eyes, aborting the tears that again threatened. She was truly tired of crying now, and had politely refused all offers of sympathy for the moment. She opened her eyes again and smoothed out her new, light blue pantaloons she had just purchased yesterday. Along with a matching blouse, it had been the only thing Talass had wanted- aside from a new warhammer, of course. The sight of that weapon with her "off-duty" clothing was somewhat incongruous, she knew, but it gave her hands something to do as they kept clenching and unclenching the leather-wrapped handle. Normally, her holy symbol of Forseti fulfilled that duty, but in deference to their current surroundings it had been tucked underneath her blouse.

Again an overwhelming feeling of shame came upon her. Talass was a priestess of The Justice Bringer, and yet here she sat, in the temple of a foreign god; helpless to act, to actually _do_ anything to save her husband. She was forced to rely upon the kindness not only of her friends such as Aslan, but that of strangers. Just for a moment, an intense feeling of homesickness washed over her and she sat still, breathing heavily, until it passed.

Recovering her wits, Talass looked back to the holy symbol painted on the floor and frowned again. From what Argo and the others had told her, there had been quite a loud discussion between Aslan and the individual who was essential to the paladin's plan. In fact, she had been told it had almost degenerated into a shouting match, which she found very surprising indeed. If there was one constant about Aslan, it was that he very rarely raised his voice, even when being baited by Argo. It certainly spoke volumes about the lengths to which the paladin was willing to go for those whom he cared about, and for that she was very grateful.

Now there was nothing to do but wait. 

Despite outwards appearances, Yanigasawa Tojo was not oblivious to Talass' nervousness beside him. The samurai was uncertain as to whether the cleric would be able to detect the positive _chi_ energies he was sending her, but he knew they would help soothe her troubled spirit, even if only slightly.

Tojo sat quietly, his eyes closed and his hands resting motionless in his lap. His friends might have supposed he was in his standard meditative state, but most knew him well enough to note his breathing; heavier and more irregular than normal.

Meditation was clearly a lost cause at present, but Tojo persisted in the attempt nonetheless. He just didn't know what else to do.

The very real possibility of his life ending was starting to gather in his mind's eye like an approaching storm. The samurai had managed to force those thoughts, and all that they implied, out of his head, but that merely left room for others to crowd in. Unable to stop them, to Tojo it was like a lingering weakness he felt even though the medusa's venom had been purged from his system.

Elrohir's fate. Talass' anxiety, just waiting for the opportunity to turn into grief. The children Thorin and Barahir, possibly growing up fatherless.

There was something else, too. Something very, very elusive- and distant. Yet another task that had been left unfinished. Undone.

Tojo shook his head. Whatever that task might be, it was much too far from his conscious mind for memory to recall. The samurai instead concentrated on the smooth feel of his new silk pantaloons under his palms.

The samurai had been very reluctant to part with his old robes. They were one of his few remaining physical reminders of home, but even he could see that were far beyond repair. Tojo had been with Talass and the others when the cleric had purchased her new outfit, and had been curious enough to try a similar set of trousers, although he opted for a leather vest to go with it, over a linen undershirt. He had noted the tailor's gaping look of astonishment as the samurai had ran through some unarmed combat exercises right there in his shop. Tojo, satisfied with the comfort of this new clothing, had favored the merchant with a raised eyebrow, and wound up purchasing more clothes than any of the other party members.

His new outfit notwithstanding, Tojo was nervous. He knew that the fact that he was currently sitting wedged between two women has something to do with it.

However, while he also knew that the fact that one of those women was Nesco Cynewine was increasing that nervousness, he could not for the life of him figure out why.

The samurai's hand unconsciously brushed his cheek.

Like Tojo, Nesco was worried.

Unlike the samurai however, Cynewine couldn't have hidden her uneasiness if she had tried- so she didn't try.

She simply sat there on the pew, wringing her hands together. Like the others, Nesco also sported a new outfit. In her case, it was a short brown tunic, ruffled on the bottom; linen trousers, undyed, and a gray-green traveling cloak of elven make. In fact, it had been her family's clothier that she had taken the others to. Everyone, even Tojo, had noticed how nervous the ranger had been the whole time they were in the shop. How she kept glancing towards the doorway, almost cringing when a new customer would enter.

Although her armor and weapons were currently elsewhere, a large sack sat on the floor by Nesco's feet. The ranger's gaze alternated between the teleportation circle and the chapel entranceway.

Among all the party members, it had been Nesco who had been the most reluctant to return. Aslan had noticed that, of course. While it made sense to everyone that the last person to be taken home should be a ranger, she knew that he had sensed in her an additional hesitation...

"Are you all right, Nesco?" the paladin had asked, as he stood with Talass the previous morning, ready to teleport back to Chendl with the cleric. 

She had nodded and flashed a spectacularly unconvincing smile. "I'm fine."

"If you'd rather, Nesco, you can go back with Aslan now," Talass had offered cautiously. "I'll be all right until this evening. My prayers will-" 

"No." Nesco shook her head, still smiling. "Thank you, Talass, but I'll be all right. I'm just nervous about what will finally happen when all of this is over."

Aslan eyed the ranger for a few moments. For some reason, Nesco would not meet his gaze.

"All right then," the paladin had said finally. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Take care of yourself, Nesco," he added after an uncomfortably long silence.

Cynewine had looked back at him then, an odd kind of grin on her face, as if differing emotions were fighting for control. Aslan however, couldn't identify any of them.

"You too, Aslan," she had said softly. "I'll see you soon." 

Talass had raised an eyebrow at that, but had said nothing. Nesco had stood and stared at the empty spot that had held their presence for quite a few moments before continuing on her westward trek.

Cygnus just sat and stared morosely at the symbol. Despite being healed fully, he was far more taciturn and grim since returning to Furyondy than he had been while in the Pomarj. Apart from some words of comfort to Talass, he had said little to anyone beyond one-word answers to questions.

Despite some major needling by Zantac, the Aardian wizard had not been very adventuresome at the clothing shop. He had purchased new boots, a pair of brown trousers and a frock-style robe with a hood.

"Am I the only one who thinks he looks just like Flond?" Zantac had whispered to Talass when they first saw Cygnus so attired.

The cleric had nodded but said nothing as her eyes narrowed.

_Flond. A father forever mourning the absence of his son from his life_, she had thought.

Zantac sat on the edge of the pew and sulked.

Everything seemed to be going much better now. They were safe; they had survived. The Willip wizard was sure that Aslan's plan to save Elrohir would be a success. To be sure, they had not attained their goal of eliminating Markessa, but they could certainly return once they had rested and resupplied. He couldn't understand why everyone seemed so somber, even beyond the matter of Elrohir. And as far as the Aslan/Tojo situation was concerned, Zantac was confident that a simple heart-to-heart discussion would sort everything out.

Cygnus' behavior though, more than anything, had really taken the wind out of Zantac's sails. He couldn't understand why his fellow magic-user was acting so gloomily.

_Must be the robes. Gotta be the robes_, he had thought to himself with a chuckle. Zantac himself had gone in the opposite direction in terms of his new attire. The mage now sported a bright yellow tunic, white trousers, snow rabbit fur-lined boots, and a large red cloak festooned in a black diamond pattern. The whole effect was rather eye-catching, he thought.

"Eye-assaulting," was Argo's comment. Zantac had smiled at what he considered a seal of approval, although he secretly wished the rebuke had come from Cygnus.

_I really need a woman_, he thought to himself wryly. _Too bad Jinella's not here. She was kind of_-

A loud _pop_ signaled the appearance of someone within the destination circle.

Six figures leapt clumsily to their feet. Although there was no low ceiling for them to bang their heads on, Talass did manage to step on Argo's right foot, but the big ranger hardly noticed.

The figure started walking towards the sextet as they began to maneuver towards him. The new arrival wore the same gray robes and pointed hat he had when they had first seen him two months ago. His auburn eyes, a shade brighter than Argo's, swept over the party as an irritated frown settled on his wizened face.

"It's done," announced Karzalin The Master Elementalist in his hoarse voice, waving his hand as if to keep the approaching mob from getting too close. "They'll be back momentarily."

A wave of relief visibly swept over everyone, even Tojo and Cygnus. Talass, heedless of decorum, pulled her holy symbol of a bearded man out and touched her forehead to it while mouthing a silent prayer.

"Thank you, Karzalin," said Cygnus, with about the most feeling anyone had seen from him since their return.

The court wizard snorted. "I told you it would be _inconvenient_- and it certainly was that. I never said it would be _difficult_." About to turn away and exit the chapel, he stopped and stared at the two magic-users.

"_Stone to flesh_. It's not that difficult a transmutation. I thought that for once some freelance wizard might actually live up to his reputation, but once again it's Karzalin to the rescue. Can't anyone see I'm getting too damn old for this sort of thing?" he grumbled, heading off.

Just before he reached the door, Karzalin turned around one more time. He stared at Zantac, seeming to notice his attire for the first time. The Willip wizard flashed a smile at him, but the archmage merely frowned, shook his head and left, mumbling to himself.

Without saying a word, the party spread out along the perimeter of the holy symbol on the floor.

No one could really recall afterwards how long they had waited.

And then they were there. 

Everyone drew in a sharp sudden breath. Despite all the happy words, the optimistic thoughts, and just now the confirming words of the Master Elementalist himself, it just seemed like it would never happen. Now, six people stared at their party leader from all angles. Nobody looked at Aslan.

Some saw the back of Elrohir's head, his hair caked with sweat. Others saw the terrible condition of his plate mail armor, most of the visible gashes outlined with dried blood.

Some saw him in profile, catching the very edge of a weak, almost dazed smile.

Talass stared directly into those deep blue eyes.

Although she had been vastly (even shamefully) emotional these past few days, now it seemed to Talass like it had been she herself who had just become revived from an unfeeling body of stone. The feelings that were now bursting from her heart couldn't possibly still be there after all her suffering, all her prayers, all her hopes, and all her fears...

Elrohir's smile stabilized.

"Hey there, beautiful," he said softly.

Talass began to tremble.

Then she began to shake. Violently.

She couldn't speak. Not that that mattered. The very concept of words had momentarily flown right out of her head.

Now it wasn't just Elrohir. Everyone was staring at the priestess.

"Talass?" Aslan asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

The cleric's eyes never left her husband's. Now her right hand came up, index finger pointing accusingly at the ranger.

Elrohir's eyebrows went up. He looked genuinely confused.

"This," Talass croaked. 

Everyone waited.

And finally, anger, relief and love all positively blazing out of her light blue eyes, Talass got it out. 

_"This!" _she shouted, shaking her finger at her husband. _"This is what happens when you look at other women_!"

A hundred yards away, through countless stone walls and secure doors, His Most Pious Majesty King Belvor IV suddenly held up a hand to silence the knight who had been addressing him.

Belvor peered around to his left, a puzzled frown creasing his handsome face. He stared at the side door to his throne room for a few seconds, and then looked down at Sir Hallian, who stood dutifully by the foot of the pink marble steps of the throne.

"Do you hear laughter?" the king asked.


	94. In The Chapel

**8th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Temple of Heironeous, Chendl, Furyondy**

The chapel was a maelstrom of shouting, laughter and crying. The niche being somewhat crowded, the party began to herd Elrohir and Aslan back towards the pew so they could sit down. Talass, her arms locked tight around her husband's neck, was pretty much dragged along.

Zantac and Tojo darted over to the chapel entrance, where angry people were already starting to pour through, shouting something about how shouting was not allowed in here. The duo was too late to physically prevent them from entering the room, but they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the space between the back wall and the last row of pews. A shoving match ensued, with Zantac alternately pleading with the mob that this was a temporary celebration and that they'd all be out of there shortly, and yelling over his shoulder at his fellow party members for assistance.

Tojo said nothing, of course. The samurai's hands were a blur, grabbing people's arms and gently but firmly directing them away. The verbal downpour however, continued unabated.

"I've never seen you before- who let you in here?"

"Disgraceful! You people should be ashamed of yourselves!"

"The 32nd Analect!" yelled an acolyte. _"Temper your jubilation, for you are merely in the valley between battles!"_

"What in Boccob's name does that mean?" Zantac cried.

"It means I'm going to lay your fat butt out on the floor if you don't let me through!"

_I love church people_, Zantac groaned to himself. The mage whipped his head around again.

"Oh, Aslan! Elrohir? I could use some party togetherness over here!"

Elrohir was still in shock.

It seemed like just five minutes ago that the ranger had opened the door in Icar's quarters and been confronted with a pair of fierce, glowing red eyes. Now, suddenly, it was days later, his friends were whooping and clapping him on the back, and his wife (_Talass- the priestess!_) was wrapped around him in a death grip, her face buried in his shoulder and weeping tears of joy.

As usual, Elrohir felt like he'd entered the playhouse five minutes after the opening curtain.

"Umm, Talass- dearest," he croaked, trying far too gently to dislodge his wife's arms. He was honestly having trouble breathing.

"My throat, Talass," he gasped. "It's not made of stone anymore." Elrohir looked around frantically. "Uh... Aslan... anybody... _help?_"

Aslan and Cygnus however, were already heading towards Tojo and Zantac. Nesco, looking helpless, gingerly put her hands on Talass' shoulders.

"Talass? You- you really need to give him some breathing room."

Argo Bigfellow Junior shook his head, cupped his hands around his mouth and leaned in right up to Talass' ear.

_"So, Talass- Have you already forgotten that special embrace we shared back at the gatehouse?"_

_"What?"_ Talass shrieked, her head whipping around at lightning speed, her blue eyes throwing daggers at Argo. The cleric pulled off of Elrohir, her hands speeding towards a different throat now. "You-"

"Huh? What? What embrace?" Elrohir shouted, confused even more than before. Something he hadn't thought possible.

But Argo was practically bowling Aslan over as he rushed past him and Cygnus en route to the mob scene. The big ranger was looking over his shoulder though- his mischievous smile a mile wide on his face...

The three new arrivals managed to stem the advancing tide, but a moment later a familiar resonant voice boomed out over the chaos.

"Make way! Knight of the Royal Household! Make way or suffer for it!"

Grudgingly, the crowd quieted down and parted as Sir Davos Rahldent, resplendent as always in his gleaming set of full plate armor, stormed up to the front and glared at the party.

"What is going on here?" he demanded, glaring at Aslan. "Surely you know better than to create such a ruckus in the House of The Archpaladin!"

The paladin opened his mouth to reply, but a sneering voice coming from right behind Sir Davos beat him to it.

_"Who are these poltroons?"_

And back at the pew, Elrohir and Talass saw Nesco's head whip around. The ranger's eyes went wide, and her face pale.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

The speaker was a young man, perhaps twenty years of age or so. He was clad in plate mail that glistened as if it had just been cleaned, although he wore no helm. He had a broad face and short, light brown hair. His skin tone was the exact same complexion as Nesco's- pure Oeridian.

The young man's gray eyes swept over Sir Rahldent's shoulder at the five individuals in front of them. The knight turned to regard him.

"I shall handle this, young Joseph."

Joseph looked like he was about to snap out a retort, but a feminine hand with long, thin fingers gently alighted on the young warrior's left shoulder.

"That's all right, my dear boy. Let Sir Rahldent do his duty."

This was a slender, older woman, perhaps fifty. She had a long, angular face with the same tan Oeridian skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. Her gray hair was piled tightly around her head in a stylish coiffure. Her eyebrows were groomed to absolute perfection, dark and sweeping in twin thin, high arcs.

Aslan frowned inwardly. _She's nobility_, the paladin thought. _And I'm guessing smart-mouth here is her son. But what does she want with us?_

The woman wore a gray gown, decorated with silver filigree. She wore a fair amount of jewelry- rings, earrings, necklaces and bracelets- but it was not an ostentatious display. A fan appeared in her left hand, and spread out with a flick of her wrist. Her eyes regarded each one of them, cataloguing.

Aslan blinked. Davos was finishing up ordering the other crowd members out of the room. He then turned to the junior priest. "Find High Priest Heldenster. Inform him that I have the situation in hand. If he has any special instructions or requests, relay them back to me."

The young cleric hesitated, clearly not pleased at being ordered out of his own chapel by a knight. After a moment though, he nodded glumly and slipped out.

The woman now looked over Aslan's shoulder, at the lone pew situated under the stained-glass window. Her eyes widened slightly. A thin smile curled at the corner of her lips.

"Nesco!" she called out. "I did not know you had returned to Chendl." The statement ended on a distinctive questioning note.

Aslan wasn't exactly sure when the chapel had gone crypt quiet.

Slowly, Nesco bent down to retrieve the sack at her feet. Her eyes never left the woman's face. Cynewine's mouth was a thin line, her expression akin to a person who has opened their eyes in the morning to find themselves staring into the eyes of a pit viper.

"I just returned last night," Nesco replied icily.

The sound of the leather soles of the ranger's new boots echoed across the marble-tiled floor as she slowly walked up to the woman and the young man. Elrohir and Talass followed behind her.

The woman's eyes flashed over the party, and then back to Nesco. One perfect eyebrow arched.

Nesco sighed, rammed a false smile through her indignation and onto her face, and addressed her friends while indicating the older woman with her right hand.

"May I introduce Lady Gella of the House of Cynewine... my mother."

The phrase _This explains a lot_ flashed through Aslan's mind even as Nesco was completing the introductions.

"Mother, may I present..." Nesco, about to introduce the paladin first, hesitated a moment, flashed an apologetic smile at Elrohir and continued.

"Elrohir, his wife Talass, Aslan, Tojo, Argo Bigfellow Junior, Cygnus and Zantac."

Lady Gella smiled perfunctorily at each of them in turn. Elrohir bowed low, and the others took their cue from him (except Tojo, who had already bowed in reflex to one of superior station).

When Elrohir straightened up, he was somewhat surprised to find Lady Gella's eyes focused, not on him or Aslan, but on Argo.

"Bigfellow," the Cynewine matriarch mused. "Of the House Garasteth, in Aerdy?"

A number of raised eyebrows followed the eyes underneath them that turned to look at the big ranger.

Argo favored Nesco's mother with his pained smile, although his eyes retained an uncommon bitterness.

"My family abandoned the political arena many years ago, Dame Cynewine. We now prefer a simpler life. The outdoor life."

Something about Argo's response seemed to please Lady Gella, for her smile assumed a more genuine nature. "Of course," she said simply, and dipped her eyes briefly.

Joseph cleared his throat, but Nesco made no move to introduce him.

Gella turned her steely gaze again upon her daughter. "Sir Rahldent here has been kind enough to inform me of some of your adventures down in the Pomarj."

Aslan was momentarily surprised. He and Argo had been debriefed by the knight, just as they had been following their Highport expedition. For some reason, the paladin hadn't known he had shared that information with anyone not directly involved in their mission. He sighed and rebuked himself silently for his naiveté.

"So, Nesco," Lady Gella continued.

Nesco's companions had often seen the ranger's face flush before, but that had been with embarrassment.

This was anger.

"Any news of Sir Miles?" her mother asked casually.

Aslan watched as Nesco's fists clenched so hard he was sure her nails would pierce her palms.

"As a matter of fact, mother- yes," the younger Cynewine responded as she bent down and retrieved an object from her sack. She straightened up again and without warning tossed it at her mother, even though she was close enough to have handed it to her.

Taken unawares, Lady Gella dropped the object, which hit the floor and then rolled slowly some distance off, before commencing to spin faster and faster until like a coin, it lay flat and still.

Sir Miles' shield.

"It was in the possession of an enemy officer," Nesco said, in a voice so cold it made Talass shiver. "Is that _news_ enough for you?"

There was a brief silence. None of Nesco's allies dared to speak. Joseph slowly walked over and retrieved the shield, but his mother kept her gaze firm and her expression neutral.

"So then," she said. "You found no physical proof that he is actually dead?"

Nesco literally gaped at her mother. She was so astonished she forgot to be furious.

Gella glanced over at the shield, now being held by a somber Joseph. "An impressive trophy," she shrugged, "taken from an important prisoner."

Nesco now remembered to be furious.

"For god's sake, mother!" she shouted. "The fortress was manned by _hobgoblins!_ He was probably chopped up and put in a stew pot months ago! How can you be so blindly stubborn?"

The older Cynewine's eyes went wide briefly, but then narrowed to mere slits.

"How foolish of me," she hissed. "Well, at least I can bask in my daughter's enjoyment at the news of her brother's apparent demise."

_"Enjoyment?"_ Nesco shrieked. "I didn't pressure him for a mission he wasn't ready for! He _told_ me you were pushing him, but he was afraid to disappoint you! _You were the one who got him killed!"_

Gella's hand shot out, intending to slap her daughter across the cheek, but Joseph, not seeing this, had interposed himself between the two and thrust his face up to within inches of his sister's.  
_  
"How dare you talk to mother like that?"_ he screamed at her, his eyes watering with tears. "Miles was ready for that mission! Sure, he knew that he might not make it back, but he was _ready!_ If he weren't, he would have told me so! He'd have confided in me!"

"He was nine years older than you, Joseph," Nesco said, taking a step backwards. Her voice was suddenly quiet again- and tired. "You're just a child."

_"Am I?"_ he squealed, thrusting his shield at Nesco. "Then how did I get _this?"_

"What are you talking about? I just-"

Nesco stopped dead.

She had thought she was just looking at Miles' shield again. A circular disk of steel, emblazoned with the antlers on a blue field. The emblem of the Order of the Hart.

But this shield looked almost new. Only a few scratches marred its surface. With a shock, Nesco realized that Joseph was holding Miles' shield in his left hand, and this shield- _his_ shield- in his right.

But that meant...

"That's right, sis!" Joseph crowed. "I am now an official member of the Azure Order, the same as you!"

Nesco tried to abort her gasp, but couldn't. She shot a quick glance over to her mother, who had resumed her thin, imperious smile. Nesco then glanced over at Sir Rahldent, the disbelief still evident in her eyes, but the knight merely nodded.

"How..." Nesco began. "When?"

"I've been on patrol in the Vesve under Sir Damoscene for weeks," Joseph smirked, although the volume of his voice had returned to normal. "You're not the only one who's been busy, Nesco. If you'd bothered to visit your family for a few hours when you got back from Highport, you'd have known that!"

Nesco fumed silently, unable to think of anything to say as the younger Cynewine continued.

"We saw combat. Orcs."

For a moment, he fell silent, remembering. And for that brief moment, his anger and his arrogance were gone.

But to Nesco that only made him look all the more younger. All the more like her little brother.

Joseph took a deep breath, and tried to compose himself, but looking at his sister, just couldn't keep the resentment from creeping back into his voice.

"I know you don't think I'm as good as you, sis, but you weren't there! I _am_ just as good a fighter as you- I've always said so! I killed orcs, Nesco- I killed a _lot_ of them!"

"How?" Nesco snapped back, completely on instinct. "Did they let you run around in the aftermath, dispatching the wounded?"

"I must say, Nesco," came the calm voice of her mother, "that for all our disagreements, I've never known you to be the jealous type. It's not at all becoming for a Cynewine."

Nesco tried to throw a hateful glance at Gella, but she was cracking. For all the rage she felt towards her mother, she... she didn't want Gella to _hate_ her. She didn't want-

Joseph, noting the tears welling up in his big sister's eyes, pushed his story forward.

"I had performed _an act of exceptional honor, bravery, courage and service!"_ Joseph proclaimed, parroting the official entry requirements for the Knights of Furyondy. "Sir Damoscene signed off on the report given to the Knight Commander, and I know you respect _his_ judgment at least!" He paused, and just a note of pleading crept into his voice, despite his best efforts. "Can't you be happy for me, _for once?"_

The funny thing was, deep down Nesco really _did_ want to be happy for Joseph. But he had hurt her so much in the past, and now it all came boiling out of her.

"Like you were for me?" she shot back. "You _never_ gave me encouragement, Joseph! You _never_ thought a woman could amount to anything as a warrior! You belittled me, you insulted me- when I was accepted into the Order, _you didn't even come to the ceremony!"_

Joseph just stood there, looking at her. His boyish face showed both resentment and shame.

He said nothing.

_"Why?"_ Nesco bawled. She knew she was crying. She knew she was acting just as much the child she had accused Joseph of being, but she couldn't help it. _"You're my brother!"_ she screamed. _"Why weren't you there for me?"_

"Why didn't you?"

Heads whipped around in surprise.

Elrohir and the others had stood back during this entire exchange. None of their upbringings had made them into the type of person to interfere in a family argument such as this one, but they were not immune to the embarrassment. And they were not immune to the sadness and anger and repressed feelings that were being flung out into the open here.

And they were certainly not immune to the pain of someone they all counted as a friend, Nesco Cynewine.

But there stood Aslan, his arms crossed, his light blue eyes boring into the gray ones of Joseph Cynewine.

Joseph blinked. "What?"

"Why didn't you go to your sister's induction ceremony?" Aslan repeated quietly.

The young man's mouth moved uselessly for a few moments.

"You don't have to answer him, Joseph," Lady Gella stated calmly. "Perhaps our dear paladin has forgotten the _noble_ nature of the one whom he is addressing."

Joseph, emboldened by his mother, let the smirk return to his face. "I admit, I am impressed. It must be nice to have _unlimited_ healing available at will," he said snidely. "Must cover up a lot of mistakes."

All of the sadness vanished from Nesco Cynewine in an instant.

The last time that had happened, her hand had been grasping Sundancer's hilt.

And that was exactly where she wished it was right now.

"If you _ever_ insult any of my friends again," Nesco said, her voice a void, "I will-"

"Not to worry, Nesco," Aslan interrupted in a surprisingly cheerful voice. "This is just a misunderstanding, and misunderstandings can be cleared up easily when all the parties involved just take a deep breath, and realize there's nothing as important as friends and family, right?" The paladin's hand made a casual gesture, as if dismissing all of this.

All three Cynewines just stared at Aslan. So did his six companions and one curious knight, for that matter.

"We're all on the same side here," Aslan continued, nodding towards the altar at the front of the chapter. "We've all been through a lot in the past few days, and we're all on edge," he continued, making it plain that everyone was included in his statement. "If I have offended anyone, I apologize. Common courtesy demands no less from anyone of good breeding, don't you think?" He finished with an extra smile at Lady Gella.

Aslan noted the Cynewine matriarch's forced return smile. _She hates my guts right now_, the paladin thought. _That's all right, though. And now for part two._

"Besides," Aslan continued, as airily as any of his friends could ever remember him sounding, "if I were to get upset at every imagined slight that came my way," and here he jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he looked straight at Nesco, "Caroline would be a widow going on three years now."

Argo stepped forward, a big smile on the ranger's face.

"He's right you know," Bigfellow added. "Happens every decade or so. Go figure." He shrugged helplessly, and then bowed low to Joseph. "Sir Poltroon, at your service."

Nesco couldn't help but smile as she saw the confused glance that passed between mother and son. And she understood.  
_  
It's the Aslan and Argo road show_, she thought. _They're doing this for me- to defuse all this._

She smiled and wiped the tears from her face. _Bless them._

"Well," Nesco said, with a loud clearing of her throat. "I think we could all use some rest." She then turned to her friends, a serious expression on her face again. "I know you have a lot of matters to clear up. Please feel free to stay in the guest rooms provided for you as long as you wish. I assume at some point we will be returning to the stockade, so-"

"Nesco," her mother cut in.

She turned back to her mother. Lady Gella's demeanor was that, if she'd delivered this news only five minutes ago, she'd have been delighted. As it was, her face was carefully neutral.

"You've been reassigned."

Now it was Nesco who couldn't speak.

"What?" she finally managed. In response, Gella glanced over to Sir Rahldent, who stepped forward. It was apparent from the expression on the knight's face that he had been wishing to speak for some time. He looked, not at Nesco, but at Elrohir.

"I bring a message from His Royal Majesty, King Belvor IV," he began sonorously. "His Majesty has of course been informed of the circumstances regarding your most recent mission." The knight cleared his throat. "King Belvor gives thanks to the Invincible One that you have all survived what by all accounts was a most dangerous foray against unexpectedly high resistance. In accordance with the agreed-upon terms of your service, the Royal Court has assumed all the expenses related to your health and well-being while on this mission, including," and here Davos turned to glare at Aslan, "certain expenses of a _highly questionable_ nature."

Aslan raised his eyebrows in a look of innocent surprise, but kept his smile inside. _Karzalin_, the paladin thought. _I wonder how much he billed them for?_

Although The Master Elementalist had eventually, and reluctantly, agreed to _teleport_ with Aslan back to the stockade, the old man had insisted on first shining the two of them up with a battery of defensive and stealth spells, including _invisibility _and many others Aslan had never even heard of. He had no doubt that the aged wizard would express his displeasure to his liege at being ordered into the field by soaking the Royal Court for as much he thought he could get away with.  
_  
I hope he gets it all_, Aslan thought. _Karzalin may be a grouchy old coot, but he helped us get Elrohir back, and I can't put a price on that._

Sir Rahldent was once again looking at Elrohir. "However, it cannot be denied that in this instance, His Majesty's will was not made manifest."

The party leader frowned, but also kept his thoughts to himself. _Translation- you blew it._

"Therefore," the knight continued, "The king shall confer with his advisors on whether to sponsor a further expedition to the Pomarj. If this does come to pass, such expedition shall consist of new individuals." Davos finished up looking slightly uncomfortable as he finished his proclamation.

"Your services are no longer required."

Sir Rahldent quickly looked away from the party as he turned towards Nesco. "Lady Cynewine, you are ordered to report forthwith to the War College."

Nesco blinked. "The War College?"

The knight shrugged; no easy task in full plate. "I know nothing more. If you will excuse me, now," and here he turned to Lady Gella. "Your servant, Madam," he intoned before bowing and then striding briskly out of the chapel.

"Come, Nesco," Gella said with perhaps a flicker of warmth. "Your father awaits us at the College, as does Sir Juntaros." This last name was said with a slight rise in tone, like a type of incitement, but Aslan could see Nesco's frown only deepen at the name. The ranger's green-hazel eyes searched her mother's face- and slowly grew cold again.

"You set this all up, didn't you, mother?"

Lady Gella avoided Nesco's gaze. "We shall speak of this later, Nesco. In private." After a moment spent to regain composure, the Cynewine matriarch again locked eyes with her daughter. "It's time to go now."

Nesco took a long, slow and very deep breath before responding.

"I am going to say goodbye to my friends first. I will meet the two of you there."

Gella searched her daughter's face again, then wet her lips and let the thin smile reappear. "Of course. I shall expect you presently." Her steely gray eyes flashed briefly over the others. "Good day to you all."

They departed. Gella walked briskly, with her head held high. Joseph trudged behind, the newest member of the Azure Order keeping his eyes firmly on the floor in front of him.

No one spoke. No one made eye contact.

Nesco, acutely sensing every precious second flowing away, eventually forced her head back up to a level position.

"Well," she said, with a weak smile that Aslan usually associated with Argo's wife, "I guess this is it."

"We're going to be at the Brass Dragon for a while," Elrohir managed to say. "We all need new armor, and besides, there's..." and he made a tentative nod towards Tojo, "a lot of things that need to be taken care of."

"We'll send word," Cygnus said quietly. "By magic if possible, by letter if not."

Nesco nodded. The ranger took one more deep breath in a feeble effort to steady her nerves, and walked over to Zantac. She gave the Willip wizard her best imitation of Argo's pained smile.

"Zantac," she said, shaking her head. "That outfit... it makes me wish _I'd_ met the medusa's gaze."

The mage glanced down, trying to keep his composure. "You're just saying that," he whispered.

Nesco took his hand in both of hers. "Thank you for everything, Zantac. Take care of yourself."

He looked up at Cynewine, and then down at his hand held in hers. His expression as he glanced back up at her implied that he would have liked more, but the magic-user merely stepped back and bowed with a flourish. "Your servant, Lady Cynewine."

Nesco tried hard to keep her voice steady. "I'll have an ale," she croaked out.

Zantac favored her with a stern look. "Please, my lady. Leave the bad jokes to Cygnus. They can be dangerous in the hands of the uninitiated."

Cynewine swallowed hard and moved over to the party's other wizard. She clasped his hand in likewise fashion and forced herself to look right into his brown eyes.

"We made it, Cygnus," she said, squeezing his hand. "We made it by the skin of our teeth."

The tall mage grimaced. "That's about the only part of me that didn't require healing."

"I've never met your son, Cygnus," Nesco said shakily, "but I know he must be a beautiful boy."

Cygnus shrugged, his eyes moist. "Takes after his mother."

Nesco shook her head. "After _both_ of you, I'm sure." She leaned in a little closer. "I'm glad you'll be able to be with him again, and I know you'll be able to work it out."

He glanced at her, puzzled. "Work what out?"

She just smiled mysteriously. "What you need to do."

Nesco sniffled and quickly moved on to Argo, ignoring Cygnus' questioning gaze. She took the big ranger's hand in hers.

"Sorry, Lady Cynewine," Bigfellow said sadly, shaking his head. "That just won't do."

And he pulled her into a hug with such force Nesco could feel the air push out between her teeth.

Talass rolled her eyes. "I need to have a long talk with Caroline when we get back."

Argo kept his eyes closed tight. "Much better without the armor," he murmured.

Nesco could feel the color rising in her cheeks. She felt very, very embarrassed.

But it did feel nice.

As the seconds rolled by, it occurred to Nesco that Argo had no intention of making the move to dissolve this embrace. He was leaving that up to her.

She sighed in mock exasperation and pulled away. "Easy there, stallion. You'll be home soon enough."

It was a remark far more risqué than Nesco would normally make, but she didn't feel her face could get any more red anyway.

"With memories of a good friend," Bigfellow said softly, his eyes locking with hers. "Don't let anyone push you around, Nesco."

This was getting harder. It took several tries before Nesco could get out something that sounded like, "I won't," before moving over to Talass.

It was the priestess of Forseti who took Nesco's hand in hers and spoke first. "As much as anyone here, Nesco, I wouldn't have Elrohir back if it wasn't for you. Thank you."

"We all made it back, Talass."

The cleric raised an eyebrow. She understood the remark.

"I'm going back there, Nesco" Talass said in a low voice. "I'll go alone if I have to, but I'm going back." The cleric shrugged. "If you're not doing anything by then, maybe..."

The ranger gave her a smile, although inside she didn't think she would have that option. "Send me a message. I'll let you know."

Talass nodded, squeezed Nesco's hand one more time and left go as Cynewine stepped in front of Yanigasawa Tojo. She wasted no time getting inside the samurai's comfort zone, but there was no smile on the ranger's face now.

"Tojo." She practically had to force the words out. "_Promise_ me, Tojo, that I will see you again."

Tojo's violent eyes stopped their dancing and managed to finally settle right on hers.

They looked so sad, she thought.

"Cannot promise that, Nesco-san," the samurai whispered. "Can onry say, have faith that awe wirr work out for best in the end."

Nesco's lip trembled. She reached down and took Tojo's hand in hers. He made no move to pull away.

"Take the best of both worlds, Tojo-sama," she told him, trying to keep her grip steady on his. "Of all of us, you're the only one who has the opportunity to do that."

The samurai raised an eyebrow, his face thoughtful.

"Wirr try to do so, Nesco-san."

He removed his hand, stepped back and gave her a long, deep bow.

She returned it in kind.

"Elrohir," she said after moving to the party leader and wiping her eyes clear yet again and grasping his hand, "thank you for taking me into your circle."

The ranger could only shrug, embarrassed. He cursed himself silently as once again, words failed him.

"Thank you for completing it," was all he could come up with, at length. He looked about as ready to cry as she was. "It just..." he shrugged helplessly, "it just won't seem right without you there as a part of it."  
_  
Oh, I wish he hadn't said that_, Nesco thought. She was on the edge of completely losing it. "I never met Barahir either," the ranger said weakly.

"But he'll know all about you," Elrohir replied, with a sudden burst of calmness.

"Thank you." Cynewine barely managed it. Her hands were working full-time now in trying to stop the tears from falling.

And now she was in front of Aslan.

The paladin stared at her. His eyes, his face, everything about him was filled with empathy and kindness. Nesco remembered sitting alone with him by the campfire that first night in the Pomarj, so long ago. His strength, his self-doubts, his compassion, his humility... even his sense of humor.

Nesco couldn't believe it. She was a ranger in the service of the Knights of Furyondy. She was in service to the king of Furyondy, possibly the mightiest nation of weal on Oerth. She was of nobility, and was the envy of many people she knew.

But suddenly, all she was was a nine year-old little girl, staring at the stars that she saw in a paladin's eyes.

_Please hug me, Aslan._

But the paladin had stepped forward and taken her hands in his. "Thank you for being there for us, Nesco," he said quietly.

She couldn't see his face anymore. It was just a bearded blur through her tears.

And when Aslan removed his hands, she knew he was taking her heart with them.

And just as Nesco could feel an unstoppable wail of grief gathering together in her stomach, she stopped.

"Uh, I'm sorry, Aslan..." she stammered. "I... couldn't catch that... what did you say?"

He leaned forward, as close as she had been to Tojo.

Closer now.

And suddenly, it was just the two of them, bloodied and about to die, underneath the fur blanket of a giant weasel's corpse.

"I said, Nesco," the paladin repeated, so softly that only she could hear, "that we will be together again. I do not know if it will be sooner or later, but I know that is how it should be."

Even his smile was soft.

"And if there's one thing we paladins know," Aslan said. "It's the way that things should be."

Nesco stared at him. Their eyes were only inches apart. She concentrated until she thought she would pass out from the effort.

But she couldn't see it.

She couldn't see what she was looking for in those eyes. Was it there? Could she just not see it? She had to know.

_She had to know._

"Aslan?" Nesco said, as terror unlike the ranger had even known gripped her heart. She was about to ask the hardest question she had ever asked in her entire life.

Long, long seconds ticked away.

"When... when you say _we_," Nesco whispered, do you mean-"

He was gone.

Nesco gasped. She had waited too long.

Aslan hadn't heard her. He was herding the others now back towards the chapel entrance. "Come on," he was urging them. "Nesco has a lot to take care of. After I mindrest, we can start-'

But Nesco couldn't make out the rest of it. The room began to spin, but with sheer effort she reacted, grabbing a pew and steadying herself. She nearly growled at the effort involved to regain her composure so quickly, but she did so. She began to try and bring her breathing back under control-

"Nesco?"

She whirled around. Aslan was standing by the chapel door. She saw the paladin say something she couldn't hear at the retreating party, and then turn back to her.

Nesco stared at him like a wild animal.

The paladin chewed his lip, and cleared his throat. "We, uh... we all discussed this before I brought you back. We... we all agree that we would like you to have Sundancer."

The ranger nodded dumbly at him. She couldn't speak anymore. She didn't give a damn about the sword anymore, but she knew what she was looking at.

_A second chance, Nesco! You have a second chance! Take it! Take it! Tell him! TELL HIM!_

It wasn't even close.

"I love you, Aslan," Nesco Cynewine said aloud to an empty chapel.

And the only one who heard was a god that she had chosen to turn away from, long ago.


	95. Tales To Be Told

**12th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy **

Outside, the Brass Dragon was closed.

Once again, the twin signs, located southeast and northwest of the inn alongside the road, were in place to warn travelers off. A light southerly wind teased the fabric strips on both signs into intermittent fluttering.

Towards the east, the sun slowly tore itself loose from the horizon. The young stable boy frowned and squinted at the brilliant orange ball. Although it was painting the underside of a mostly cloudy sky a beautiful shade of crimson, the youth noticed only a hot, sticky feeling. He grumbled as he headed away from the inn, pushing a crude wheelbarrow filled with soiled hay.

Although the other staff members of the Brass Dragon had been confined to their underground quarters for the next hour, at least they were inside, he thought. 

Several hundred yards from the inn, the lad dumped his load and began to head back.

One thing he had noticed was the absence of any tents or _shelterdomes_ from the vicinity of the property. For the first time in weeks, none of the Sir Dorbin party were present, the last of them having departed last night. From the scuttlebutt he had heard from the other servants though, the stable boy knew that they were due to return at some point. Although all of the Brass Dragon's true owners were once again in residence, the rumors were that it was not going to be for long.

The youth shrugged as he headed back towards the stables. He had no particular preference between the two groups, as they both treated him very well. As long as Caroline Bigfellow was here, he was happy. A few days past his eleventh birthday himself, the stable boy considered Argo's young wife to be the best-looking thing to look at for thirty miles around in any direction.

Of course, now that her husband had returned, the boy had hardly seen Caroline. The Bigfellows were spending nearly all of their time together in their cabin, although he knew that all of the owners were currently inside the inn for what he presumed was some kind of secret conference. Apparently, it was so important that they had made it impossible for any of the help to even pass through the common room for the next hour.

The youth sighed and wiped his forehead with a dingy rag as he headed back into the stables.

Something told him it was going to be an uncomfortable day.

Inside, the Brass Dragon was quiet.

The center of the common room had been cleared of tables and chairs. Six thick blankets had been folded up and placed equidistantly in a semicircle around the center of the empty space. One additional blanket lay in the dead center. 

Caroline Bigfellow frowned, remembering six people standing around a funeral pyre.

She glanced around the room. It wasn't that she expected to see anything that hadn't been there since her last look thirty seconds prior; she just felt nervous.

Actually, she felt terrified.

Caroline squeezed her husband's left hand that she was holding in her right, and once again received a reassuring squeeze in return.

The Bigfellows, Elrohir, Talass, Cygnus and Zantac were standing in a line just to the right of the blanket circle, stiffly facing the staircase that led upstairs.

All six of them were wearing thin, gray cotton robes that Tojo had purchased in Chendl. A type of nightrobe that fastened with a belt, they were the closest things the samurai had been able to find to the _yukata_ robes that were traditional for this type of ceremony. Many of them were a very loose fit, their friend having made guesses as to their size.

And when in doubt he had guessed large.

A single lit candle sat on each of the remaining tables in the common room. Next to each was a small wrapped bundle of dried herbs, placed on a metal plate. Each bundle was burning very slowly, sending a thin stream of fragrant smoke rising into the air, where it merged into a slowly growing fog hugging the ceiling. One table also held a teapot and eight mugs. 

Aslan's head appeared at the top of the staircase as he leaned down to address his companions below.

"He'll be ready soon," the paladin announced. "Only a few minutes now."

And he was gone again to attend to Tojo.

There were no prohibitions against any of the six speaking to each at this time, but no one could bring themselves to break the thick silence. Instead, they all turned inward, desperately throwing their attention anywhere but the here and now...

Elrohir scanned the walls of the inn furiously, as if trying to see any cracks that might have escaped the notice of Monsrek's _stone shape_ spells. It was ironic, he mused, that the same prayer that had saved his life had also saved the "life" of his home. He again offered silent thanks to the All-Father for the presence of the priest of Trithereon at the inn in the early morning hours of the 4th day of Flocktime.

Of course, he knew that was something of an exaggeration. Caroline had told them all (repeatedly) the story; how she had awoken to find the walls of the Bigfellow cabin swaying, and her bed shaking as the earth rumbled beneath her. It had lasted perhaps a minute, and then she had gone outside. The inn was still standing, as was Aslan's cabin, although all three buildings had sustained some minor structural damage. About half of the Sir Dorbin party, including Monsrek, was camped outside. They had let Caroline spend the night under one of their _shelterdomes_. The young woman had barely slept, curled in a near-fetal position, clutching onto Grock tightly while listening to the murmuring of Sitdale and Wescene.

In the morning, Monsrek had started casting the _stone shape_ prayers to repair the damage that had been done and that, supposedly, was that.

But it wasn't that simple. Aslan's relayed remarks between Blackthorn and Markessa about the "Earth Dragon" had the party leader distracted ever since he had heard them. As he was all too willing to remind Aslan, both of them had heard that name before.

_The samurai indicated the land around them. "Negacha Province, in Nippon. Powerfur earthquake, many years ago. Rand rook much rike this," he indicated, then eyed his party leader. "Dao Rung. Evir spirit." _

Dao Rung. The Earth Dragon.

Elrohir's mind raced. Could they really be one and the same? The same entity inhabiting both Aarde and Oerth? And what was it exactly? "Evir spirit" was rather vague, at least to someone like Elrohir. Was it actually some kind of dragon? A fiend?

A god?

Elrohir tried to calm himself. _Stop getting yourself all worked up_, the ranger told himself. _Just ask Tojo about it later._

And then he remembered what he had been trying to forget. Once again, he had been a fool.

_Tojo may have no "later,"_ he realized...

Cygnus saw nothing in front of him. He heard nothing around him.

The magic-user was completely absorbed in thinking about his own death.

Which apparently, had already happened.

"They were here, Cygnus," Caroline had blurted out, as they had been having dinner two nights ago. It had been Cygnus' first day back home, and from the reactions of Argo, Elrohir and Talass, she had not told anybody else yet. Zantac and Tojo were still back at Chendl, and Aslan was sleeping in his cabin, having retired early.

Bigfellow had immediately looked down at her lap, as if ashamed of what she had said.

The tall mage looked at her curiously, his mug of ale suspended halfway to his lips. "Who?"

Caroline glanced over to her husband, whose face remained impassive, but took her hand in his for support. She took a deep breath before replying, still avoiding the wizard's curious gaze.

"Saxmund, Aelfbi, and Garoidil." 

Four surprised faces looked at Caroline, then at each other, and finally at the other three figures sitting at the table with them.

Sitdale nodded. "It's true," the half-elf confirmed. "It was the 17th day of Planting- perhaps the 18th, I forget. They showed up, took some drinks, some traveling food, and then they were gone."

He finished, but Cygnus knew there was more. "Kingus wasn't with them?" the mage asked. 

Caroline shook her head softly. Her hazel eyes were large with sadness as she finally looked back up at the wizard.

"No." 

"Saxmund said they had planned to visit the Valorous Temple to find out about getting back to Rolex," Wescene said after a brief pause. The elf glanced over to Caroline, seeking some kind of unspoken permission to continue. The young woman nodded her head almost imperceptibly and looked down again, apparently too nervous to hold Cygnus' gaze.

"Kingus had gone on ahead to the temple while the others remained behind," the elf continued, swallowing hard. "He never came back, and when the others went there to ask about Kingus, Jinella told them he had never arrived. They decided to pool their resources and request a _divination_ from the church to discover his whereabouts." 

Wescene took a long drink of her goblet of wine. She swirled the remnants in her cup, staring at them, apparently reluctant to go on.

Cygnus was suddenly sorry Caroline had broached this entire topic. "And what did the _divination_ reveal?" he asked tight-lipped, annoyed that he had to push the conversation along like this.

At that point, Flond, having sat in his usual morose stupor all night, suddenly decided to give voice to his first utterance of the evening.

"Nothing. It failed." 

Elrohir, Argo and Talass stiffened, involuntarily drawing in sharp breaths.

Cygnus' eyes went wide. His mug of ale dropped from his hand, spilling on the table. The magic-user's hands gripped the edge of the round table, trying to stop the violent trembling of his body.

Talass, sitting to the wizard's left, grabbed his arm. "Cygnus? What's wrong?"

But Cygnus wasn't seeing her. He was adrift in a dark blue sea, watching as an indistinct figure, bound hand and foot, slowly sank further and further beneath him.

And from below, another dark shape began to grow larger. Cygnus could see two glowing red eyes...

_"Cygnus!" _

The mage blinked. He was back, but he was still shaking. And now he was cold.

Too cold.

"Cygnus, are you all right?" It was Talass who was closest to him, the priestess placing her hand on the wizard's forehead and frowning at the cold clamminess she encountered. Her eyes roamed over Cygnus' face, trying to get the magic-user to focus in on her.

The others watched. Wescene called out over her shoulder, "Jack! A hot tea, please- mint?"

The bartender nodded and set to work. Elrohir got up, went over to the wall, and grabbed his brand-new elven traveling cloak off its wall peg. The ranger brought it back to the table and set it over the shoulders of his still-shivering friend. It was several minutes before Cygnus could speak again.

"The Emerald Serpent," he whispered.

Caroline nodded sadly. "Nodyath," she said in an equally soft voice.

"Both, most likely," Argo added, eyeing his wife soberly. "I think Nodyath has corrected his earlier mistake."

"Kingus didn't have someone looking out for him like Tad did," Cygnus said, sorrow shutting his eyes against his will. "He's dead. Somehow, I know he's dead."

When he opened his eyes, it was to see his party leader staring directly into them.

They connected. Elrohir only had to nod. He understood.

Cygnus' tea arrived. The magic-user took the mug in his hands, slurped greedily, and then cursed as he burnt his tongue. Blowing on the liquid, he resumed sipping, more cautiously now.

"There's more," Sitdale added, his voice grim. The others looked at him. 

Talass sighed. "Let's hear it."

"They weren't acting right," Wescene said. "Saxmund and the others. They just weren't acting... right."

Argo frowned. "What do you mean?"

His wife, rejoining the conversation, answered for him.

"They just seemed... oh, I don't know- nervous, subdued, anxious."

Elrohir couldn't quite see where this was leading. "They'd just lost their party leader and probably a good friend to boot, Caroline," he interjected, frowning. "How would you expect them to act?" 

Caroline shook her head. "No. It's not that. They wanted to know where you and the others had gone, and when we told them, they just looked at each other. Monsrek was here at the time, and he offered to contact Sir Dorbin, who was in Willip at the time, via _sending_, but they shied away like he'd thrown a scorpion at them."

Talass was still having a hard time with this. "Even Aelfbi? A priest of Hanali Celani?"

Wescene and Sitdale looked at each other, and then Sitdale folded his hands in front of him on the table and leaned forward, as if speaking confidentially. "I spoke with Aelfbi privately, but only for a moment. It looked to me as if he wanted to say something, but just didn't dare."

Argo glanced back over to his wife again. "You said they asked where we had gone. Did they ask a lot of questions about us? Did it seem like they were fishing for information?"

She shook her head. "Not in the least. They hardly spoke at all."

Cygnus was just starting to feel the warmth flow back into his body. Now he looked over again at Flond. "Did you _detect_ for any kind of enchantment?"

"That wasn't foremost on my mind, no," the other wizard responded coldly. "I found them no more worthy of notice than the last time I'd seen them." 

Cygnus gritted his teeth, but he just didn't feel up to an argument right now, so he returned his attention to his tea. 

Elrohir shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound obstinate, but there's nothing really solid you've given us as far as-"

"There was someone else with them, Elrohir."

He blinked at Caroline. "What?" 

"There was a fourth person, but she didn't come in. She stayed in the stables the whole time they were here."

Argo looked thoughtful. "A woman?"

His wife nodded. "Yes. We didn't know of course, until later. The stable boy told me because he thought it was kind of unusual for someone to just hand their horse over and just stand there, not going inside or anything. He said she wore a large cloak wrapped around her and a deep hood. When the others came out, they gave some of their food and a wineskin to her, and they all rode off together, to the northwest." 

Argo was silent a moment. _It had to have been someone we'd recognize_, the ranger pondered. _But who?_

The others all looked at each other, and then at their resident mage. "Are you going to be all right, Cygnus?" Talass asked quietly. 

Cygnus nodded slowly but said nothing. He wanted to give her a reassuring smile, but just couldn't.

He just wasn't feeling very reassured anymore.

Cygnus came back to the present and looked around. Most of the others were starting to tense up in anticipation of Aslan and Tojo's descent from the upstairs floor. Caroline however, was chewing her lip, clearly thinking about something else. She caught the tall wizard's eye.

"Cygnus?" Bigfellow asked.

He gave her a look that indicated permission to proceed, but quickly.

"Aslan told me that he spied on Markessa and Blackthorn in fly-form," she said, looking troubled. "Since the whole point of going down there was to get rid of Markessa, why didn't Aslan just land on her shoulder and, " Caroline snapped her fingers, "you know?"

"He said he tried, Caroline, but Markessa had some kind of an invisible magical barrier up," Cygnus explained. "He couldn't get closer than ten feet or so, and when he first hit the barrier, he saw Markessa's eyes flicker over to him. He said it was sheer luck that she didn't realize what was going on."

"Oh," said Caroline, and dropped the subject. She glanced up at her husband, only to see him smiling down at her. She wondered why for a moment, before she remembered how loose her _yukata_ robe was on her. It was hunched up over her shoulders, and her feet were lost in its folds, but she kept having to adjust the belt, as the robe tended to... billow out in the front. She realized that Argo probably had a pretty nice view.

"You look like a hobbit in that thing," her husband whispered with a mischievous smile.

"Don't get all sly on me now," she replied, waving a finger at him while simultaneously readjusting the robe. "I've heard stories about you grabbing everything in sight down there," she smirked, the gravity of the moment temporarily lost.

"Oh, I've heard a few stories, too!" Argo replied with a mock haughtiness. 

Caroline raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Tell me about Baron Chauv. I always knew you were a sucker for a handsome noble, but..."

Argo was of course, completely distorting the matter, but he knew he was and more importantly, Caroline knew it as well.

It had been the evening following the quake when the first peasants started to arrive from the north. Most passed by the Brass Dragon, turning onto the road and headed off southeast, towards Willip. Those few who could afford it stopped by, and shared information over drinks.

Apparently, the earthquake had been much stronger further north. The castle of Baron Chauv, located about sixty miles due north of the Brass Dragon, had sustained such severe damage that it was considered unsafe to remain in until repairs could be affected. Most of the surrounding village, consisting mainly of thatch huts, had not unexpectedly been flattened. Chauv, a member of the Knightly Conclave, had been sending people on ahead to Willip for needed supplies. Others, unwilling to remain in the area, were fleeing until they considered the situation safe to return.

It was on the evening of the 7th day of Flocktime when they had arrived themselves. The Baron and Lady Chauv, retainers in tow.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that Caroline, along with her husband, had more of a general disdain for nobility than most. Also, the baron had been on the road for several days, traveling in much less comfort than he was used to. And certainly Lord Chauv, suddenly homeless and facing massive rebuilding debts, could not be faulted for not showing his best side.

That being said, the man was a jerk.

He had waltzed into the inn, snapping out orders left and right. Since the Brass Dragon was not located within the boundaries of the Barony of Chauv, he was obligated to pay for services rendered, but when this was delicately brought to his attention, he had merely made several haughty remarks about the word of a noble being more than any _freeman_ would need. Under further pressing, he had literally thrown an (insufficient) number of coins onto the bar. His mood did not lighten when told that the Brass Dragon no longer sported private rooms for rent.

"Then it's not _really_ an inn now, is it?" he had seethed at Sir Dorbin, who had merely smiled at the noble. 

Lady Chauv, a slender woman of perhaps thirty-five, ten years or so her husband's junior, stood silently and subserviently behind her lord at all times, her hands clasped behind her back. Her curious face took in every detail around her. Caroline had hardly taken notice of her, staring with clenched fists instead at her ranting husband, when the noblewoman suddenly caught her eye, rolled her own eyes at her husband's back and winked at her.

It had probably been that gesture which prompted Caroline to offer her cabin to the Chauvs for the night. That hadn't lowered the temperature on the baron's constant simmer all that much (Oddly, he showed more affection to Grock than to any human Caroline saw him interact with, his wife included). Still, everyone eventually got settled in for the night, Caroline once again enjoying the cramped environs of a _shelterdome_.

The following day, Sir Dorbin and Fee Hal had accompanied the baron to Willip, offering their services for reasons Caroline hadn't heard and couldn't fathom. Sir Menn and Monsrek were already in the city, looking after the still-_feebleminded_ Unru until the needed funds could be raised to heal him.

And that had been about it for the handsome and dashing Baron Chauv...

"That's right, my love," Caroline purred, sliding her fingers inside the hem of her husband's robe. "Stupid _and_ pompous- a combination that wins my heart every time."

Argo looked thoughtfully down at his wife. Although he was still smiling, she thought his expression looked a little sad.

"That explains so much," he whispered.

The scrape of an armored foot on the staircase above snapped Caroline Bigfellow back to what was going on.

And the terror returned to her heart.

Fully armored up in his suit of gleaming plate mail and carrying his sword at his side, Aslan slowly descended the stairs. The paladin stared straight ahead, his expression as solemn as his friends had ever seen it.

_I hope he doesn't know anything we don't_, thought Caroline.

Right behind him was Tojo. The samurai was also clad in a gray _yukata_, and he carried his two swords with him. Tojo's face was the usual blank mask that they had once all thought so foolishly meant the young man had no feelings at all.

The two reached the bottom and stopped at the left end of the circle of blankets. They faced the others and silently bowed.

As one, their six friends returned the bow.

Tojo moved to the center of the circle and sat down in lotus fashion upon the blanket. Aslan stood about eight feet off, facing the samurai. Elrohir, Talass, Cygnus, Zantac and Argo Bigfellow sat down on the blankets arranged in the semicircle, the latter after giving one last squeeze of the hand and an encouraging look to his wife.

Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, Caroline Bigfellow began to slowly walk towards the table with the teapot and mugs.

_Why me?_ She thought. _I barely know the language. He could have taught anyone what they needed to say in the time we had! I'm going to mess it up, and I can't- there's no room for any mistakes!_

Shaking despite her best efforts, Caroline poured the eight mugs of tea and began to hand them out one at a time.

Despite everything, she had to repress a chuckle when she got to Zantac. The Willip wizard, not quite as flexible as his companions, was having great difficulty in trying to fold his legs under him in the proper fashion. Eventually, when it seemed he was either about to start cursing or start casting, Elrohir leaned over, tapped him on the shoulder and indicated with a gesture that he needn't keep trying. Looking frustrated with himself, Zantac sat down on his knees.

_I don't even want to know what spell he might have been thinking of_, Cygnus thought, watching this scene and shaking his head.

Caroline was trembling so bad she thought Tojo's tea was going to slosh right over the edge of his mug, but he took it without comment or expression. He did not look at her.

Caroline stood about eight feet from Tojo as well, facing Tojo so that she, him and Aslan formed a roughly equal triangle.

Tojo slowly began to drink from his cup. The others, taking their cue, did likewise.

_Yanigasawa Tojo_, Caroline repeated endlessly to herself as she drank. _Please tell us your story, please tell us your story, please tell us…_

Tojo finished his tea and placed the mug down on the floor beside him. The others did likewise, whether they had finished or not.

Caroline again bowed low to the seated samurai.

_Please tell us your story._

She straightened up again.

Tojo was now staring directly at her. He seemed to be having no problem making eye contact at all now.

Caroline took a mighty breath.

_"Yanigasawa Tojo-san, hashi o onegai dozo shimasu."_

Both of Tojo's eyebrows shot skywards.

Caroline's hands flew to her mouth as her eyes went wide. _Oh my god! I said it wrong! He's going to kill himself right here and now and it's going to be all my-_

But now Tojo had inclined his head at her. His face seemed… puzzled.

Caroline managed to lower her hands, but she couldn't have been more frightened.

"Carrorine-san," Tojo said, slowly and carefully. "You just ask me… for pair of chopsticks."

Bigfellow squeezed her eyes closed in frustration. "_Hanushi! Hanushi!_ That's it! I'm sorry, Tojo, I'm so sorry-"

But the samurai had now held up a hand. "Do not worry, Carrorine-san. You have… very thick accent. It hard to understand you."

Now just one eyebrow arced up.

"It very annoying."

All intelligent thought sucked out of her, Caroline gaped dumbly at the samurai for a moment. Then she turned at looked at the others. Likewise unsure of what was going on, they looked back at her for answers.

She looked back again at Tojo. She could see no sign of anger whatsoever on his face, but was that- just a hint of a smile?

_Is he making a joke?_ Caroline thought. _NOW?_

But Tojo was now speaking again, as if none of this meant anything. If he had been smiling, it was gone.

"Proceed, prease."

What could she do?

_"Yanigasawa Tojo-san, hanushi watakshitachi dozo oshieru."_

After a pause entirely too short to keep Caroline from confirming that she was indeed about to have heart failure, Tojo nodded.

It was all Caroline could do not to scuttle as she walked over to her assigned blanket and sat down upon it.

The samurai slowly turned his head, his violet eyes meeting those of his friends one at a time, without hesitation as he spoke.

"I wish to say at beginning, that I am aware of your nober intentions. You… you are all good _tomodachi_- good friends. You wish to know source of my dishonor, so that you may herp me creanse stain from my so."

No one said anything. They knew the time for their talking was over. This was Tojo's time.

"I know awe this, and I am indeed greatfur," Tojo continued, "but know that, as you wish to do this for me, it must be done on _my_ terms- on Nipponese terms, as is our way. "This- difficurt for you, but you must be prepared to accept whatever may come of it."

Tojo hesitated, trying to translate in his head the concept he was trying to say. His face grew grimmer as he went on.

"As I have said before, if I share my dishonor with you, then I have dishonored you in turn. I know you do not view things this way, but that does not matter now. You must understand, that- this will bring further shame upon me."

They all stared at him. No one dared move their eyes as, like a lighthouse, those violet orbs swept by them again.

"I have decided. I shar terr you my story, and then you… as Asran-san say, wirr try to think of way for me to regain my honor. If you can offer me no sorution-"

And it was very plain to see now on Tojo's face that he did not think this likely.

"Then I shar end my rife, with honor… and dignity." The samurai finished with an upwards glance at Aslan, who still stood nearby. "With _seppuku_."

The paladin's gauntlet tightened its grip on the handle of his sword.

Small throaty noises drew Caroline's attention. Although she was sure she would be the first one to crack under the pressure and do something disgraceful, she could see both Talass and Cygnus staring at their friend with horror, as if they had thought he would not actually go through with it. Tears glistened in both their eyes as they struggled to maintain their composures, and just barely did so.

Tojo nodded. "You think this harsh," the samurai went on. "And it is so. The way of the warrior- _bushido_- is not an easy path, but I have trained in its ways my ho rife. It terrs me how I shood riv- and how I shood die."

He looked at his companions with, if possible, an even greater intensity. "The most honoraber death a samurai can achieve is to die in the service of his rord."

"Even if he's been dead for six hundred years, back on a world you'll never see again?"

Seven heads shot around to stare.

"I'm sorry," Caroline said.

And she was. She hadn't intended to speak. She didn't know she was going to say that- it had just come rumbling out of her. She tried to understand, she really did, but she could feel the tears threatening at the thought of Tojo-

Tojo nodded slowly. Some of the grimness left his face, but not all.

"Yes, Carrorine-san," he said, not unkindly. "Even so. My homerand one of tradition. My duty go beyond time, beyond distance." He hesitated a moment, and then the full measure of sternness came back to his face as he held up an admonishing finger.

"I am no _ronin!_ Despite my dishonor, I am royar servant of my daimyo. He know this, even as he punish me for my fayure. I accept- what happen to me for my sin."

Tojo paused, locked eyes with Aslan for a moment, and then resumed.

"I will now terr you my story. You must not speak untirr I am done. Then, I wirr answer any questions you have as best I can. I hope that you may see further than I can, and discover sorution which erudes me. But if you cannot-"

The samurai's gaze slowly wandered up to the ceiling, but it was plain to all present that he was looking past it, to the outside… to the sky.

"Then as sun dies today, so must I."

Caroline Bigfellow stared at the roof, blinking back tears. Without looking, she knew the others were doing the same. She could almost see their prayers as they soared effortlessly through the stone, up into the sky, to Olympus and to Asgard.

It suddenly occurred to Caroline that she had no idea whether Tojo worshipped any gods or not, or even if there were Nipponese gods.

She had a feeling there were. And she hoped they were listening.

Yanigasawa Tojo took one more deep breath and began to talk about the one subject he had never spoken of before.

Himself.


	96. A Samurai's Story

**12th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy **

"It was five years ago," Tojo began, "in 12th year of twenty-fourth Cyker." He hesitated for a moment, and then shrugged. "I do not know _gaijin_ carenders of Aarde." 

"It was..."

The samurai took a moment to compose himself.

"It was most important time of my entire rife. Just few days errior, I have my _genpuku_ ceremony."

Tojo frowned as he looked at the puzzled faces around him. He sighed slightly, it having occurred to him now that he was going to have to do some explaining even before his tale was finished.

"Chidren of the _buke_- the nober crass- are sent to schoor for training. This take many years. I attend _Yama no Tsyoi_, schoor where chidren of many crans rearn ways of samurai. When I reave Yama no Tsyoi, I am ready to serve my rord. This is genpuku. I am invested as samurai. On this day... I become man."

His audience seemed to following along so far. Tojo glanced down, and each hand encircled the hilt of one of his swords.

"My katana and wakazashi- these are my _daisho_; weapons of my ancestors. I receive them at ceremony." The samurai's face grew somber again. "My grandfather wierd these swords, just as his ancestors do, many years before him." 

Elrohir looked keenly at the swords in question. Although they were both currently sheathed, he had seen them up close many times before. He knew they were in remarkably good shape for weapons that were probably at least a century old. They must have received exceptional care all those years, he thought.

When Elrohir looked up again at Tojo's face, he saw an expression there he had rarely seen. It took a moment for him to identify it as pride. 

"Yanigasawa famiry is most powerfur in awe of Negacha province. Many retainer famiries predge their service to us. We are strong supporters of shogunate. A genpuku of the Yanigasawa is cause for great cerebration."

The shadow of a happy memory crossed the samurai's face. His voice became so soft, his listeners had to strain forward to hear it.

"My parents, my _sensei_, my ferrow students. They awe there when I become samurai. They awe proud when at rong rast, I receive my name." 

His companions' sudden expressions of confusion were not to be long-lived. Tojo had assumed they would not understand, although Elrohir, who had been raised by elves, was actually familiar with similar customs.

"My name, my adurt name, was given to me at ceremony," Tojo explained, his voice resuming its former volume. "Buke chidren have chird name untir then."

There was a silence. Tojo glanced around and saw exactly what he had expected (but not wanted) to see. Every face, even Aslan's, held an expectant expression.

Previously, the only time any of the party had ever seen Tojo grit his teeth was when the samurai was battling agonizing pain. Now he was doing it out of sheer embarrassment.

"I... rambunctious chird. I have no sibrings, so I often go far out into wirderness to pray and exprore on my own. I... get rost often. Parents must come find me. They... not awrays preased with me."

The image of Tojo as a young boy, stumbling around in the woods, wide-eyed and lost, was so at odds with the unflappable, eagle-eyed samurai they all knew was so amusing that Talass had to seriously battle to suppress a chuckle. 

Tojo glanced over at the cleric's odd grimace, but did not comment.

"Even at schoor, I... not arways do right thing. I not arways... behave as I should."

And his eyes flashed straight to Caroline.

The young woman lowered her eyes, flushed with a private thrill that the samurai had chosen to confide in her, months ago.

"My chird name... _Tabibito_," Tojo finally ground out, and then looked around and sighed. "It mean _Wanderer_."

Argo Bigfellow's smile was still in the birthing process when Tojo's eyes narrowed and he pointed an admonishing finger at the big ranger.

"Do not address me by that name! To caw a buke adurt by their chird name is to deny their royarty to their famiry. I know you wood do so as joke onry, but is insurt to Nipponese. And to samurai, most grave one." 

Argo was no longer smiling as he locked eyes with Tojo. That image of Tojo's katana slicing through the air at his neck was still all-too recent.

After a moment, Tojo continued. "Onry thing I not receive at genpuku is my _oroyoi_- my samurai armor." He shrugged. "That not unusuer. There few craftsmen in Negacha with such skirr as to make oroyoi, and they very busy at awe times. One who make my armor is Rosuko Arihito- greatest of great famiry of armor craftsmen. Rosuko serve Yanigasawa for over two hundred years. To have oroyoi made by Arihito himserf is great honor. He say my armor be ready in just few days, so after cerebration, I traver with my parents to Rosuko home, where my armor wirr await me." 

His voice dropped again.

"It rain hard- roads are bad. We traver srowry. Arihito not riv in city; he riv far out in country. We arrive rate in evening, but Arihito-sama wercome us. He very courteous. He feed us and put us up for night. In morning, he say he wirr present me with oroyoi."

Tojo paused for almost a minute before continuing.

_This is it_, Caroline thought.

"I... never sreep in room arone before. At home, sreep with parents. At schoor, sreep with crassmates. I ray awake. I too nervous to sreep- risten as rain beat against _fusama_. Risten to wind moan through trees. Risten to-" 

Tojo did not finish that thought, but abruptly looked back at them all with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"Ristening to rain- it make me have to use privy."

They all gave the samurai an equivalent return smile. He did not seem to mind. 

"Afterwards, I too restress to return to my room. I wander around empty harrs of Rosuko home."

The irony of Tojo's choice of words was not lost on the samurai. Again, a small smile on his face appeared before vanishing again.

"House bigger than I first think. I find harrway I not see before. It have oroyoi mounted on dispray figures, all arranged in row arong warr. In center of warr was _shoji_- sriding door. I remember regend then. Regend of Rosuko Mitsune, ancestor to Arihito-sama. The oroyoi he made- and who he made it for."

And now Yanigasawa Tojo, fully back in the present, shot a sudden, blazing look at Aslan, Zantac, Elrohir, Talass, Cygnus, Argo Bigfellow and Caroline Bigfellow in turn.

"You must risten carefery," the samurai hissed. "If you are to have even the srightest hope, _you must risten, and you must understand_."

Very slowly, Elrohir nodded. The others followed suit.

Tojo stared at them for perhaps another thirty seconds, and then continued.

"Two hundred years ago, Rosuko Mitsune was commissioned to make new suit of oroyoi for samurai. This samurai- he had been great reader in Hojo army. Hojo is famiry of _shogun_- generar of awe Nippon. This samurai now aged- he had been in service to Hojo many years. In Nippon, is common for samurai to retire with permission of their daimyo. They retire to temper, or monastary. This particurar samurai do so- he become _budoka_- monk."

The others were all listening raptly.

"For some years, Hojo famiry engaged in fierce strugger with Ikeda famiry." The samurai shook his head. "Reasons for this rong and compricated. This you not need to know. But minor raids and ambushes awready give way to severar great batters. Ikeda famiry wish to expand their territory. More Hojo troops come from Kodo- capiter of Nippon, but it very rong journey. Negacha province easy to defend if captured, especiarry before first snows of winter come."

Despite himself, a scowl came over Tojo's face.

"Ikeda famiry- they arry themserves with Goboro. Goboro evir wu jen. He very powerfer- use dark magic to aid Ikeda cran. Hojo roose severar batters due to this."

Tojo was still sitting, but now the samurai seemed to rise straighter and taller. His scowl was replaced by another look of pride.

"Daimyo of Hojo famiry in Negacha traver to monastery. He ask budoka to come out of retirement, and herp reed his troops against the Ikeda. Greatest batter yet was to be in a few days, on the Haka Prain. Both sides wish to contro this rand. It very rare for daimyo to make trip rike this. It indication of respect he have for his former samurai. This budoka- he not even born Hojo- he marry into cran, but his skirr was known to awe. Monk's daisho now wierded by his chidren, but daimyo say if he wirr come out of retirement, he will commission new swords, and new armor for him. Eventuary, he agree. This man's name was Tsugo. Yanigasawa Tsugo."

Out of the corner of her eyes, Caroline saw her husband rest his chin on top of his interlaced fingers. The big ranger's eyes narrowed as he stared at Tojo.

"I open shoji and enter room," their friend went on. "There it was- awe arone in midder of room, mounted on dispray figure. Oroyoi of Yanigasawa Tsugo. Armor crafted by Rosuko Mitsune. The armor Tsugo-sama wear at Batter of Haka."

Tojo's voice dropped to a near-whisper again.

"It beautifur. It corored the green of pine reaves. The _sode_- shorderpads- stirr bear insignia of Hojo cran. Brack cirker on green fierd. _Kuboto_- face mask, that of fierce oni. Every prate, every piece of reather racing, every strip of metar..."

The samurai's voice teetered on the edge of breaking, despite his whispering.

"Tsugo-sama's courage. His wisdom. His strength. It awe there... it awe there! _It reside in his armor!"_

The others looked puzzled again, but Tojo's next comments did not directly address their unspoken question. The samurai once again seemed not be totally aware of their presence.

"Yanigasawa Tsugo-sama not onry founder of our famiry- he one of Nippon's greatest heroes. His actions save Hojo at Batter of Haka. His daisho now at mansion of Yanigasawa daimyo, but his oroyoi- it right here, in front of me! Regend say, that after Tsugo retire second and rast time, he say that descendant of his worthy enough to don his oroyoi wirr gain power of their ancestor. He wirr read Yanigasawa cran in hour of greatest need- and to Yanigasawa's greatest triumph."

Tojo's head hung down.

"Oroyoi... was sacred," he choked out. "Onry Arihito-sama or a shaman may touch it. Onry Yanigasawa daimyo may decide who is great enough hero to don this armor. In awe my years, I know of many great samurai of Yanigasawa cran, but never has daimyo consented to have anyone try on oroyoi. And no one ever ask. No matter how brave, or nober, or royar, no one in my famiry think themserves worthy to try."

_Oh, Tojo_, Caroline thought.

Like all of her friends, she could see it coming now. 

"I... not think to put it on... I... just want to touch it... I want to feer presence of my honored ancestor... His power, his grace..."

No one would dare admit they could hear the tears in Tojo's voice.

"I... scared about being samurai. I frightened that I not riv up to everyone's expectations. I want... Tsugo's great and wise presence to be with me. I onry want... to be comforted."

The samurai said nothing. His head remained lowered, but slowly, his right arm reached out. A re-enactment.

There was silence for a moment.

Suddenly, Tojo's head shot up again. His face was ablaze with something that was neither excitement, nor terror, nor enlightenment, but a terrible combination of all three. Everyone else in the room recoiled.

_"I was there!"_ the samurai screamed. _"I was with Tsugo! I WAS Tsugo! I was there!"_

And on a magnificent autumn day, without a cloud in the sky, thunder rolled across the Haka plain…


	97. The Battle of Haka

**6th Day of Ki-rin, 50th Year of the 20th Heavenly Cycle  
The Haka Plain, Negacha Province, Nippon**

The Hojo army, three thousand strong, its component forces already split into its predetermined groups, covered the light green grass with a sea of dark green banners.

The cavalry covered the sounds of nature with the hoofbeats of eight hundred charging steeds.

And thousands of _ashigaru_- footsoldiers- covered what might have been missed with their battle cries as they rushed into battle with a waiting Ikeda army of equal size. An equal sea of yellow banners that awaited them.

The battle ebbed and flowed. Anyone who might have watched it from the hills surrounding the Haka valley might have thought a green and yellow ooze a half-mile wide was throbbing across the plain.

The ashigaru on both sides attempted to keep their long _naginatas_ set against the charge of the horsemen. The horsemen meanwhile, attempted to flank the footsoldiers and reach the archers behind them, who had brought a deadly horizontal rain to the valley today. The bowmen concentrated their fire on the slower-moving ashigaru while moving as necessary to avoid the cavalry. Wedges, squares and lines formed and dissolved on the orders of screaming officers.

And everywhere that green and yellow clashed, they made red.

Yanigasawa Tsugo looked around in frustration.

The battle was not going well.

That in itself was bad news, but what most upset the samurai was that there was no logical reason for it. The Hojo had not been outmaneuvered, or outflanked, or outnumbered. They were simply being outfought.

That spelled worse than defeat. It spelled dishonor.

The former budoka frowned. His violet eyes glanced to the northeast, towards one of the only two entrances to the valley. The fighting seemed thickest there, but that was not unexpected. Although he couldn't see either of them, Tsugo knew that both his daimyo and the Ikeda daimyo were in the midst of that carnage, slowly and brutally making their way towards each other, while the respective minions of their enemy hurled their lives away in an attempt to prevent just that.

An occasional gout of flame or large boulder hurled itself through the air at the enemy lines. Both sides employed minor wu jen or shamans, but there was still no sign of the accursed Goboro the Lame. That was not very surprising. The wu jen had an infamous aversion to melee combat, and was probably invisible or shapechanged somewhere about. All Tsugo could do was to keep Goboro in mind without obsessing about him. The Hojo officer had his own priorities right now, first among them finding his Ikeda counterpart.

He soon spotted him in a swirl of yellow about thirty yards away to the southeast.

The Ikeda was no samurai- that was clear. Instead of a katana, the man wielded a _latajang_- a polearm capped at both ends by a semicircle of sharpened steel, both horns pointing outward. Now that Tsugo had spotted him, he wondered why he hadn't earlier. The man was fairly large- about halfway to seven feet at a guess, and clad in brilliant yellow splint mail. He was already heading in Tsugo's direction, his thoughts no doubt the same as Yanigasawa's.

Kill the enemy daimyo's second-in-command.

Tsugo yelled encouragement at the men around him, and then charged forward towards his foe. Inspired at least temporarily by him, his men did their job- attacking the enemy officer's retainers and trying to clear a path for Tsugo to reach his foe. Unfortunately, the Ikeda _bushi_ had more retainers than Tsugo did. An Ikeda samurai leapt into Tsugo's path and attacked for all he was worth.

Yanigasawa Tsugo had not reached his old age by underestimating opponents in battle. Nor could he fail to be aware of the advantages that the suppleness of youth granted this particular one. Nevertheless, Tsugo's combat experience was a gift that could only be earned- not granted.

Tsugo's katana never ceased moving as the samurai's shoulders rolled up and down. He maneuvered his sword in a two-handed grip through a never-ending cycle of slashes, thrusts, feints and parries. At times, the pattern seemed instinctive to the aged samurai. It had served him well his entire fighting career, and he had taught it to his children, with instructions that they were to pass it on to their children in turn. 

The younger Ikeda, it had to be said, fought well. He even managed to land one strike past Tsugo's parries- but the sharp edge of his katana was turned aside by the green lacquered plate that it struck.

_Your armor is strong._

Tsugo moved in close. His opponent readied a parry, but the elder samurai hooked his katana upwards and behind the Ikeda's weapon, and then pulled straight back against it, pulling the younger warrior towards him, and off-balance.

It was all over in the next moment.

Yanigasawa Tsugo looked up suddenly from the body of the enemy samurai, the screams of horror erupting from all around him directing his eyes instantly to where they needed to be.

The Ikeda bushi was growing. He was growing to half again his height.

His skin was turning a lustrous black, and a wild mane of long black hair was sprouting suddenly all over his head. A wispy length of beard appeared.

His legs were bending backwards at the knees. His pupils were turning into vertical slits, the irises turning from brown to red. His teeth were sharpening, the incisors especially growing as long as Tsugo's fingers.

"Wang-liang," Tsugo whispered. While he did not cry out, the Hojo warrior was not immune to the fear trying to paralyze his body. He shook it off a second later, but the spirit giant was already in motion, hurling what looked like a ceramic wide-mouthed pot far over the heads of enemy and ally alike.

The pot landed a good hundred feet behind Yanigasawa Tsugo, squarely in the midst of the Hojo lines. Although Tsugo had watched the missile's flight path, he averted his eyes just before impact, assuming that it might be a flash bomb of some type.

It was worse. Much worse.

There was a flash (although not a blinding one), and suddenly there was a colossal version of the ceramic pot, almost twelve feet in height and eight feet across at the top, spinning like a top on the grass. It was glowing a dim red, as if it had just come out of some gigantic kiln.

The Hojo forces that were nearest stepped cautiously away from the gigantic vessel, weapons at the ready.

The pot's rotation slowed, then stopped. Flames shot out the top from within.

Tsugo couldn't help but notice that there was something _wrong_ about the fire. Although the flames shifted and flickered just as in any fire, two high spikes, like twin mountain peaks, remained more-or-less constant. And at the very tips of each of those peaks were blue flames, like icepacks on their summits.

They looked like eyes.

Suddenly, a tentacle of fire shot out from the flames, snaked down and grabbed the closest person, a Hojo archer. The warrior was lifted him high into the air and then downwards. The man began to scream, but the sound was cut off with a terrible suddenness as he vanished out of sight inside the pot.

There was a splashing sound, and a small amount of molten lava sloshed out of the pot. It fell to the ground, splattering, and the grass around the spots where it landed began to smolder.

The blue eyes of flame eyed the other humans around the pot hungrily. More ropes of flame emerged from the pot, but the Hojo forces were by now bolting in panic away from the giant vessel. The fire tentacles extended out to about twenty feet from the pot's base in search of prey, but that seemed to be the upper limit of their reach. They whirled around in apparent frustration, making a loud hissing and whooshing noise. They pounded into the ground, small flames and smoke erupting from where they hit, and then the fiery filaments retreated back into the pot.

Yanigasawa Tsugo pondered. This stank of Goboro's sorcery all right, but what was its purpose? If the volcano pot was unable to harm anyone further than twenty feet or so away from it, why-

The scream from behind him jolted Tsugo back into action. The samurai cursed himself aloud as he spun around. He'd spent too long staring at the pot when he _knew_ the wang-liang was nearby.

The giant had speared a Hojo bushi with his latajang, and had lifted the man into the air. The wound was not mortal- the fighter had been hooked by one of the weapon's crescent points, and was hanging more by his ashigaru armor than by his flesh. However, as Tsugo watched in horror, the wang-liang suddenly spun around several times, dizzyingly fast despite his huge size, and with a mighty roar sent the unlucky warrior flying- right towards the volcano pot.

The man landed with a sickening _thump_ about ten feet from the pot's edge. A tentacle of fire showed no hesitation about picking up the bushi's broken body and depositing him inside the vessel. The flames flickered a little higher.

Yanigasawa Tsugo let out his battle cry and charged the wang-liang.

The giant roared back, an evil grin on its black face. The latajang came into position, ready to impale the samurai before he could even close to within melee range.

Tsugo's katana swept up, batting aside the wang-liang's stabbing attack. The samurai never slowed, but continued on, feinting to the right and then tumbling right between the monster's legs, slashing all the while. Ignoring the huge spirit's roar of pain, Tsugo tumbled gracefully to his feet at the end of his tumble, pivoting around to face the giant's back.

_Your armor is light._

The wang-liang was not to be underestimated, however. Without even turning around, it kicked backward with one goat-like leg. The samurai's dodge was only partially successful, and the hoof slammed into Tsugo's side, spinning the samurai around and causing him to lose his balance. The latajang was already coming down at the Yanigasawa samurai as Tsugo was pushing off from the ground with his left hand, his katana now held only in his right.

Seeking to take advantage of Tsugo's weakened grip on his weapon, the wang-liang swept hard back-and-forth with his polearm, attempting to disarm the samurai. However, falling back on training learned as much in the budoka shrine as in Yama no Tsyoi, the Hojo officer bent with his opponent's attack, his wrist bending more than his opponent would have thought possible, until the latajang slid off the katana and passed harmlessly over Tsugo's head. The samurai was back in a combat-ready stance instantly, but the wang-liang was on him again, using fierce but measured attacks, attempting to find a spot on the samurai's armor to latch his weapon onto.

The spirit giant was powerful, but not reckless. It would take cunning to defeat him. Yanigasawa Tsugo fought defensively while looking for the most vulnerable spot on the wang-liang's body for his next fusillade of blows. Perhaps if he could enlarge on the wounds he had already made on the giant's legs-

Tsugo's eyes widened. The thin gashes his sword had made in the yellow splint mail's leg guards were still there, but there was no sign of any wounds.

The samurai gritted his teeth. When the wang-liang thrust the latajang at him again, Tsugo grabbed the shaft of the weapon with his left hand and pulled hard, just enough for his one-handed katana strike to be able to reach across the back of the giant's right hand. The spirit didn't even cry out as the blade sliced across his flesh. It was a minor wound, but for Yanigasawa Tsugo, it served his purpose. As the samurai watched the cut heal instantly, his suspicions were confirmed.

Tsugo had never fought a wang-liang before, but he had heard several tales of them. Somehow though, they had all managed to leave out the part about their healing abilities.

The samurai growled in anger. That _would_ have been nice to know.

Screams from far off drew only as much attention as Tsugo could spare. The Ikeda forces were now slowly but inexorably forcing the Hojo inwards- towards the volcano pot.

What was he going to do now?

The wang-liang, apparently sensing the samurai's hesitation, attacked swiftly with a deafening roar. Tsugo parried the spirit giant's probing attack, realizing a split-second too late that the weapon stab was merely a feint. The creature's leg shot out, the hoof connecting solidly with Tsugo's chestplate.

The samurai flew backwards through the air, and managed to land on one of the few rocks that littered the Haka plain. It was perhaps five feet square, its flat surface protruding only an inch or so above the soil, but it was just where Tsugo didn't want to land.

Lights flashed and a dull roar thundered as the samurai's helm slammed back into the stone. A cry of pain escaped Tsugo despite his best efforts, and the pain of impact temporarily rendered his muscles useless. Their hands involuntarily loosened their grip, and his katana dropped to the ground beside him.

Another roar filled Tsugo's ears, this one that of the charging wang-liang. Its hooves sank deep into the soil as it came, the latajang poised to spear its target. With his bare hands, Tsugo made a desperate attempt to shove aside the polearm as it came down, and managed to adjust its trajectory by an inch or so- just enough so that the samurai's body was pinned beneath the steel crescent instead of impaled on one of its horns.

Tsugo was trapped, but he was alive- for the moment.

The wang-liang's face split in a dreadful snarl. It began to lean forward, adjusting its grip on the latajang as it did so, keeping its opponent pinned down on the rock. The giant's left hand reached out for the human, drawing closer.

Tsugo suddenly had a glimpse of the larger battle. He could see little but yellow banners, as the Ikeda continued to slowly compress the Hojo into a smaller circle, with the dreaded vessel at the center. Tsugo saw two tentacles of fire lift a Hojo bushi and an Ikeda who had gotten too close, and deposit both without prejudice into the molten lava within the pot. Apparently, the elemental flame inside didn't care as to which side its victims came from.

The wang-liang was pushing harder now, trying to slice into the samurai with the sharpened inner crescent of the latajang blade. Tsugo's right hand frantically scrabbled for the hilt of his katana, but it lay just out of his reach. He began struggling frantically as unfamiliar feeling came over him. Fear. It swiftly grew stronger as the black, grinning face of the wang-liang blotted out more and more of his vision. Tsugo couldn't breathe. He was going to-  
_  
Things move at their own pace, whether you are ready for them or not. Why not be ready?_

What?

Yanigasawa Tsugo tried to divvy up a small portion of his mind to concentrate on this new thought, leaving the rest to struggle against the giant.

This was an old saying of the Way of Enlightenment. Tsugo had known it since childhood, although it had seemed more relevant in the recent teachings of the abbot at his monastery. It was that voice, though, that aroused the samurai's curiosity.

This was the third time he had heard it today. Tsugo had at first thought the voice was his own, a reflection of his own observations about his new oroyoi. This philosophical comment though, had seemed to come out of nowhere- almost as if a friendly spirit of some kind was communicating with him.

Communicating from an impossible distance.

And Yanigasawa Tsugo, for the first time this day, smiled.

He exhaled suddenly, as forcefully as possible. His infinitesimally smaller frame gave him an extra inch to maneuver inside his crescent prison- just enough to roll that extra inch to the right. His oroyoi had compressed along with him.  
_  
Your armor is supple._

Tsugo's hands closed about the hilt of his katana.

The position was all wrong for any kind of a swing, let alone an attack, but Tsugo knew that's just what the wang-liang would think, as well.

The katana bit into the wooden shaft of the latajang. It almost cut right through the polearm, but Tsugo just hadn't been able to get the leverage. The giant roared with anger and yanked his arm back and away. Both weapons, locked in an embrace, went sailing off.

The wang-liang's left hand slammed into the samurai's chest. Tsugo screamed again as he felt his ribs start to crack under the pressure. The giant was shouting something at him now, but Tsugo wasn't listening. All the Enlightenment philosophy and samurai training in Nippon couldn't hide the fact that he was being crushed to death.

The monster leaned further over his prey now, steadying himself with his right hand on the rock next to Tsugo, while his left pushed harder and harder against the samurai's chestplate. Any moment now the armor, strong as it was, would cave in and he would be crushed.

And then the spirit voice spoke again.

It didn't tell him anything he hadn't already known, but it was still a gift. Tsugo's own wisdom, being fed back to him from someplace where there was no battle, no injury, nor even time as he knew it. Somewhere where a spirit could observe the scene at leisure, and then gently remind Tsugo of what he needed to do.  
_  
Your enemy's strength. Use it against him._

With blinding speed and a battle shout, Yanigasawa Tsugo drew his wakazashi and plunged it with all his might into the wang-liang's _right_ hand. The wound instantly healed, pinning the creature's hand to the stone beneath.

The giant screamed in agony, the pressure on Tsugo's chest lessening just enough for the samurai to roll away to his left. On his feet in a flash, Tsugo ran towards where his katana and the latajang lay. By the time he reached them, the wang-liang's screams were louder than ever as the giant attempted to yank the samurai's short sword out of its own flesh.

Tsugo yanked his weapon free, spun around at blazing speed and rammed the blade through an Ikeda bushi who had been about to take that prized weapon for himself. Paying him no further heed, Tsugo looked back at the wang-liang just as the spirit giant freed his hand with a final shriek of pain. The creature's black hair swirled around its head like smoke as it glared at the samurai with an unholy fury.

Tsugo didn't need the voice anymore. As he held his sacred weapon in his hands, staring at his monstrous, nigh-invulnerable opponent, he knew what to do.

He knew _exactly_ what to do.

Tsugo turned and ran.

It seemed as if a thousand people had paused in mid-battle, observing in a hushed awe as one of the greatest samurai known to them ran for his life.

The effect had not been quite that dramatic of course, but it seemed that way to Tsugo as he ran in seemingly random patterns. First left and then right, all the while dodging, ducking and weaving to avoid a collision with anyone. From the delay before he had heard the bellow of the wang-liang again, even the spirit giant had paused briefly in astonishment before setting off after him.

Tsugo knew the wang-liang was faster. He knew he'd be caught eventually.

For now though, the samurai ducked low as he ran, ignoring the cries of "Coward!" and "Traitor!" that were beginning to fill the air around him.

Left, right. Straight now, then left again.

He glanced back. The wang-liang had grabbed a naginata from somewhere and was following him, gaining slowly as Tsugo expected. The giant's face held a mixture of disdain for his adversary's inexcusable cowardice, and glee that soon revenge would be his. The monster's red eyes were focused only on his quarry.

Left, straight aways, now right.

With a scream, a bushi suddenly leapt out at Tsugo from the crowd. The Yanigasawa samurai paused only for as long as it took to parry aside the attacking spear, and take off his opponent's head with a sweep of his katana.

It wasn't until after he had started running again that he realized he had just slain a fellow Hojo warrior.

Tsugo shook his head sadly. It couldn't be helped. He did not stop running.

Just as the crowd thinned out, Tsugo stopped dead and whirled around, his bloody katana held out for battle.

He was where he wanted to be.

As the mob of warriors melted away from them both, the wang-liang slowed, out of breath just as Tsugo was. The two warriors glared at each other... _into_ each other.

Tsugo's smirk was so minute, someone standing right next to him might not have even seen it.

It was unknown whether the wang-liang did, or whether it was simply impatient for the kill. With a scream of anger and triumph, it came charging at the human, its weapon poised for the kill.

Yanigasawa Tsugo stood his ground.

He sheathed his sword.

And at the last moment, he sprang forward, tucking himself into a ball as he rolled. He came out of the somersault directly in front of the giant's left leg even as the point of the naginata pierced the back of his armor. Tsugo paid no attention as to how deeply it might have penetrated. He concerned himself only with his hands, one clamping on above the wang-liang's knee, the other below, pushing with one while pulling with the other.

In a fraction of a second, Tsugo's knowledge of anatomy and his knowledge of the laws of momentum came together.

The giant cried out in surprise as it went pitching forward. No stranger to unarmed combat itself, the wang-liang relinquished its grip on the naginata and rolled gracefully forward, somersaulting unhurt back into a standing position, and then whirled around again to face the samurai.

Now many people actually _had_ stopped fighting. Hojo and Ikeda alike stared in wonderment at the scene before them. No one wanted to miss this.

The wang-liang, breathing hard, a contemptuous sneer upon its face.

Yanigasawa Tsugo, reaching around and tugging the naginata free from his back. The samurai's violet eyes surveyed the weapon's tip casually, as if trying to determine whose blood that might be coating the tip. He then tossed the spear to the ground. Tsugo made no attempt to draw his katana. He merely stood there, arms crossed, gazing at the wang-liang with an oddly serene expression.

The giant drew himself up to his full height as he prepared to advance. _"Baka!"_ he roared. "Stupid human! Your fear has lost you the respect of your men! What did all that gain you, coward?"

Tsugo raised an eyebrow, the way he always did when he felt a question had an absurdly simple answer.

"About twenty feet."

A tentacle of fire encircled the wang-liang from behind.

The giant shrieked and roared. He turned invisible and then reappeared, shrinking back to human height. Nothing made a difference. The fiery rope implacably lifted him high into the air and then down. The wang-liang's roars did not cease immediately. One lava-covered hand, once again giant-sized, even managed to grasp the top of the pot before the flesh melted off of it and it slid back and out of sight.

An Ikeda archer, staring slack-jawed at this sight, was the first casualty of the battle's second half as Yanigasawa Tsugo suddenly appeared beside him and slid his katana through both of the warrior's lungs. That sent the Hojo side into a frenzied explosion of aggression as, their faith in Tsugo restored, they tore into the Ikeda.

The battle was still far from over, but it was at least equal again. Tsugo spared no more than a glance for the volcano pot suddenly shattering into pieces behind him or for the small, horse-shaped black cloud he could now see galloping away in the sky, no doubt carrying Goboro the Lame.

He spied a fellow Hojo samurai galloping nearby. Tsugo, who had been "dehorsed" early in the battle, merely had to bark out a command. The samurai nodded and dismounted, swinging off to the horse's right even as Tsugo grabbed the reins and leapt into the saddle from the left.

Yanigasawa Tsugo plunged back into the thick of battle, heading towards the northeast. He grinned. For the moment, all was as it should be again. The Hojo were with him. They knew now that he was no traitor.

No traitor.

_Traitor._

_"Traitor!"_

The others recoiled again.

Yanigasawa Tojo, that terrible expression still locked on his face, stared into the past.

"Traitor!" he shouted. "_Uragirimono!_ Traitor!"

With a visible effort, Tojo manged to wrench himself back into the present, but his body was still trembling violently.

"Rosuko Jingoshima- uncre of Arihito-sama. He stand there by shoji, pointing at me... shouting."

Tojo's eyes dropped again to the floor.

"I not think there be any magic protecting oroyoi," the samurai said quietly, a bitter grin barely visible on his face. "I think threat of dishonor more powerfur than any magic. I wrong- of course. There some type of sirent ararm- arert Jingoshama. He is shaman for Rosuko househord. He just... stand there, shouting at me. I can do nothing. I know he is right. I am uragirimono."

Tojo didn't say anything for a while. His face had gone white, his expression slack. When he did finally start speaking again, his voice was dull and devoid of inflection.

"I am in shock. I know what I have done, but I do not say why. They wood not risten if I do. I know this. I do nothing until they reed me away at sunrise, to the mansion of my daimyo, where I wirr face judgement."

And when Yanigasawa Tojo finally raised his head to look again at his friends, it was with as sad and defeated a face as they had ever seen him before. 

"I... I never even get to see the oroyoi that Arihito-sama crafted for me."

The samurai's voice shook worse than ever before. One hand clutched the front of his yukata robe.

"I hear rumor, though... that my oroyoi... be disprayed in speciar prace..."

His eyes opened as wide as they could go.

"... _as warning_... as warning to those who wood be disroyar... they say it... so accursed..."

The tears fell freely.

_"That no one is arrowed to touch it!"_

And Yanigasawa Tojo, for the first time in his life, crumpled to the floor and cried.

The samurai wailed. He cried, he bawled, and it was made worse by the fact that he kept trying to stop himself.

His seven best friends sat or stood as still as statues.

But the tears fell down their faces just the same. Every one of them.

Caroline leaned forward.

"Tojo," she whispered.

Tojo suddenly shot up to his feet.

_"What have you done?"_ he cried.

"Please, Tojo!" Caroline cried out, unable to stop herself. "We didn't mean to-"

"Rook at me! See what I have become! Tears are not for samurai! This is shamefur! I shood not have ristened to you!" he shouted, whirling around to face Aslan now. "You arone know at reast some of my ways, Asran! _Rook at what I have become! I am nothing!_ I am-"

But Tojo couldn't continue. The samurai staggered backwards, finally grasping onto a table. He slowly lowered himself over its surface until he was clutching the far end with his hands.

He kept himself facing away from the others, but he couldn't hide his sobbing.

Elrohir looked up to Aslan. The paladin looked as he did when he had refused Caroline that trip to Willip. His friend's heart was breaking right in front of him, and nothing- not his Talent, not his faith, nor his skills, could stop it.

"What have I done, Elrohir?" Aslan said softly, turning to face his party leader. "I... I thought this would help. I thought this was his only chance."

Elrohir hesitated a long time before replying.

"It probably was, Aslan. It probably was. We took that chance... and we lost. I never knew," the ranger said, shaking head. "I never knew the burden Tojo carried all these years, and even when we found out, back in the stockade, I didn't know how... _different_ Tojo was from us."

"He's not," Caroline said.

The others looked at her. Argo smiled but said nothing, wiping away his own tears.

"Tojo is just like us," Caroline repeated as she rose to her feet. "He has a heart, just like us. And it's a good heart. It's... it's noble and pure. Tad saw it, and he was right! No matter what he says, I know Tojo doesn't want to die! He may be _ready_ to die, but he doesn't _want_ to!"

"She's right," Talass added. "Tojo's lived in a bubble all this time. He can't understand our ways, so he's isolated himself from them. It worked because we never tried to get through to him."

They had all come together in a tight knot by now. "We think Tojo is strange sometimes," offered Cygnus soberly, "but he's trapped in a world that's just as strange to him- ours. And he can't go back. He's trapped here forever."

"We're not licked yet," said Argo. "All of you, get back to your places. We're going to see this through. We owe Tojo that much."

The others, seeing that Tojo was at last beginning to compose himself, hurried back to their assigned positions.

And as Tojo, his face a grotesque mockery of his former calm, slowly settled himself back into lotus, Talass shot a quick look over at Argo, on her left.

"What makes you think we even have a prayer at this, Argo?"

This time, Bigfellow's pained smile was genuine.

"We're adventurers, my good lady," the big ranger replied out of the corner of his mouth. "That means we're too damn stupid to know when to quit."


	98. The Pearls Of Hamakahara

**12th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Tojo was no longer crying.

His face wiped clean of tears, the samurai spoke calmly, his voice strong and confidant.

He related, seemingly without emotion, how he had been summoned to appear before his daimyo. Tojo had sat before his lord then, just as he sat before his friends now. He had related his experience with the armor of Yanigasawa Tsugo, holding back nothing. The daimyo, his advisors, and the other samurai of the Yanigasawa clan had silently regarded the young warrior as he spoke, just as Aslan and his friends were doing now, five years later. The whole aspect seemed much more business-like than before, and the paladin could see in the faces of his companions a spark of hopefulness. They harbored the idea that by being able to deal with Tojo without excess emotion on anyone's part getting in the way, this matter could be brought to a successful conclusion.

Aslan knew better.

He knew that Tojo had been able to compose himself again only because he had decided to die.

In less than twelve hours, Aslan was literally going to have to decapitate one of his dearest friends, and as this point he could think of absolutely no way out of it.

The paladin clenched his fists and silently prayed to the All-Father again as he listened to Tojo. The samurai's head was bowed now, as he recounted his offer to commit seppuku for his transgressions. An offer he was certain would be accepted.

It had not been.

"My daimyo... greatry shamed," Tojo stated, slowly raising his head to eye his friends again. "He know news of what I have done wirr reach shogunate. He say my death not enough to regain honor. He say that since I seek greatness so much, that I must go forth and find it myserf."

Tojo raised his right arm, and slowly undid the hook that kept the dastana closed. With a look of distaste on his face that he could not or would not conceal, the samurai slowly opened the hinge on the metal cylinder, and removed it. The others stared as much as the ghastly white section of Tojo's arm as they did at the golden-colored bracer.

_By the High One_, Cygnus thought. _He sleeps in those things. He's not allowed to take them off!_

His face grim, Yanigasawa Tojo displayed the dastana to his audience, pointing at the engraved calligraphy on the metal surface.

"These bracers taken from body of wu jen srain by Yanigasawa cran," the samurai explained, his voice tight. "My daimyo have them engraved with symbers of shame. He says that I must wear them untir I regain honor. He say I can wear no armor, not even padded armor of peasant, untir then."

Caroline fidgeted nervously. She thought she was going to explode from the tension. _That means there IS a way! What is it, Tojo? How can you regain your honor? Why won't you tell us?_

Those purple orbs flickered over to her, and Mrs. Bigfellow flushed with embarrassment. Once again, her face had given her away.

Tojo closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. He exhaled so slowly, it almost seemed to the others as if he had stopped breathing entirely. He seemed reluctant to ever open his eyes again. But he did.

"There onry two ways to regain my rost honor," Tojo said, now replacing the dastana on his arm. "I must either defeat another samurai in honoraber combat, or I must... find Pears of Hamakahara."

He paused.

The pause continued.

The rest of the party began to steal furtive glances at each other.

_Is that it?_ Elrohir wondered. _Is he done?_ The ranger looked back at Tojo, who was now merely staring ahead into space, the muscles of his face as rigid as steel.

As usual, when matters of decorum were in question, it was a Bigfellow who decided to just plunge on ahead.  
_  
"Honto ni arigato gozaimas, Tojo-sama."_

Yanigasawa Tojo slowly turned his head to regard Caroline, who was just raising her head from her seated bow. The samurai did not directly respond to her expression of thanks for his story, but he seemed to sag just a little, his expression taking on a resigned air.

He gave a brief nod.

A zephyr of repressed sighs swept through the room as the rest of the party allowed their own bodies to relax from the uncomfortable positions they had put themselves into.

Elrohir spoke first. "All right, let's see what we've got to work with here. Tojo, you said you can regain your honor by defeating another samurai." The ranger gestured at the samurai's hated dastana. "From what I've seen, those bracers give you magical protection equivalent to having armor, just as Cygnus' and Zantac's do."

Tojo merely gazed at him.

Try as he might, Elrohir could keep the puzzlement out of neither his voice nor his expression. "I don't understand, then. You're one of the best fighters I've even seen, Tojo. Why not just challenge another samurai to a duel? Surely, there must be those in Nippon that would be willing to do so, either because they hate you or because they wish to help you. How about one of the Ikeda family? How about-"

He stopped. Tojo was shaking his head, that sad, thin-lipped smile on his face again.

"You not understand, Errohir-san."

Elrohir tensed all the way back up again. He only unclenched his fists after great difficulty and a stern glance from his wife. "Apparently not," he muttered.

For what it was worth, Tojo too seemed to be making an effort to avoid patronizing his friend. The samurai held up both arms, prominently displaying the dastana again.

"Awe samurai wear armor, Errohir-san. Even those who serve evir rords. Dastana show that I am branded with shame. Just as is dishonoraber to share my shame with you, so is dishonoraber for any samurai to fight me in singer combat. It not matter who win or rose."

And suddenly, something clicked for Aslan.

"Icar!"

Tojo looked up and the paladin and gave a sad nod of acknowledgement.

"Don't you see?" Aslan asked, turning to his companions. "That was why Tojo was so keen to fight Icar alone!"

"Icar was blind, " Argo mused thoughtfully. "It must have seemed like a golden opportunity for you, Tojo."

"But then he cut you," continued Talass, "and realized you wore no armor." The cleric's voice grew softer as she addressed the samurai directly. "Is that right, Tojo?"

With some difficulty, Tojo nodded, although his violet eyes were now fixed firmly on the floor. "Yes. I not knew if Icar understood true meaning, but he know something wrong then. He ask me why I not wear oroyoi, and I cannot answer. My punishment very rare in Nippon, but it has been used sometimes- against," his voice choked up again, "disroyar samurai." He swallowed hard and continued, shrugging slightly. "Not know if simirar punishment exist in Kara-Tur, but very possiber. In any case, my combat can no ronger be considered honoraber duer. Once again… I act fawsry."

"Nesco," Zantac suddenly murmured.

"What?" Aslan asked, looking over sharply at the Willip wizard.

Zantac merely gave the paladin a sour smile. "Our poor Lady Cynewine. She had no idea what she was popping the cork off of when she asked Tojo about his bracers." The mage bit his lip. "I wish she was here now. She deserves to know what we've learned."

Aslan seemed about to say something, but instead merely nodded in agreement.

Tojo had trailed back off into silence.

"Fine," Cygnus cut in, unable to endure what he considered the beginning of yet another uncomfortable moment. As far as he was considered, they were all drowning in them as it was.

"Okay, then. Defeating another samurai is out, and I'm sure your daimyo was well aware of that from the start," the wizard went on. "That leaves us with the other possibility. The Pears of Hamakahara. What are they? Some kind of sacred fruit?"

Tojo stared at the tall mage for a moment, and then suddenly exploded.

"Baka! Not Pears, you foor! Pears!"

Not surprisingly, everyone looked lost. Tojo whirled around.

_"Shinju!"_ he shouted at Caroline. "Shinju! Shinju!"

"Shinju?" she repeated back at him in a panic. Caroline didn't know the word.

_"Hakchi!"_ Tojo yelled, followed by still more Nipponese words Caroline didn't recognize.

The context was pretty clear to everyone, though. Yanigasawa Tojo was cursing them out for their inability to understand him.

This seemed to go on for quite a while. Caroline was about to try and break in again when she felt her husband's hand on her shoulder.

"Let him go, love," Bigfellow said softly. "He's needed to do this for a _rong_ time."

Caroline raised her eyebrows at Argo's pronunciation, but then nodded as comprehension swept over her.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to live in Nippon, with only the barest understanding of the language. Responses to everything she said ranging from bewilderment to derision to jokes.

Eventually, Tojo seemed to wind down. Now he pantomimed holding something in his left hand while stabbing or poking at it with his right.

"Umm," ventured Zantac. "Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

Tojo rolled his eyes, uttered a guttural growl of frustration and then tried again, now miming placing something around his neck.

"Pearls!" shouted out Cygnus. "It's a string of pearls!"

Tojo nodded wearily. "Gaijin," the samurai muttered quietly to himself, before giving the others the explanation they were waiting for. "Mirennia ago, before rise of Mori Tenno- first human Emperor, Nippon rured by Earth Spirit Emperors. They are great _kami_- spirits- of naturar word."

The samurai paused, and then looked over at an attentive Talass.

"Gods of Nippon not as your gods. They father kami, but since Reign of Earth Spirit Emperors, no ronger wark the rand. Shamans pay tribute to kami. Awe naturar things have kami, great or smarr. Streams, rice, rivers, frowers, rocks, trees, mountains, even morning mist- awe part of Spirit Word."

Talass looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

"Goddess Kishijoten, She of Great Fortune, bestow gift upon Earth Spirit Emperor Hamakahara. String of pears. They symber of Her favor."

"A relic?" asked Aslan.

Tojo's brow furrowed as he addressed the paladin. "Difficurt to say in your tongue, Asran-san. Pears contain great and terriber power, yes, but varued more for… their meaning, than for themserves." The samurai's face grew even grimmer, if that were possiber.

"Hamakahara abuse power, though. He become so used to good fortune that even thought of bad ruck, no matter how small, become intoraber to him. Brave human named Sabero manage to trick Hamakahara- take neckrace of pears away from him. Sabero know he have to free Nippon for Pears to be safe from powerful kami rike Hamakahara, so he reave his rand, his famiry, everything… never see them again."

"Just like a certain samurai we all know," said Argo quietly.

Tojo scowled. Apparently, he found the comparison offensive, but Bigfellow raised a hand.

"I'm only making an observation, Tojo-sama. Would not the appropriateness of such a tale appeal to your daimyo? Hamakahara is no longer around, I assume. Maybe your lord just wanted you to complete the circle, and bring the Pearls back home, where they belong."

The samurai seemed to consider, and then nodded. "Perhaps so, Argo-san. Perhaps so. Yet there great difference. Sabero rauded as hero for his sacrifice. I am sent forth in shame. My daimyo know there no chance for me to find Pears."

"Why not, Tojo?" It had been the question Talass had been itching to ask.

Tojo favored the cleric with a bitter smile. "You not think many have tried, Tarass-san? Others have searched since beginning of first Cyker. Great shugenja, mighty samurai, enrightened budoka- awe have tried; awe have fayered. Even powerfur divination do not say where pears rie, onry that they are in gaijin rands, far away from home."

The samurai's smile slowly grew into Tojo's uncannily accurate duplication of Argo's pained grin. He gazed at all of his friends.

"You have haf day, tomodachi. You wirr find in that time what great heroes of Nippon cood not find in thousand years?"

Talass spread her hands apart, a rare look of pleading on her face. "But now that we know what we need to do, Tojo, couldn't you give us just a little more time?" The samurai however, shook his head, frowning.

"No, Tarass-san. I have waited too rong as is. I terr you my story because you ask- not because I wood beg for herp."

"Forgive me for asking, Tojo," said Aslan suddenly, changing the subject. "Didn't you tell me once that your life belongs to your daimyo, and that you _couldn't_ commit seppuku without asking for his permission first?"

The bitter smile returned.

"You wood try to spare my rife through trickery of words, Asran-san?' He shook his head again. "That not rike you. To answer, I awready offer my rife to daimyo. He say I must attempt to regain honor first. If I die in batter during quest, that is honoraber, but you and Tarass-san… you wirr not ret me do so. You hear me, again and again."

"How long have you been hoping to die in battle, Tojo?" Elrohir asked, his voice unable to hide a quivering within it.

Tojo took another deep breath. "Ever since I reave Nippon, Errorhir-san." Despite himself, the samurai began to tremble again. "Rast sound I hear as I reave daimyo's mansion is sound of my mother screaming. She scream for her rost son. She know… I awready dead."

Silence descended again, despite everyone's best efforts to think of something meaningful to say.

Eventually, Zantac spoke up again. "What if we made a promise not to heal you in battle?"

Now it was Talass' turn to shake her head. "I couldn't make such a promise, Zantac."

"Neither could I," added Aslan, sounding grim.

Tojo got to his feet.

"Then no more needs to be said," he stated, sounding relieved. "You know now nothing can be done. I sharr await sunset in my room, and then-"

"A question first, if I may, Tojo."

Tojo sighed before he could stop it, and then turned to face the party's paladin, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he did so.

"Yes, Asran-san?"

Aslan mirrored the samurai's posture. His light blue eyes blazed with a surprising hardness. His voice sounded just as it has when he had addressed Joseph Cynewine.

"Why did you join us?"

Tojo's eyes widened. The samurai's lips pursed in frustration, but he could not return the paladin's glare. Aslan continued, but it was clear that his questions were now being asked for the benefit of the other party members. Tojo's discomfort made it evident he already knew where Aslan was heading.

"We knew nothing about you when we first met you, Tojo-sama. Myself, Elrohir, Estel and the others were in a tough spot at the time, and you helped us out with no thought of reward whatsoever. There was nothing we could possibly have done to repay you, but you never made it an issue. Then, after our work in Celtia was done, you stayed with us. Naturally, we were grateful to have such a powerful and noble warrior at our side, but you told us almost nothing about yourself."

Tojo slowly raised his eyes to meet Aslan's gaze. Confusion crept into the paladin's voice, along with regret.

"You were obviously on your quest of redemption then, Tojo... _why did you come with us when we journeyed to Oerth?_ You must have known you'd never find the Pearls if you left Aarde. You must have known this very day would come if you abandoned the task that your daimyo had set you."

This time, the tear that ran down Tojo's face was completely unexpected. Even to him.

"Because I am weak, Asran-san," the samurai said in a hoarse whisper. "At first, when I reave Nippon, I search franticary for Pears. Shame of my actions burns within in me every moment of day; haunt my dreams at night. But as weeks go by... one after another... I find distraction in other things. I am in strange rand, where none know of bushido. I take it upon myserf to act as honorabry as possiber, to show gaijin true meaning of honor and royarty. Then, I find you," Tojo indicated the party with a sweep of his hand. "Not onry are you powerfer, brave and crever, but... you outsiders too, I sense. I feer... bond of companionship I not know since my day of shame."

Tojo again dropped his gaze to the floor. "Being with you, I can pretend I am stirr honoraber samurai."

He watched his tears fall, one at a time, upon the muddy wooden floor of the common room.

"You're the bravest man I've ever met, Tojo-sama," Caroline Bigfellow said, ignoring her own tears as she rose unsteadily to her feet, clinging to her husband as he also stood. She wiped her face on Argo's sleeve rather unceremoniously, then traded smiles with him before returning her gaze to Tojo. "Not counting Argo, of course," she chuckled, with her characteristic weak smile.

Tojo matched her expression. "You not been to Nippon, Carrorine-san. There, you find many samurai braver than I. Samurai who have not," and here Tojo choked up, "have not dishonored their rord."

"You know what I think, Tojo?" put in Talass, now joining the rest in standing up, as well. "I think that a warrior, lacking in any magical powers, hurling himself at a lich- an unholy abomination a thousand times more powerful than himself, is an example of bravery any samurai in Nippon would be hard-pressed to match."

The cleric turned away from Tojo, and addressed her companions. "I've only seen one samurai that ever dared to take on a lich. How about the rest of you?"

The others turned back to Tojo and smiled. The samurai kept his feeble smile going, along with a shrug.

"To be honest, Tarass-san... I not know what rich is. Not know how powerfur he was until after batter."

"You know it wouldn't have made any difference," Cygnus said reproachfully. "We know you're one of us."

Somehow, that statement seemed to strengthen Tojo. The samurai wiped his eyes clear on his sleeve, and addressed the tall wizard directly.

"Then I ask you again, Cygnus-san. Awe of you. Tomodachi. Prease... _ret me go_. It is honoraber thing to do."

"We still have the afternoon, Tojo," Caroline said, the tears starting up again. "You said you'd give us until sunset. I promise you... we won't fail you. We _will_ find a way!" The young woman looked around frantically to her husband, and to the others, searching for validation.

But it wasn't there.

Caroline choked off a sob and then ran out of the inn, the door slamming closed behind her.

Argo gave a silent nod to the others and then slowly headed towards the door. "I'll handle it," the big ranger said softly. When he reached the door, he turned around again to face the samurai.

"I tried to find you some of that rice wine- _sake_, while we were in Chendl, Tojo." Bigfellow shrugged sadly. "I thought- you might enjoy it. I'm sorry, I couldn't find it."

Tojo bowed slightly. "That awe right, Argo-san. Thank you for attempt."

Argo closed his eyes for a moment. They were moist when he opened them again.

"I'll see you at sunset, Tojo-sama."

He closed the door quietly after him as he left.

Tojo gazed at the remaining five, and then bowed deeply to them.

"I wirr see you awe at this time, as werr," the samurai said, now turning to go back up the stairs. "I wish to meditate untir then."

"Tojo?"

Having just gained the top landing, the samurai paused. "Yes, Errohir-san?"

The ranger held up a finger, as if he wanted to clarify a point. "You said that your daimyo had never let anyone try on Tsugo's armor."

Tojo nodded slowly. "This is so."

"What about before then?" Elrohir asked. "The Battle of Haka was over two hundred years ago, and you said Tsugo had retired shortly after that. From the time that the Rosuko family took over stewardship of the oroyoi, did anyone ever try to don the armor, or even touch it? Not counting those who were permitted to do so?"

Tojo frowned with the effort to remember.

"There was one," he admitted after some moments. It take prace perhaps fifty years after Batter of Haka. I not know much about it. It not spoken of officiarry, since it is source of shame to Yanigasawa famiry."

The samurai looked at Elrohir's rapt expression, sighed and continued. "There was samurai. Yanigasawa Wabazetsu. He strong and brave, but very brash. Not arways courteous as samurai shood be. Wabazetsu berieve he shood have chance to wear oroyoi of Tsugo-sama, but his daimyo say no." Tojo shrugged. "It is said that one night, he sneak into Rosuko home and don oroyoi. He caught just as I am, and brought before daimyo. Wabazetsu rucky. He offered chance for seppuku, and he take it."

Tojo's expression grew hard. His fists clenched. Elrohir knew that it was unthinkable for a samurai to criticize his daimyo, and he felt even sadder for his friend than he already did. The ranger needed to finish his line of inquiry, however.

"Was there anything else?"

The samurai cocked his head and stared down at the party leader. One eyebrow rose in curiousity, despite himself.

"Did Wabazetsu say anything to his daimyo about what happened when he touched the armor? Did he have a vision like yours? Did something else happen? Anything?"

Tojo thought for a moment, and then shook his head. "I not hear of any such thing, Errohir-san."

Talass was staring intently at her husband's face. Obviously Elrohir had some line of attack he was working on, but Tojo's response seemed to deflate him completely. Elrohir barely managed to keep his response loud enough for the samurai to hear. "Thank you, Tojo-sama."

The samurai hesitated for a moment, nodded briefly, and then was lost to sight.

Talass looked around the common room. Aslan was heading downstairs to tell the staff their temporary imprisonment was now over. Cygnus and Zantac were huddled at one of the tables, heads close together, talking quietly and rapidly.

Elrohir just stood there, seemingly staring at nothing.

Talass walked over to her husband and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Dearest?"

Elrohir turned to stare at his wife.

She nearly flinched from his gaze (something Talass almost never did). The ranger's deep blue eyes shot forth an anger and resentment that filled the common room like a hot, choking fog.

"We've endured so much, Talass," he seethed. "We deserve better than to be shoved around by Fate like this."

Without another word, Elrohir spun around and headed towards the main door.

"Elrohir? What is it?" Talass cried.

Cygnus and Zantac looked up from their conversation.

Elrohir seemed annoyed at this. "It's the final nail in the coffin, that's what it is, Talass. Tojo's dead. We have absolutely no chance at saving him. But you know what? It doesn't really matter anyway!"

She stared at him, aghast. "What-"

"He's better off dead, Talass. I think his entire clan already is."

The party leader showed no restraint about banging the door behind him when he went out.


	99. Sunset For Tojo

**12th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy **

Talass rushed out of the inn, gesturing brusquely for Cygnus and Zantac to remain inside as she rushed past.

Her husband hadn't gone far. Elrohir was standing perhaps forty feet from the door, a little off to the east. The ranger was standing quietly, his hand raised to shade his eyes as he looked upwards at the sun climbing towards its apex for the day.

The priestess slowed down to a walk as she approached.

"I'd like to be alone right now, Talass," Elrohir mumbled as she approached, not taking his eyes off the sun. 

The cleric folded her arms across her chest. "Not your lucky day then, is it?" she replied.

The ranger now turned to eye his wife, his eyes still squinted from his apparent attempt to burn away some terrible internal vision.

"Explain," Talass said.

"Why?" Elrohir shot back, with more venom in his voice than he would usually dare when speaking with her. 

Talass bit off the retort that was already trying to shove his way past her lips, then walked over to her husband and cradled his cheeks in her hands.

"Because keeping secrets won't do you any more good than it did Tojo," she whispered.

Elrohir stared into his wife's light blue eyes for a moment, and then gently removed her hands from his face. He held onto them, though.

"He used to talk about Fate a lot," the ranger said, in a voice that sounded disjointed to Talass. "He would tell these parables about Time, and Destiny, and some kind of 'memory spirits', that…" Elrohir shook his head, looking back towards the inn. "I guess I just didn't have the head to understand that kind of thing," he finished, smiling weakly.

"Who used to talk about that?" 

The party leader turned back to eye his wife steadily, letting go of her wrists as he did so.

"Lemontharz." 

Talass was silent for a moment. She was about to inquire further when Elrohir started speaking again.

"What if it _was_ Tojo, Talass?"

The cleric looked at him in confusion. "What?'

Elrohir took a deep breath. "What if Tojo _was_ the champion fated to wear Tsugo's armor? You heard him- nothing happened when that other samurai, Wabazetsu, touched it! Haven't we all just been telling Tojo what a noble, courageous, honorable person he is? Well, it's all true, isn't it? Why couldn't he have been the Chosen One?"

Talass stared into her husband's eyes. She realized suddenly he wasn't just asking for her opinion.

He wanted her to prove him wrong. He was _begging_ her to prove him wrong.

Talass tried to think, but she could feel herself getting flustered. "Wouldn't his daimyo have known?" was the best she could come up with. 

"Maybe, but what if he never bothered to find out?" Elrohir fired back. "What if he was so enraged by the dishonor that Tojo had shown- dishonor that would have stained _his_ reputation, that he didn't listen? That he just cast him out?" 

"But," the priestess struggled. Arguments were her forte, and Talass didn't like to lose on principle, but she was unprepared for this. "Tojo did touch the oroyoi against the prohibitions, didn't he? Wasn't that a dishonorable act, if only by samurai standards?"

"Ahh," replied Elrohir raising a finger as if he had anticipated that. Talass found the gesture vaguely annoying.

"Remember what Tojo said about Tsugo's prophecy? That only a worthy descendant may wear the armor. Tojo _is_ Tsugo's descendant, and while he may have acted dishonorably in touching the oroyoi without permission, Tsugo himself never mentioned that no one should _touch_ it- only that his worthy descendant should be the only one to _wear_ it! The added prohibition was added afterwards by the Yanigasawa daimyo, I'm sure." 

Talass had by now gathered her mental footing.

"We can't be certain that Wabazetsu saw or felt nothing, Elrohir. His daimyo at the time might have stricken his account, or maybe Tojo is simply mistaken. And besides," she added, "Tojo himself doesn't feel that the vision he had makes him the Chosen One. Why would you assume you know better than him?"

Elrohir paused a moment before replying. Purely for dramatic effect, Talass thought.

"Tojo's account of the Battle of Haka, dearest. Remember the voice that Tsugo heard? The one that aided him?' 

Talass stared at her husband for several seconds. Her mouth gaped open.

"Are you saying- that voice was _Tojo's?"_

The ranger nodded. "I think it might have been," he said quietly.

"That's impossible!" Talass shouted. "No magic could accomplish that!"

"I don't know, Talass! Maybe it could!" Elrohir shouted back. "I would never have dreamed of such a thing, but Lemontharz said once that _Time can bleed_. Maybe somehow, in some way we can't understand, a samurai in the here and now was able to give succor to his ancestor, two hundred years in the past." He raised an eyebrow. "I'd say that would make Tsugo's oroyoi every bit as powerful as it's reputed to be, don't you think?"

Talass was trying to swallow this concept, but it just wouldn't go down. "The Asgardians tell us that Time is immutable, Elrohir," she replied, shaking her head. "It can't be bent in the fashion you're describing. The thread of our lives is spun at birth by the Norns. Even a god cannot alter that destiny."

"But what if it wasn't bent?" Elrohir persisted. "What if what happened was what was supposed to happen all along? If Tsugo had died at the Battle of Haka, Tojo would never have been born, grown to manhood and been able to touch his ancestor's armor and complete the circle!"

Talass gazed at her husband in wonder, and an unexpected smile lightened her face. "When did you turn into such a philosopher, dearest?" she asked. "I still don't agree with you, but I must say I'm impressed."

Elrohir did not return the smile.

"Pray to our gods I'm wrong." 

"Why?"

"Because," Elrohir said, fear creeping slowly into his voice, "the prophecy said that the chosen one was due to don Tsugo's armor in the Yanigasawa's clan greatest hour of need." He gulped. "If I'm right, when that hour came, their Chosen One had already been banished- by their own hand."

Talass couldn't speak.

"Tovag Baragu has sent six hundred years spinning by on Aarde, Talass," Elrohir stated. "I… I don't think the Yanigasawa clan made it that long."

They stared at each other.

"I've got to go tell Tojo," Talass murmured, turning to leave- and then gasped.

Elrohir had grabbed her wrist again, but this time with an iron grip.

"No," the ranger said simply.

"Elrohir, Tojo deserves to know this!" Talass replied, trying to yank her arm free. "You can't keep something this important from him!"

"Yes I can, dearest," her husband countered sadly but firmly, "and if you love Tojo as I do, you will remain silent, even unto his death." 

_"Are you insane?" _Anger seemed to energize Talass as nothing else did. She sent a cold wave of fury at her husband through her eyes. "If this is true, it would make Tojo's sacrifice meaningless! He'd be killing himself for nothing! He needs this information in order to be able to make a rational decision, _and would you kindly let go of my arm?" _

Elrohir shook his head. "Not until you swear by Forseti not to breathe a word of this to Tojo."

"Keep dreaming," Talass snarled, and continued to try and pull free. Elrohir dug in and pulled back.

"Listen to me!" he yelled. "Aslan told me that obediance to one's daimyo is the one overriding aspect that rules a samurai's life! Even if he _knows_ his lord is wrong, to question his commands is to show dishonor, a sin that's punishable by death! Besides, six hundred years have passed back on Aarde- Tojo's daimyo is dead whether I'm right or not! You heard him say time and distance don't matter to him!"

"But honor and dignity _do_ matter to him!" Talass retorted, still pulling. "You're trying to spare him additional pain, Elrohir, but it's too late for that! Don't you see? It's keeping secrets like this that's led to this tragedy in the first place! If Tojo had told you what his problem was when he first met you, we could have helped him by now! You know that's true!"

"But that's not the kind of person he is! You can't _make_ people the way you want them to be, Talass, even if it is for their own good!" 

"They make _themselves_ the way they are! And my part of that is to show them how honesty and justice can help make their lives better! That's what I do! It's not only my calling, it's my responsibility! _Now let me go!" _

"No!" her husband yelled. "I won't-"

He stopped dead. His wife had pulled out her holy symbol and was holding it out at him. 

"I'll do it, Elrohir," she said. The cleric's firm voice belied the tears in her eyes. "Please don't make me have to."

"This is why I never got married," said a voice from besides them.

Husband and wife both jumped in surprise, Elrohir relinquishing his grip.

Aslan stood nearby, shaking his head sadly at them. Cygnus and Zantac stood on either side, slightly behind the paladin.

"I take it the post-petrification honeymoon is over?" Aslan asked wryly. 

Talass stared at him. "How can you be so cavalier about this, Aslan? You of all people should be standing by me on this!" 

The paladin sighed, running a hand through his beard. "Justice _does_ demand that we tell Tojo, Talass." 

The priestess smiled with satisfaction.

"But compassion demands that we don't," Aslan continued. "And on this day, I choose compassion."

Talass looked around. The two wizards, while not speaking, seemed to be in agreement with the paladin.

Defeated, the cleric's head sank. "And so we all take the burden of our dishonesty to our graves," she said to the ground beneath her feet.

"All of us but one, Talass. The most important one."

She raised her head to look again at her beloved.

"Tojo," the ranger whispered, unable to stop his own tears from starting up again. 

Talass put her arms around her husband.

The others watched them cry.

"I don't know, Aslan," Zantac said at length, his own voice hoarse with emotion. "I think I'd rather cry with a spouse than cry alone."

Aslan seemed uncomfortable with the thought. "I suppose," he muttered, then sent his gaze towards the Bigfellow house. "We're lucky Argo didn't hear this. I know him. He'd be charging full-speed to tell Tojo, and I'd be doing everything in my power to stop him." 

"I can't believe he didn't hear any of it," Cygnus said.

The paladin's expression was grim. "I daresay Argo has his own tears to contend with at the moment. Caroline's done us a service she never could have imagined."

"I can't do this, dearest," Talass was sobbing into her husband's shoulder. "I can't let him die! I saved him back at the stockade, and now I have to stand there and watch him end his own life! _I can't do it!" _

Elrohir looked in little condition to offer comfort himself, but he tried.

"It will be easier for Tojo if we're all there for him, dearest. I know it's going to be... hard. It's going to be very hard, but Tojo will finally be happy. You know more about our immortal soul than any of us, Talass. You know that tonight, Tojo will finally be free. He'll be as far away from his sorrows as we are from... from..."

The ranger suddenly twitched as if a small electric shock had hit him. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Talass gazed upwards at him. Her husband's face had on add, distracted air.

"What is it?" Talass asked, but Elrohir didn't look back at her. With a look that his wife knew meant he had an idea, the ranger glanced suddenly over to Aslan.

It was as if the the spark had jumped invisibly from one to the other.

"Aslan," Elrohir whispered. "Do you think... could it be possible?'

The paladin looked as if he were tamping down on an irrational hope. "It'd be a one in a million chance, Elrohir."

Talass looked irritatingly between the two men. "What?"

Elrohir shrugged. "Everything we do seems to be one in a million, Aslan. What have we got to lose?"

Aslan hesitated a moment, and then abruptly swung around.

"Cygnus!" he barked. "In coin equivalent, how much do we have left of Icar's treasure horde?"

Cygnus told him. Aslan calculated in his head. 

"Should be enough. Should be just about enough. Get it, Cygnus. Put all of it in a sack and bring it out here. Fast!" 

The tall mage bolted for the inn.

"Would someone mind telling me what's going on?" Talass asked, trying hard to keep her voice below a shout.

"Tell her, Elrohir," Aslan said, as he started to take off his plate mail. "Zantac!" the paladin snapped. "Help me get this off!"

The wizard gave a start and then began helping clumsily. "I could do with a little information myself, Aslan." Zantac tried to keep his voice heard over the sound of various armor fragments hitting the ground. "Anything I should know?"

Aslan turned to him with an almost vicious smile. "Yes, Zantac. I'm teleporting to Willip- and you're coming with me."

The magic-user looked over to Talass frantically, but the cleric was glaring at her husband now, her right hand wrapped around the front of his yukata robe. Her left hand still held her holy symbol.

"Start talking, dearest," she smiled, the promise of a threat in her tone perhaps half-real.

Elrohir smiled down at his wife. 

"Lemontharz also talked to me about artifacts," he said. "Especially after that disasterous experience we had with Yagrax's Tome. He said there were two things all artifacts and relics had in common."

"And what was that?" the cleric asked as Cygnus came running back, a large sack in one hand. The tall mage almost tripped in his haste to hand it over to Aslan. 

"First," the ranger said, "once you find them, you'll usually wish you hadn't."

Talass considered. She couldn't argue with that. "And the second?"

And for the first time today, Elrohir smiled.

"They get around, dearest. They get around."

The paladin was standing amidst the debris of his armor by now. "Err, Aslan," Zantac began. "How about I go change and get you a-"

"No time, Zantac!" the paladin shouted. "We're going as is! I had to dump my plate to carry both the treasure and you!"

The mage glanced down in panic at his somewhat unflattering yukata robe. "What? You mean I have to go dressed like _this?" _

Aslan clamped his right hand down hard on the magic-user's shoulder while hanging onto the sack with his left. "_I'm in my damn underwear_, Zantac! You really think anyone's going to notice _you?"_

"You know, this wasn't quite the triumphant return I had-"

Elrohir, Talass and Cygnus stared at the spot where Aslan and Zantac had stood moments before. Cygnus turned to their party leader.

"And exactly what type of miracle should we praying for this time, Elrohir?" 

Elrohir told them.

The western horizon seemed to glow.

Yellow only minutes before, an orange light now suffused effortlessly into a pale blue and purple sky, a combination only nature could pull off.

Swallows darted around, catching their fill of mosquitoes before retiring for the evening.

A light breeze tickled the strips of fabric dangling from two CLOSED signs.

Soft whickers and whinneys came from a stable.

Five people stood silently outside a front door, each one staring around them at a scene that changed only in the amount of ambient light. 

Caroline Bigfellow turned back to her husband, the tears still streaming down her face.

"They should have been back by now, Argo. They should have been back."

Without so much as a whisper, the sun touched gently down upon the rim of the Oerth.

And Yanigasawa Tojo appeared again on the upper landing of the staircase in the Brass Dragon.


	100. The Best Of Both Worlds

**12th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The samurai stopped and looked down at the common room below.

It was empty.

There was no one to see the Yanigasawa samurai hesitate and put out his hand on the railing to steady himself. 

After a few moments, his breathing returned to its regular pattern. Tojo slowly descended the stairs and strode out of the inn. He carried a blanket rolled up under his left arm. His right hand rested securely on the hilt of his wakazashi.

He was no longer wearing his dastana.

It took a moment for the samurai to locate his friends. They were standing off to the west, perhaps thirty feet off. They did not notice him, apparently all engaged into staring off at the setting sun.

Tojo frowned. Aslan and Zantac were nowhere to be seen.

He hoped they were around, but he had already determined that he would not inquire

Tojo knew this was going to be immensely painful for his friends. Not familiar with the ways of bushido, even their long exposure to Tojo's ways would not have hardened them enough to watch this ritual without an extreme display of emotion, perhaps even hysterics in some. While Tojo could not fault them for that, their continual efforts to talk him out of what he knew was his only honorable recourse had shaken his already tremulous resolve. He had recovered for the moment, but the samurai was determined that his final moments would be dignified ones.

And he hoped his dear friends, just this one time, would understand.

Tojo approached to about twenty feet of his friends, and then knelt down and spread the blanket out on the grass. He was about to call out to his companions when Caroline turned around and noticed him. She gave a gasp and grabbed hold of her husband's arm. The others whirled around. It almost seemed to the samurai as if they were surprised to see him, although he could not imagine how this could be so. He had told them days earlier that the seppuku ceremony would be conducted outdoors.

They approached him slowly as Tojo stood up again to greet them.

The samurai bowed deeply to them. Somewhat hesitantly, his friends returned the gesture.

They interpreted his raised eyebrow quickly. "Tojo," Elrohir croaked out. "Aslan and Zantac had to… go to Willip. They should be back any moment."

Tojo gazed at them evenly as he considered this piece of information. The questioning note on which the ranger had ended his statement carried the obvious request that Tojo wait until the duo's return. It seemed likely that Aslan had some last minute, foolish hope of saving him. He appreciated the tenacity of his friends even as he was saddened by their refusal to accept the inevitable.

"I am sorry, Errohir-san," Tojo replied at length. "The ceremony cannot be derayed. If Asran-san not avairaber, then you must act as second."

Elrohir's face went white. He glanced around at the others before returning his attention to the samurai. He hadn't been expecting this.

"What do I have to do?" he asked, making a special effort to keep his voice above a whisper.

Tojo took a few steps so that he was standing in the middle of the blanket. He then lowered himself to the ground, but on his knees instead of his usual lotus position. His gaze met the ranger's without flinching.

"I wirr… begin the process." The samurai's voice was not quite as calm as he would have hoped, but it held. "Then, you must strike and take off my head."

"Oh my God," whispered Caroline, clutching even tighter onto Argo's arm, who remained impassive. Cygnus closed his eyes briefly, apparently already envisaging the gruesome scene. Talass was clutching her holy symbol tightly, her face a study in repressed emotion.

Elrohir simply stared at him. Tojo waited a moment, and then gestured towards the Brass Dragon.

"If you prease, Errohir-san. Retrieve your sword."

Walked slowly and stiffly, Elrohir turned without a sound and headed towards the inn. Tojo turned his attention back towards the others.

"If you wood have rast words for me, this is time for then. I ask onry that you do not desecrate honor of ceremony."

The others looked at each other again, and then around them at the darkening landscape. Argo Bigfellow stepped forward, an expression somewhere between a plea and a scowl on his face.

"What would you have us say, Tojo?" the big ranger asked. "You know that every one of us doesn't want you to go through with this. You know how we all feel about you. I wish I could look at this the Nipponese way, Tojo, but I can't. All the words we really want to say would be those of begging and pleading. They would," the ranger's mouth curled, "_desecrate the honor of your ceremony_. We're all who we are, Tojo, just as you are who you are." He spread his hands apart in a gesture of helplessness. "What would you have us say?"

Tojo stared at him for a long moment. He could feel the tears threatening again, but this time, they didn't fall.

"I wood have you say, _Goodbye."_

Argo gazed into the violet eyes of his friend.

"Goodbye, Tojo-sama."

Tojo looked up as Elrohir returned, Gokasillion in hand. The samurai looked at his party leader, and then at the others.

Argo had been right. Elrohir, Cygnus, Talass and Caroline were either crying or in such obvious grief that they might as well have been. A part of Tojo's heart went out to them but, as he reminded himself again, they would survive. They would recover. Life would go on.

For them.

There was a very long pause.

_"Domo harigato gozaimos, tomodachi_," Tojo said at last, his own voice finally starting to crack. "Thank you awe. You… best friends I ever know."

His last tear held. A samurai to the very end.

_"Sayonara."_

Tojo took one more deep breath, closed his eyes, muttered a silent prayer and pulled his wakazashi from his sheath.

He heard someone choke off a scream- Caroline perhaps, but it didn't matter who. Nothing could be changed now. Tojo's hand was not trembling at all; he was glad of that. All the sorrow, all the loneliness, all the falsehoods were fading away. At long last, Yanigasawa Tojo was regaining his honor.

Now all of his friends were yelling and shouting. Tojo had hoped this would not happen, but it wouldn't change what was to come. The samurai's meditative training reduced all the voices to an indistinct, incomprehensible mutter. Even Aslan's voice wasn't loud enough to-

Tojo opened his eyes.

The paladin was standing directly in front of him, breathing heavily. Zantac was next to him, alternating between panting for his life and scolding the others for apparently not being on the same side of the inn they had been previously, whatever that meant.

For some reason, Aslan seemed to be clad only in his underwear.

All the sounds tapered off into an expectant silence. All eyes were on Aslan and Tojo now.

The samurai raised an eyebrow.

"You warm tonight, Asran-san?"

Aslan smiled, a twinkle in his light blue eyes as he mopped the perspiration from his brow.

"What can I say, Tojo? Finding relics is hard work, especially when you have to rush it."

An invisible force yanked Tojo into an upright position. At least it felt that way to the samurai, because he certainly had no recollection of standing up.

His eyes bored into those of the paladin. Tojo found it hard to believe that Aslan would intentionally disrupt the seppuku ceremony like this, but he couldn't possibly accept that the paladin had...

Trying to control the trembling that was coming from a new and unexpected thought, Tojo asked, "You are here to terr me you find Pears of Hamakahara, Asran-san?"

Aslan looked back at the others, bit his lip and tried as hard as he could to control the wild beating of his heart.

Every word here was critical.

The wrong phrase could bring death.

"No," he said cautiously, "but I have found out that they are within your reach, Tojo-sama."

Tojo glared at him, his eyes seeming to examine every pore, every strand of hair, every minute aspect of Aslan's face. The paladin had a sudden and wild urge born of fear to _polymorph_ into some other form- _any_ other form, but he held his ground, and tried to will himself to stop sweating.

Slowly, Tojo's eyes narrowed. The samurai resheathed his wakazashi and crossed his arms.

"And who terr you this, Asran?" he asked in as close to a hiss as anyone had ever heard Tojo speak.

"Wait for it," Zantac mumbled, rolling his eyes heavenward..

Aslan shot the mage a withering glance, then returned his attention to Tojo. The paladin looked as if he were trying to find some way of saying this without the samurai thinking he was mad. Eventually, when it was obvious Tojo's patience was wearing thin, he simply shrugged and blurted out one word.

"Zeus."

Argo Bigfellow Junior exploded into some kind of coughing fit, as if he had suddenly swallowed a lot of his own saliva. Caroline pounded on his back, and Talass moved to help him, but he waved them both off and managed to regain some composure. His auburn eyes, still wide open, gazed at Aslan in shock.

A slight smirk graced Aslan's face before he removed it in deference to Tojo.

"We went to Willip to obtain a _commune_ spell. I sent Zantac over to his Guild to see if their library could help us while I went to the temple of Heironeous," the paladin explained. "Unfortunately, Lancoastes was having a private meeting with Lady Chauv, so I was unable to reach him. I tried the church of St. Cuthbert, but they wouldn't even listen to me unless I promised to convert first. None of the other temples had High Priests capable of casting such a spell, so I was forced to..." Aslan trailed off, grimacing.

Argo smiled broadly now. "Did you mention my name, Aslan? Melinjaro gives discounts if you ask right."

Tojo ignored this, his attention still fixated on Aslan.

The samurai did not look happy. He did not look happy at all.

"And you say this gaijin god terr you what gods of Nippon cood not terr their peoper?"

Aslan's smile disappeared. "It wasn't that, Tojo. They couldn't have known to ask the right questions to get the answers I did."

Tojo's right eyebrow rose.

"You were right about the Pearls, Tojo," the paladin continued. "Sabero did indeed take them far, far away from Nippon. Further away in fact, than anyone could have ever guessed."

Tojo's left eyebrow joined its brother. The samurai inhaled sharply, despite himself. His eyes widened in comprehension.

Aslan nodded, a slight smile returning to his face. "That's right, Tojo-sama. The Pearls of Hamakahara aren't on Aarde at all. They're here... on Oerth."

Tojo took several steps backwards in reflex. His eyes swept wildly around, and he suddenly didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He seemed to be wrestling with an internal dilemma.

The others watched, not daring to interfere in the samurai's thoughts. Caroline eventually asked Aslan in a kind of stage whisper, "Um, did Melinjaro ask you why you were in your underwear, Aslan?"

Zantac snorted. "Hah! He cheated! As soon as we arrived, Mr. Honest Paladin here _polymorphs_ himself to look like he's still wearing clothes, while I have to go back to the Guild dressed like this!"

Caroline shrugged. "Don't a lot of wizards wear robes, Zantac?"

"Not like this," Zantac complained, indicating his garb in disgust. "These look like night robes! You'd think I was on a midnight raid downstairs to the pantry!"

"I'm surprised you didn't already own a set then," Cygnus smiled. His peer scowled at him.

"Well, if you'd joined up like you were supposed to, ya damn broom handle, I wouldn't be an outcast from my own Guild! However," and here Zantac puffed himself up smugly, "I had a job to do and I did it. Zelhile didn't say a word to stop me!"

Cygnus folded his arms and smirked. "He wasn't there, was he?"

"So what if he was out? He was due back any minute!"

The taller mage had to wrap his arms around himself to keep from busting out in laughter. "What, did you station Aimee as a lookout?"

Zantac, deflated, clenched his fists. "It was Martan, if you must know. Aimee wasn't in either. Look, do you want to know what I found out, or not?"

_"I_ certainly do," Talass cut in sharply, sending a cold glare Cygnus' way. "And I don't think Tojo is in the mood for levity right now," she hissed at the Aardian wizard.

Cygnus risked a quick glance at Tojo, who still seemed to be holding an internal debate with himself. He then nodded soberly to Zantac, who cleared his throat and began.

"Now, this dates back about eight hundred years or so, around the time that the Suel and the Oerdians were first mixing it up in the Sheldomar Valley, in what's now the Kingdom of Keoland. The elves of Dreadwood had already been there for ages, of course. We have the journals of a wizard and scholar named Chelish, who had lived in Keoland about century ago before moving up north. Chelish was apparently on good terms with the Dreadwood elves, because in exchange for retrieving some treasures of theirs which had been pilfered some time earlier, they let him speak with an old elf called Yire."

"Could we accelerate this a bit, Zantac?" asked Argo, looking worriedly at Tojo.

"I'm already rushing through as fast as I can," Zantac snapped back. "Now listen. This Yire, according to Chelish, hadn't even _spoken_ to a non-elf for hundreds of years! He was some kind of historian, and a member of a religious cabal called _The People Of The Testing_. Now, skipping the parts _laymen_ wouldn't understand," Zantac went on, with a miniature smirk at Bigfellow, "Yire told Chelish that when he was just a young elf, same as any other, he had become friends with this very old elf whose name I now forget. She was the scion of an elven family that had risen from obscurity to one of the most influential in the Sheldomar Valley. This sudden upsurge in their family fortune had coincided when this elf's great-great-who knows how many-great-grandfather suddenly became, as she put in, _the most blessed elf in the world."_

"And does a string of pearls fit into this anywhere, Zantac?" asked Elrohir.

The Willip wizard nodded. "Yire stated that this elf wore a string of pearls around her neck at all times. A family heirloom, she said. There was some suspicion among their fellow elves of course, but the pearls never radiated magic or anything like that, so it was just chalked up to one of the old lady's eccentricities. Yire said she had a lot." Zantac paused. "According to Chelish's notes, Yire was not only convinced that the pearl necklace was the source of this elf family's great fortune, but that it had come from, and I quote, _another sphere, beyond the ether."_

"I was able to determine that the Pearls are still in the Flanaess," added Aslan, "but that was all. Keoland would be the most logical place to start." The paladin seemed to be adding something up in his head. "It makes sense, somehow. The Dreadwood is where we first appeared on Oerth, isn't it, Cygnus?"

The magic-user nodded. "And Nodyath's pod went down in the Azure Sea, off the Keoish coast. Perhaps the fabric of dimensions is naturally weak in that area."

"Then he can do it!" Caroline cried out. "Tojo can go find the Pearls! He doesn't have to-"

Her voice suddenly died out. The others turned to follow the young woman's frightened gaze.

Yanigasawa Tojo was now walking slowly back to them. His face now held its old inscrutable pose.

His debate was over.

"I hear awe you say, tomadachi," the samurai said, shaking his head. "And I am sorry, but this news does not change what has happened- or what must happen now."

The others stared at him. For some, horror gave way to sheer incredulity.

"You're one hell of a stubborn jackass, Tojo," said Argo quietly. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

A grin flickered momentarily over the samurai's face. "Many times, Argo-san. By awe of you, mostry."

Aslan was literally clenching his fists in anger. "I can't believe this. You're _still_ going to kill yourself, Tojo? After all this? You're going to do it just because I didn't come back holding the necklace in my hand?"

The samurai shook his head again. "No, Asran-san. Not expect you to find Pears. Not even expect you to discover much as you have. But reason I must die does stem from what you say."

Caroline thought Aslan looked as he did when that time she had slapped him. He honestly looked like he was having a heart attack.

"Me, Tojo?" the paladin gasped. "Me?"

Tojo held up a finger. "Not of what you say now, Asran-san. What you say earier, inside. You are right then. I abandon quest my daimyo assign me when I reave Aarde. For this, there can be no excuse. No pardon. No forgiveness. For this, I must die."

"I was wrong, Tojo," Aslan whispered, his face pale. "That wasn't what I meant."

A sad smile returned to the samurai's face. "You paradin, Asran-san. You not neary so good a riar as Bigferrow."

Argo mulled that over. "I'm not sure whether I should be insulted by that or not."

Without warning, Tojo suddenly drew his wakazashi and stepped back severar paces. His voice was suddenly sharp again, and as hard as steel.

"Is time you face truth, tomodachi! Is time for seppuku, whether you assist or not!"

"Tojo, _no!"_ yelled Elrohir.

Cygnus literally had his hands pressed together in supplication. Don't do this, Tojo... _I beg you!"_

"Please, Tojo!" cried Caroline. "You don't have to do this! You can find the Pearls now! You're on the same world that they are! No one has to know that it was luck that you came here!"

_"I WIRR KNOW!"_ Tojo screamed back. _"I WIRR KNOW!"_ The short sword swept back and forward now, keeping the others who had rushed forward at bay. The samurai's face was awash in pain. "I know I have fayered! I-"

_"YOU'RE WRONG, TOJO!"_

And from the back of the party, Talass came rushing forward at Tojo. She stopped only when the tip of Tojo's wakazashi swept forward to intercept her and pressed hard against the front of her yukata robe.

_"Talass, get back!"_ yelled her husband.

_"NO!"_ she shrieked back at him, and then whirled her head back around to glare directly into Tojo's face, which was starting to grow red with anger.

"I'm going to tell you something, Tojo-sama, and you'll have to kill me if you don't want to hear it! And if you try anything first, I'll insult you so badly, you'll kill me on sheer instinct!"

Tojo was starting to show the same signs of rage he had in the stables of the Highport Temple. The sword trembled in his hand, and it was only a rapidly fading portion of his mind was keeping it from thrusting forward violently.

"No one move!" yelled Zantac, desperately trying to think of some brilliant tactical maneuver. Tojo, now in full battle readiness, was switching his gaze from Talass to the rest of them. His left hand was already on the hilt of his katana.

Unexpectedly and incredibly, Talass' voice suddenly dropped back into a completely conversational tone.

"You're wrong. Tojo-sama. You think that you disobeyed your daimyo when you came to Oerth, but you were following his orders all along. Had you not come here, only _then_ would you have been guilty as you've said."

"You speak foorishness, Tarass." The samurai's voice was a harsh whisper.

Behind them, Elrohir, his face white with panic, leaned into the paladin. "She's going to tell him, Aslan. She's going to tell him, and he's going to kill her for it. Stop her, Aslan. Use your Talent- you can hit them both. _Please, stop her!" _

"A _psionic blast_ isn't a sure thing, Elrohir" Aslan whispered back. "If I have to, I'll do it, but hold on a minute. I've been thinking about your theory ever since this morning, and if it is true- if we follow it along to its conclusion..." the paladin turned his head now to give what he hoped was a comforting look to his friend.

"We may have an ally in this that we never even knew about."

"Think back, Tojo," Talass was now saying. "I want you to think back to when you were with the others on Aarde, and you made the decision to stay with them."

That portion of Tojo that was still trying to hold back the samurai's fury was shaking madly. He wasn't looking the cleric in the eye. His gaze was lower- on a small dark stain on her robe.

"Tarass-san, " he whispered through an extreme effort. "You-"

"Think back, Tojo," the priestess of Forseti continued calmly, ignoring him. "I want you to think back to that very moment. Go to that place; go to that time. I need you to concentrate- I know I'm bleeding Tojo, don't stare at my chest, it's not polite anyway- I need you to concentrate on that moment just as if it's happening right now. I want you to remember not just what you were seeing and hearing, I want you to remember exactly what happened."

With agonizing slowness, the samurai's eyes finally lifted, but they were not seeing her. His ears were not hearing her.

The wind was starting to pick up.

"I... I make decision to go with them," he whispered.

"How?"

"What?" The voice came from a long way off.

"How did you make that decision, Tojo?"

Fighting, fighting. Those purple orbs trying to lock onto her face.

"Not... understand."

Talass hesitated just the right amount.

This was her forte.

"Did you hear a voice, Tojo?"

It was starting to grow colder.

"I... I terr myserf to-"

"Are you sure it was your voice, Tojo? Did it sound like yours?"

Despite everything, one eyebrow rose.

"Who... who erse cood it be?"

"Sabero."

Nobody moved.

Nobody but Yanigasawa Tojo, whose eyes opened wide in shock.

The wakazashi dropped from the samurai's hand. He staggered back another step in an almost drunken gesture.

"Hard to believe, I know," the priestess of Forseti said, now holding her left hand over her heart. She turned around to smile wanly at her husband. "Someone pretty much had to beat the idea into my thick skull, as well." She then turned back to Tojo and slowly took another step towards him.

Tojo's face held so much sadness and confusion, he looked like a child. A small, lost child.

Very slowly, Talass cradled his left cheek with her right hand. "Time can bleed, Tojo-sama, just as we do." Her light blue eyes flicked downward, but only for a moment. "Just as you reached into the past and without even knowing it, saved Yanigasawa Tsugo, so did Sabero reach into the future to save someone whom he must have thought was very important. Someone worthy- who had a very, very important task ahead of them."

"Find Pears he had hidden?" Tojo whispered unbelievingly.

Talass nodded. "Perhaps there is some link between Sabero and Tsugo that we cannot and will not ever know." She shrugged. "Perhaps-"

And for the second time in a single day, Talass gasped in pain as a man suddenly grabbed her wrist in a vise-like grip.

Elrohir's hand went to Gokasillion's hilt. "Let her go, Tojo," he uttered in a cold voice.

Tojo ignored him. "You know awe this for truth, Tarass, or you just too afraid to see me die- even if I roose honor?" he growled.

Talass said nothing.

Tojo shoved his face right up to hers and screamed.

_"YOU KNOW THIS FOR TRUTH?"_

One single tear, born either of pain or sadness, trickled down the cheek of the Priestess of Truth.

"No, Tojo-sama," she said quietly. "Only gods know what Truth truly looks like. All we mortals can do is search... and decide for ourselves what it is we've found... and what we're going to do with it."

Tojo let go of her wrist.

"I've said all I can, Tojo." Talass said quietly. She stepped back and before the disbelieving eyes of all assembled, picked up Tojo's wakazashi and handed it back to him.

"The defense rests."

Talass turned around, walked back to the others and put one hand to her chest again while the other clutched her holy symbol. She murmured quietly until the dark stain on her robe stopped growing. She seemed unaware of Elrohir enfolding her in his arms.

The others stared at Tojo, and he stared back at them.

The wind picked up a little more. The sunlight was fading.

After several seconds, Yanigasawa Tojo strode past the assemblage and walked about twenty feet further on to the west. Then he stopped, resheathed his wakazashi, and placed his hands behind in his back in that old familiar gesture.

He was meditating.

The others watched in silence.

Time passed.

The western horizon slowly but inexorably swallowed the Oerth's sun.

The party stood there in the wind, the chill and the slowly gathering twilight.

A strong breeze suddenly reminded Aslan that he was still standing outside in his underwear. The paladin looked around, seemingly embarrassed about this now for the first time.

Caroline Bigfellow, the wind blowing her black hair across a face swollen red from crying, managed a naughty wink at him.

Aslan tried to scowl but only managed a tired smile.

"I think we'd better go inside," the paladin managed after a bit. "We should give Tojo some privacy. I'm sure he'll let us know when he-"

"No need, Asran-san."

The others turned back. Tojo was facing them again, but the samurai was now only backlit by the remnants of fading daylight. They could see nothing of him but a silhouette.

"I make decision," came Tojo's voice

The others stared, not daring to move.

Quietly, their samurai friend approached them.

It was getting dark fast now.

But as Elrohir would later remark, you didn't need a lot of light to see a smile that wide.

"I decide. I take… best of both words."

It was really impossible to gauge how long the resulting tumult and exaltations lasted. Certainly long enough for the door of the Brass Dragon to partially open, and a number of the staff's heads to peer out curiously. Certainly long enough for Tojo to politely but firmly turn away each and every attempt at a hug that came his way. Certainly long enough for the samurai to wait impassively as his friends embraced each other as a substitute.

And certainly long enough for Cygnus to need to throw a _light_ cantrip on top of his brand new quarterstaff.

Gathering himself partially back together, Elrohir turned back to the samurai. "Tojo," he began breathlessly, "we're all with you. The stockade can wait- it's not like we're under the king's directive anymore, anyway- we'll set out for Keoland as soon as-"

But Tojo raised a hand to stop him. The samurai's expression was curiously casual.

"No need to rush, Errohir-san," he intoned, raising an eyebrow. "Why in such hurry?"

If the preceding tumult of joy had been loud enough to set off an excited cacophony of barking from two temporarily confined dogs (as it had), the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement was intense enough to make the sounds of crickets into a deafening crescendo.

Tojo's eight friends gaped at each other, and then at him.

And then the third and final amazing sound pealed through the twilight of this amazing day at the Brass Dragon Inn.

Tojo's laughter.

None of them had ever heard the samurai laugh before. It was a surprisingly deep sound, perhaps an octave lower than his normal speaking voice. It was interrupted constantly by a hiccupping fit, which Tojo had seemed to set himself into by this unfamiliar action.

"He's a doppelganger," Zantac said at last. "He's gotta be."

Tojo motioned with a hand gesture for silence, or at least patience, while he finally tamed his laughter and waited for the hiccups to subside.

"You not understand, good friends," he finally said, still chuckling.

"May as well put that phrase on our tombstones, Tojo," Elrohir said, shaking his head. "I don't think any of us will ever really understand you."

"My daimyo assign me task of finding Pears of Hamakahara," Tojo recounted, his laughter now gone but not his smile. "Naturary, it shamefer of me if I deray in this. But since daimyo now gone six hundred years, my task now to bring Pears back to Nippon to new Yanigasawa daimyo-"

Elrohir and Talass glanced involuntarily at each other. Aslan's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

"- and renew my vow of fearty to him. My cran wait six hundred years for me. They can wait few more. My friends have task to attend to back in Pomarj first, and I sharr stand at their side."

"I can wait for this," he continued, his eyes taking on a wistful look, "I wirr have my oroyoi. My honor wirr be restored, and I wirr be home, where I berong.."

"Tojo," asked Caroline, with a worried look. "Does that mean, once you find the Pearls, that… you'll be leaving us for good?"

Tojo's smile faded.

"Yes, Carrorine-san," he replied softly. "That exactry what it mean."

"Then we'll be with you every step of the way, Tojo," said Aslan, his voice as loud as Tojo's was quiet. "We'll travel with you back to Nippon, right to your clan stronghold, to make sure nothing goes wrong."

Tojo now did yet another thing the others had never seen him do. He put a passable copy of Argo's fake thoughtful impression on his face.

"Not sure if Nippon ready for you peoper," he said cautiously, before that wonderful, bright smile returned.

"But they just have to adjust then. I honored to awrays be at your side."

After yet another miniature celebration, Aslan declared it was now officially too cold to remain outside, not when the serving girl had already dashed out to them and told them that the staff (who naturally knew far more about what was going on than they had assumed) had prepared a hot dinner for all of them.

"Yeah, I suppose we'd all better get back inside," Argo smiled at the paladin. "Just because you don't plan on having children means you have to let certain parts freeze and break right off, huh?"

Aslan scowled and led the way back towards the inn.

Just as he had opened the door again, however, he stopped short.

"What is it, Aslan?" asked Cygnus, who was right behind him.

The paladin turned around and eyed all of them.

"We need to give thanks," he said suddenly.

"Um, can't we do that inside?" beseeched Zantac.

Aslan shook his head. "No. Right here and right now. Do any of you realize the meaning and the magnitude of what's taken place here today?"

The others considered. Some seemed to know, or at least to guess, where the paladin was heading with this. Others seem bewildered.

"Argo," Aslan said, catching the big ranger's eye, "you don't believe in coincidences, right? Than if that's the case, we are blessed beyond belief! Just since the beginning of this year alone, we've all faced the certain death of one or all of us versus Nodyath, in Highport, at the stockade, and again right here! Are we that clever? Are we that resourceful?" The paladin shook his head. "I don't think so. We've come through danger unscathed more than anyone has a right to expect."

"Not totally unscathed," Elrohir reminded him.

Aslan nodded. "I know, Elrohir, but we know that Tad is alive and well. Believe me, when I first found out he had been taken, I would gladly have given up all hope of ever seeing him again if I could be assured that he'd be okay. I never thought that would happen, but it did. I've spent most of my life trying to come to grips with the divine. I probably don't know much more now than when I first started, but I know when we're being looked out after."

And with that, the paladin lowered himself onto his knees. Since he was blocking the open doorway, the others had little choice but to follow suit.

Tojo was already praying. His voice was low; the words, Nipponese.

"Thank you, All-Father," Aslan began. "You have shown us the way through peril; not only from our enemies without, but also from our frailties within. Your wisdom has guided us-"

An extremely loud throat clearing came from behind him.

"-even if your ways seem mysterious and roundabout to us," Aslan concluded. He cocked an eyebrow at Bigfellow. Argo smiled. The ranger's own prayer was considerably shorter.

"Thank you Zeus, for once again showing them how's it done."

Cygnus was also praying, but the mage's supplication was a private one.

_Father of Victory_, Cygnus thought, _thank you for what you have done, and please help my friends understand what I must tell them tonight._

Talass, Zantac and Caroline were also engrossed in silent prayer.

Soon, it was over, and everyone rose to their feet again.

"Let's eat," said Aslan. "I'm starved."

Just as Cygnus, near the back of the pack, was about to enter the inn, Elrohir grabbed his arm.

"I couldn't do it, Cygnus," the party leader confided in him.

The wizard looked questioningly at his friend.

The ranger shrugged. "Who do I thank? Who really saved us? Couldn't it have been us all along?" The party leader kept his voice down, obviously not wishing to be overheard by the others. "It just didn't feel right to me, somehow. I started thinking about Odin, or Forseti, but it just seems…" Elrohir trailed off, shaking his head. "I don't know, Cygnus, I just don't know. Hell, if anyone deserves credit for today other than us, I'd say it was Lemontharz. He was the one who put the idea in my head, years ago. Maybe he's the one watching over us."

He gave Cygnus a look of resignation and joined the others inside.

The tall mage glanced back one more time outdoors.

The stars were beginning to show themselves.

"I wouldn't doubt it, Elrohir," he whispered.

Cygnus went back inside, closing the door quietly behind him.


	101. Thorin Looks Ahead

_"Earthquake!"_

Thorin had never experienced one before, but nothing else could explain the terrible shaking and pitching of the ground beneath his feet. He was outside, with Barahir clinging to his hand and crying fiercely. The children were standing in the courtyard of a huge building, from which pieces of tile and stone were falling. The shifting and grinding of huge blocks of stone that composed the high courtyard wall sent paralyzing fear through Thorin's body as effectively as any poison could have done. All he could do was try to keep himself and Barahir upright.

People were running all over the courtyard. Thorin saw no one he recognized, he didn't know where he was, and he hadn't the slightest idea of what to do.

Everyone looked like Tojo.

Or at least, they all seemed Nipponese. They had the slanted eyes, shallow noses and dark hair that Cygnus said were common to all of Tojo's people. Of course, this could also be Kara-Tur on Oerth, or even Rokugan on Rolex.

Thorin frowned. He didn't even know what world he was on.

The child glanced upwards. Low in the afternoon sky he could see a moon. The moon was naked; light and dark circles plainly visible on its face. Luna's ever-present veil of clouds was absent.

_Aarde then, or maybe Rolex_. Thorin couldn't remember how many moons Rolex had, or what they looked like. He had never been to either world.

A large arch shaped like some type of Nipponese symbol stood at the exit of the courtyard. In what seemed like a peculiar perspective, Thorin could see past the arch across miles of plains and light forests without difficulty. Beyond that, immense mountains lost their peaks in the clouds above.

Women, children and the elderly were staggering through the swaying arch, and then turning aside either to the right or left. The courtyard wall blocked Thorin's view of them after that, but the child was sure that they were circling the courtyard and its attached building, heading back away from the mountains.

Most of those fleeing were either crying in fear or wailing in despair.

A growing rumble sounded near the boy, and he spun around. Despite the swaying ground beneath them, two dozen warriors on horseback thundered past. They all wore beautiful ornate armor of a type Thorin had never seen before, and several carried rectangular flags. White, with a blue triangle situated near the top.

The mounted men all carried longbows, and Thorin could see each one had two sheathed swords. With a start, he realized they were the same type of swords that Tojo carried.

_They must be samurai_, the child thought suddenly, as a sense of wonder overtook him.

_So that's what their armor looks like._

Their battle cries filling the child's ears, the samurai poured through the arch and headed out across the plain. An equal number of footsoldiers followed them. They wore bamboo or padded armor and carried odd-looking polearms that were completely unfamiliar to Thorin. They had no blades at all, only small holes bored into their ends.

Barahir suddenly screamed.

Thorin whirled, but not fast enough as a hand clamped down on his left wrist.

A samurai stood before them. The warrior was bending forward, holding one boy fast in each hand. He wore a similar suit of elaborate armor to the other samurai, each of the two shoulderplates bearing the blue triangle on white symbol. His great helm was fashioned in the fierce visage of some Nipponese monster. Only his eyes could be seen, glaring down upon the two children.

Violet eyes.

"Tojo?" Thorin whispered.

The voice that answered was in the Common tongue, but it was not Tojo's.

"You must come with me!" the samurai shouted, starting to pull the children along towards the arch.

Thorin struggled. _"No!"_ he screamed. "Where is my father? Where are the others?"

The samurai did not seem inclined to explain. "Come! I will lead you to safety!"

_Will lead_. This samurai spoke Common better than Tojo, but Thorin would have given anything to hear that mangled pronunciation right now.

"I'm not leaving! I'm waiting right here until they get back!" Thorin pulled and pulled. In the end, it was more the terror of a cold sweat than any burst of strength that allowed him to slip his hand free of that grasp.

"Stupid child!" the samurai roared, pulling Barahir closer to him as though to ensure the security of his other charge. _"They are not coming back!"_

A sword went through Thorin.

The boy stared, dumbfounded, at the samurai. There was a pain starting in his chest. Worse than when he had been kidnapped by Nodyath. Worse than anything else in his abnormally short life. He could feel something terrible happening to his heart.

Something that was never going to heal.

For a moment, those purple orbs facing him dropped downwards. A recognition of something.

Thorin knew he was going to die if this pain didn't stop.

He didn't want to die.

Therefore, it couldn't be true.

"No," the boy croaked out, turning his head away to look outwards again. Just as he did so, the ground underneath them lurched suddenly, sending all three tumbling to the ground. There was a loud cracking sound and as Thorin watched, the large, red-painted wooden beam of the arch came crashing down. Commoners of all sorts picked their way over the rubble and continued to exit the courtyard. Beyond, the mounted samurai and their footsoldier followers were now mere dots on the plain. They seemed to be heading towards one of the nearest mountains, which seemed to rise directly from the far side of the plain without any intervening foothills. The clouds that had covered the sky seemed to have completely vanished at some point, because Thorin could see the entire mountain now, an abnormally smooth spike, jutting upwards in a slight concave curve, its snow-covered peak contrasting with the bright blue above.

Even at this great distance, Thorin could see something tumbling down the slope of the mountain.

It looked like an avalanche, with numerous huge boulders embedded within the landslide.

Thorin gulped. He didn't know how far away the mountain was, but to be visible at this distance, each of the boulders must be over a hundred feet across.

The avalanche reached the base of the mountain, spreading out in a stone delta across the plains and slowly coming to a halt. The boulders rolled on, rolling almost reluctantly to a halt.

Dozens of dots approached them.

_And the boulders stood up._

Thorin cried out and jerked his head away.

Barahir ran into his arms. Thorin plunged his face into the smaller boy's blond hair and just held on. He didn't want to see or hear anything more, but the reality of the terrified toddler was real. It was as solid as the earth beneath his feet- and shaking just as badly.

Thorin suddenly realized that he was all that Barahir had left now. He couldn't abandon him.

The older boy raised his face. The samurai was now squatting down in front of them. He had apparently let Barahir run to Thorin.

Child and adult stared at each other.

Thorin could barely get the words out. "What's happening?"

To the boy, it seemed as if the samurai's hoarse reply had been forced out of him.

"Dao Lung- The Earth Dragon."

The tempo of the tremors underneath their feet shifted. The ground no longer shook randomly, but with a slow, steady beat.

Thorin didn't understand.

"Please," he half-whispered, half-cried. "Please tell me what's going on."

Those violet eyes danced around briefly, just like Tojo's always used to when he was flustered. Then they settled again on the small figure in front of him.

"Your father and his allies... they have failed."

The samurai's gaze turned towards the mountain.

"And so have we."

None of this made any sense to Thorin, and he was about to say so when a youth of perhaps fifteen ran up and bowed quickly but deeply to the samurai, not sparing even a glance at the gaijin children.

"Hizarga-san!" he began. The rest was a flurry of more Nipponese that meant nothing to Thorin, although the child saw the teenager point outside the courtyard entrance, where he could now see a wagon standing ready, hitched up to a rather nervous horse. A large crate and several smaller ones were piled in the back.

The samurai- Hizarga, Thorin guessed- nodded curtly at the youth, who bowed again and ran off. He turned again to the children. Thorin could see in his eyes that the next thing the samurai said to him was the last thing he was going to say before he dragged them away again.

The intensity of the tremors was increasing. They sounded like thunderclaps now.

"I am entrusted with your safety," Hizarga began. "Your fathers ask my daimyo to keep you two safe if they not return. Daimyo give this task to me. I know gaijin lands to west, across Sea of Nippon- Kingdom of Culliden." The samurai breathed hard. "No longer safe here! You dishonor your parents if you not follow their commands! You must come- _now!"_

Thorin knew that Hizarga was leaving something out. Perhaps he was leaving a lot out.

But he also knew they had to go with them.

He nodded, took Barahir by the hand again, and motioned for Hizarga to lead on. The trio began to head out towards the cart- and then stopped as the ground literally buckled underneath them- and a shadow blotted out the sun. Thorin, barely able to maintain his footing, looked upwards and gasped just as surely as if he had been punched in the stomach.

Stone rose high overhead. Too high. Too impossibly high.

And far too impossibly big to be moving. 

But it was.

Thorin shrieked as what would have been a gigantic leg of stone, if something that size could possibly have existed, moved up and forward. A sickening _plop_ drew the boy's attention over to his right, where a bloody pulp that might once have been a horse and its rider landed on the ground, apparently dislodged from the rough-hewn underside of a circular stone "foot" that was easily half the size of the entire courtyard.

_"RUN!"_ yelled Hizarga, who doubled back to the children and with one swift motion, grabbed Barahir and swung the toddler over onto his shoulders, and locking his tiny hands together. Thorin at his heels, the samurai ran and jumped over the rubble of the collapsed arch and off to the left. The air was filled was screams of terror from both men and animals, but over even that could be heard the rumble of moving stone, as if the earth itself had decided to shake off some fleas that it had ignored for all too long.

The foot was coming down now.

The horse at the front of Hizarga's wagon had bolted, but Thorin could see a wooden lever of some kind jammed between the spokes of the front wheel and the vehicle's chassis- a brake of some kind. The animal had thus been forced to drag the conveyance behind it, but had still managed to make it a respectable fifty yards through the power of sheer fright.

Just as the trio caught up to the wagon, there was a tremendous explosion behind them as a colossal pillar of stone came down on the courtyard. Thorin fervently prayed that everyone in there had gotten out in time, but he couldn't tell. The ground rippled and came hurtling up at them in a shockwave. Small rocks went shooting past them at ballista speed. The children were thrown against the wagon's chassis, and Thorin thought it an honest-to-Odin miracle that the vehicle, which rose up on its two right wheels briefly, did not tip over.

A duststorm creating by the impact quickly enveloped all three. Thorin turned away and kept his eyes closed, but it made little difference. He quickly started choking, and was only barely aware of Hizarga placing Barahir in the bench seat of the wagon. Then the samurai's strong arms were around his waist, lifting the boy up and onto the bench next to Elrohir's son.

Fortunately, the dust began to abate fairly quickly, and Thorin's coughing subsided to a manageable level. As best as he could tell through eyes still aching from dust and grit, Hizarga was climbing onboard and releasing the brake.

Thorin turned back and looked in the direction of the courtyard just in time for a fist-sized rock to strike him squarely in the upper lip.

The next thing the child knew, he was lying curled up on his right side in the wagon bed, just behind the bench. The rocking motion beneath him (with attendant banging of his head against wooden planks) told him the wagon was moving even before he sat up. He didn't think he had blacked out- it was if the scene had suddenly shifted, like a new chapter beginning in a storybook.  
_  
Please, All-Father, let this be a dream_, the boy pleaded silently as he tenderly touched a painful giant welt on his chin. His lower lip had been split, and there was some blood, but not an excessive amount. He felt inside his mouth, and wiggled one of his lower teeth. It was just about on the verge of falling out. Thorin couldn't even remember if it was one of his baby teeth or not.

The large crate rattled on the wagon bead behind him. Several of the slats were rotting or cracked, and Thorin could make out the jumbled pieces of what looked like a suit of samurai armor inside.

Unlike the others he had seen, this one was colored green.

"We reach Negacha tomorrow."

Thorin turned around- a little too swiftly, for his head began to throb. He saw only Hizarga's back. He was no longer wearing his helm. Unkempt black hair just about reached his shoulders. The samurai had not turned around.

The child didn't know if Hizarga was addressing him, but there was no one else in sight.

"Unless the Guardians awaken, the spawn of Dao Lung cannot be stopped," the samurai continued. His voice was low and measured, but Thorin could hear repressed anger.

"Gaijin should not have been sent into the valley of Weng Tzen," Hizarga muttered, and then fell silent.

A dull hatred was starting to build up inside Thorin, competing for space with his headache. It sure sounded to him like Hizarga was disparaging his father and the others.

"My father and his friends have never failed at _anything_," Thorin said, wincing with the effort required to speak through his busted lip.

"Unless their wish was to die, they have now."

That sword went through Thorin again.

_"My father is not dead!"_ the boy screamed, spittles of blood flying from his lip. "You don't know that! You don't know anything about them! _Stop saying that!"_

Hizarga abruptly pulled on the reins, halting the horse. The samurai turned around. Thorin could see a scar running from his chin and up the left side of his nose. Those violet eyes were flashing anger again. One hand abruptly reached out and grabbed the boy by the front of his tunic and yanked him forward, so that the pair were nose-to-nose.

"Baka!" Hizarga yelled back at him. "Stop whining! I have lost everything- EVERYTHING!" the samurai roared, shaking the child. "This is not time for your sorrows!"

But Thorin couldn't help it. He tried to wish away what Hizarga was saying, but the hurt and the pain and the sorrow suddenly overwhelmed the child. He leaned back in the samurai's grip and wailed.  
_  
"Father! Father! Come back! Help me! Please, let this be a dream! Wake me up! SOMEONE PLEASE WAKE ME UP!"_

The rest was lost in a sea of grief.

But Hizarga shook the boy so hard that his tears literally flew from his eyes.

"You will survive, Thorin!" Hizarga shouted. "You and Barahir! That was your fathers' wish, and you must not disappoint them! I will stay with you! This is not the end! Do you understand me? _This is not the end!"_

**13th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Hidden Jewel, Welkwood Forest**

Thorin awoke with a start, but his scream remained behind in the dream.

The son of Cygnus sat still, unable momentarily to hear anything but the pounding of his heart. Although his conscious mind was already attempting to hurl this nightmare out of his memory, he knew his father had always told him that vivid dreams, even if unpleasant, could contain pieces of useful information. Certainly his Aunt Talass held great stock in omens delivered from the gods via dreams. 

Thorin was uncertain as to the truth of this. He just sat there in his chair, that terrible scene still replaying in front of his brown eyes, but it was already growing misty...

"Thorin?"

The child started again, looking over to his right. The classroom for magical studies was empty save for him, but now the face of an elven boy about Thorin's age poked around the tapestry that had been hung from the ceiling to divide this room from the rest of the house. In his current state, it took a moment for Thorin recognize his foster brother and fellow mage-in-training, Daekin.

"Are you all right?" Daekin asked, his face showing more concern than it usually did.

Thorin wondered for a moment if he had actually screamed in his sleep. Embarrassed, he looked away, muttering, "I'm okay. I just fell asleep... I had a nightmare, that's all."

His eyes suddenly shot wide open, and he looked down to the crumpled and drool-stained parchment below him, spread out on his desk. He remembered staring at the basic magical symbols imprinted on it, and trying to grasp in his mind the power contained within. The classroom had been warm and quiet. It was merely an exercise designed to fill in the last few minutes in the lecture, while their teacher, Daekin's cousin Kymaista, put away her materials and made notes as to their next lesson.

He must have fallen asleep while studying. Even more embarrassed now, Thorin flushed red. Daekin, noticing this, assumed his more common expression; a smug smile.

"It was the end of class, anyway. Don't worry about it," the elf said, shrugging and then adding, "At least you don't snore. I've heard that noise is supposed to be loud enough to revive the dead." He chortled. "Fistlin said that all humans snore, but I told him it wasn't true. After four months of sharing a room with you, I think I'd know by now!"

Thorin managed a weak smile.

Daekin tilted his head. "Me, Fistlin and Zulli are going to go grab some lunch by the stumps. At midsun, they're having another performance over at The Shell. The Legend of the City of Summer Stars. We thought we'd catch it. You interested?"

Thorin considered, then slowly shook his head. From what he had heard, that was a very sad, tragic story, and he didn't need to be brought down any further.

"No," he replied. "I'll meet you for lunch, but after that I may take it easy until tonight. I'm kind of tired. Go on ahead- I'll be there in a few minutes."

That concerned expression reappeared briefly on the young elf's face, but it was clear that his foster brother was not about to elaborate. 

"All right," he said, smile now back in place. "See you in a bit."

Daekin vanished back behind the tapestry. Thorin stared at nothing in particular for a moment, and then laid his head down on his desk and closed his eyes.

He didn't really know why he started softly crying.

It wasn't the nightmare. At least not directly. Things had been so pleasant for Thorin that it took the boy a moment to realize the obvious.

He missed his father.

Not only him, but all the others, too. They weren't really his relatives, but he always thought of them that way. He missed Aunt Talass riding roughshod over everyone, even Uncle Elrohir, when she thought they weren't doing the right thing. He missed listening to Uncle Argo and Uncle Aslan arguing over... well, over _everything_. He missed the horses, and the dogs, and the pegasi.

And even though he was living in the midst of some three hundred elves, he missed Tad. The best friend he'd ever had.

Thorin slowly got up, wiping his eyes clear on his sleeve. Unconsciously, his hand felt his lower lip. Unblemished, of course. He walked over to the double doors that led out onto the balcony. Frosted glass planes set into them offered a tantalizing glimpse of warm sunlight. He opened the doors and stepped outside onto the wooden platform.

Thorin never got tired of the beauty of Hidden Jewel, and he doubted he ever would.

As usual, his mind unconsciously divided the vista before him into three layers. The midmorning sun was situated just right for its warming rays to pierce down through the forest roof and bathe the young human without forcing him to squint. The sunlight fell upon the tops of the tall oaks, ipts and roanwoods, a good fifty feet above the balcony. Thorin watched the dappling of sunbeams bouncing off the leaves overhead, and listened to woodland birds calling to each other.

At eye level, Thorin could see other elven houses like this one situated in the branches of the neighboring trees. Wooden plank bridges connected this particular grouping of six houses, while three ropes constituting a rope bridge snaked off from the furthest house deeper into the woods towards another grouping. Although no other elves were currently visible on the other balconies or platforms, Thorin could hear an occasional elven murmur, if he listened long enough.

The forest floor was about fifty feet below him. For the most part, it wasn't easily visible. If one remained still long enough, however, spaces in the foliage (perhaps not quite as naturally occurring as first glance might suppose) revealed portions of what lay below. Thorin knew from experience that from down there, it was even harder to tell that anyone, let alone an entire village of three hundred plus souls, might be watching overhead.

Everywhere, there was a soothing green.

Thorin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had quickly grown to love the smell of the woodlands. While the allure of dusty old tomes of knowledge still appealed to him, the child had in the last four months developed more of an appreciation for the outdoors than his father Cygnus probably ever would. Thorin considered himself lucky to be able to enjoy the best of both worlds.

Of course, it could hardly have been otherwise. As far as Thorin was concerned, Welkwood was where he had been born. The face of the elven leader Alias was the first memory that he could recall with any certainty, and he had spent the first several months of his life here, having complicated and unknowable spells cast on him almost daily. By the time Thorin had learned how to control the swirling, untapped chaos that was his own mind, it had been time for him to leave. Time to go and live with a father he didn't know, and without the mother he never would.

Thoughts of his father continued to intrude on his mind now. Thorin had heard little from him since his arrival here. There had been three letters from the Brass Dragon; the most recent dated the 4th of Planting, about five weeks ago. It had been fairly formal and lengthy, detailing the party's success of their mission to Highport, their most recent discoveries concerning Tadoa's fate, and their plans to return to the Pomarj to finish the slavers once and for all. Even the personal portions, where Cygnus expressed his hope that Thorin was all right and his desire to see him again soon, were written in a stilted, formal fashion.  
_  
Father needs to learn to relax_, Thorin grimaced at the recollection. _He needs to come live here for a while, or at least to bring me back home, where I can help him._ Thorin wanted to get in touch with his father, but was far too shy to ask the few elves that might have the ability to use a _sending_ on his behalf. Thorin had sent off his reply letter the next day, but they took over three weeks to arrive. For all he knew, his father could have been...

A slight increase in both volume and quantity of voices filtering up from below caused the boy to open his eyes and peer downwards. Ahead some distance, but moving along the path that would take them right by this particular tree was a small crowd. Although he couldn't make out details, Thorin could see four people, possibly humans, walking in a close-knit and somewhat rigid diamond formation down the path. Several Welkwood elves walked in front, beside and behind them, but it was the large dark shape in the diamond's center was drawing the majority of the attention.

Even in an elven enclave like Hidden Jewel, a black bear didn't often come strolling by, especially in the midst of four people.

Thorin turned and ran through the house to the space in the floor where Daekin had left the rope ladder dangling. The boy smiled as he began his rapid descent. When he had first arrived here, Thorin had been absolutely terrified of heights, ladders, rope bridges and all related objects and vistas. This of course was not an allowable phobia for anyone living with elves, and so the young human had been carried, literally kicking and screaming at first, to face his fears head-on. Fortunately, the elves were so adept at this process of acclimation that Thorin still felt embarrassment at his initial reluctance. Now he felt as home in the trees as he did on the ground.

He could see Daekin, standing about thirty yards down the path, standing with Fistlin and Zulli. The three elven children had apparently postponed their lunch to join the onlookers waiting for the new arrivals to pass by. The trio gave Thorin nods of acknowledgement as he pulled up to them.

"That one in front. He's a wizard. I can tell," Daekin announced, pointing at the lead approaching figure.

As much as Thorin loved to catch his foster brother in a mistake, he thought Daekin was probably right. The man walking in front (all four were indeed human) was perhaps thirty years of age. He wore a forest pattern tunic and trousers that were clearly of elven make, but no cloak. He carried a quarterstaff nearly identical to the one Thorin knew Cygnus carried. The man's head was nearly egg-shaped, with piercing green eyes set below rapidly thinning brown hair. His air of quiet determination and confidence looked so forced, it was almost comical. He looked straight ahead of him for the most part. Occasionally, he would smile at someone, but it was a grin so patently false, the man soon gave up on it. It was useless at best, and patronizing at best.

Behind him, on either side of the bear, were two warriors of some kind. Each appeared a good ten years older than the wizard they followed. The closest to Thorin and his friends had blonde hair, blue eyes and an easy, genuine smile. He wore leather armor, and carried a small wooden shield in his left hand. A bow was slung over his shoulder, and a sheathed sword and dagger hung from his belt.

The bear blocked most of their view of the other warrior. As far as Thorin knew, it seemed like an ordinary black bear, but then again he didn't know all that much about bears. He was about to ask Daekin if the wizard was controlling the animal in some fashion when he saw the human walking behind the animal.

He was the leader here. There was no doubt.

The man looked about forty. His brown hair was cut short in front, but left braided and long down the sides and back. His hazel eyes looked out from a face prematurely wrinkled by a hard life spent outdoors. His beard was big, thick and bushy. It wasn't braided like a dwarf's, but it was carefully groomed to give the appearance of a large ball extending out from the man's chin. The staff he carried looked like a vine-wrapped oak branch.

He wasn't smiling at all, although his left hand would sometimes reach out and stroke the bear lightly on it's backside.

It was the touch of a friend, not a controller.

"He's a druid," Fistlin whispered to Thorin.

Zulli rolled her eyes. "What tipped you off, Fistlin? The fact that he's conversing with our Guardian of Nature in Druid's Cant?"

It was true. The man, druid or no, was speaking with a middle-aged male elf in a brown leather jerkin that they all recognized as Eldeth Shae. They couldn't understand any of the words, but the newcomer's attitude remained serious throughout the conversation.

The bear gave a short, sudden growl.

As they pulled abreast of the four children, Daekin yelled out in Common, in deference to Thorin.

"Eldeth! What did the bear say?"

The elven druid arched an eyebrow, turned and smiled at the child.

"He asked me if nosy children taste good."

Daekin, smug smile firmly in place, looked over at Fistlin. "Better be careful, Fistlin."

His friend looked wary. "Why me?"

Daekin shrugged. "Isn't Zulli always calling you her _sweetie?_" 

In a shot he was off, running towards the orchard with Zulli and Fistlin both at his heels. Thorin smiled, then turned back to watch the procession head down the path.

There was something about that man. The human druid. Thorin knew he'd never seen him before, yet he somehow looked familiar. Almost as if someone had once described...

The four humans were about thirty feet past Thorin when the boy suddenly cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled. He never even wondered if he was right or not.

_"Wayne! Wayne of the Woods!"_

The druid stopped dead.

And the growl Thorin so clearly heard wasn't coming from the bear.


	102. Father And Child Reunion

**13th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Hidden Jewel, Welkwood**

The druid turned and glared at Thorin, his expression of anger unmistakable.

The man bade his three companions wait with a curt gesture, and strode briskly back towards the boy. The black bear followed at his heels. The Guardian of Nature Eldeth Shae also followed but remained further back.

Thorin's eyes were wide as the man approached. _I guess I should have figured out beforehand what to do after I got his attention_, he thought.

There was a very uncomfortable silence all around as the druid bent down so the displeasure in his hazel eyes would only be inches from Thorin's. The child would have sworn even the forest birds had shut up, just to accentuate his discomfort.

"My name, _child_," the man hissed, "is _Wainold_. If you call me _Wayne_ again, you are _bear scat_- do you understand me?"

Thorin considered himself a pretty good judge of character. He was reasonably sure the druid would not carry out his threat.

What he was not sure of however, was the bear. The animal no longer looked nearly as friendly as it had earlier.

Wainold crossed his muscular arms across his chest and straightened up, retaining his glower down upon the youth.

"Human," he mused.

Thorin was still. He knew he was the only human child in Hidden Jewel. Did Wainold know that as well? If he did, and he started to wonder why Thorin had called him that hated nickname, he'd put the pieces together quickly. It would probably be better if Thorin brought it up first before-

"You're Cygnus' son, aren't you?" Wainold asked abruptly.

Thorin nodded mutely.

Another growl sounded from within the druid's throat. It came out sounding remarkably like the word _Argo_.

Thorin just stood there shaking. Inwardly, the child was berating himself for calling out in the first place.

Wainold appeared on the verge of saying something else when one of his companions called out to him. Both the druid and the boy looked over.

Eldeth Shae had strolled off, but another elf was now standing and amiably chatting with the other three humans. The elf threw his long blonde hair back over the pale violet dressing gown he wore as he laughed at some joke Thorin couldn't hear. The light-hearted attitude of the quartet was in marked contrast to Wainold's sour mood, but Thorin felt instantly at ease.

It was going to be all right now. The Lord of Hidden Jewel was here.

The best description of Alias that Thorin had ever heard came, ironically enough, from a dwarf. A member of a trade delegation from the nearby city of Fax, he had frustratingly denounced the elven ruler as "an elf's elf" when the group had left Welkwood without the one-sided trade agreement they had hoped to connive Alias into signing. While the proclamation had certainly not been intended as flattery, Alias delightedly turned it into such, and had afterwards stated his intention to try and live up to such worthy praise.

As outsiders viewed elves, Alias was already pretty close to their stereotype. He was graceful, elegant, and possessed an androgynous beauty, feminine without being effeminate. He seemed carefree, and almost always had a joyous smile visible or at least nearby. He was even a wizard- and one of no mean power.

Alias beckoned them over, and Thorin wasted no time in responding, even though he had to make a wide circle to avoid the bear, whose dark eyes followed him unceasingly. Wainold took a deep breath and then followed.

Thorin's newfound confidence began to erode as he actually reached the group. While the child had always felt at ease _around_ Alias, he felt uncomfortable actually _talking_ to the elven leader. For one thing, he never knew what to call him. Alias had no family name that Thorin had ever heard, and he was called one title as often as another. For his part, Alias wasted no time in initiating conversation with his charge.

"Hello, Thorin," he said, with a smile and a nod towards the approaching druid. "Recognized your father's friend?"

"_Friend_ carries assumptions." Wainold scowled as he came up. The other three humans were eyeing Thorin now, the wizard most intently.

For his part, Thorin had eyes only for the forest floor beneath him. "Yes, sir," he mumbled in reply. "I mean, my Lord... my King..."

He looked up, flustered. "I'm sorry, Alias- I never know what to call you!"

Alias' smile dimmed somewhat. He squatted down so as to look the child in the eye and placed his hand on his shoulder. The elf spoke to the child as an equal.

"If you would satisfy me, Thorin, call me _friend_. If you would make me happy, _mean_ it."

Thorin noticed that the druid looked mildly uncomfortable as Alias stood back up.

"So, Wainold," Alias continued without missing a step, "I am gladdened to see you and your companions again, though quite surprised, I confess. Had you not been confirmed as an Initiate of the Eighth Circle down south in the Suss, under Wictwodu?"

Wainold nodded. "True. However, another Initiate of like ability has come into his service, and the Archdruid offered me a release. Seeing as other matters clamored for my attention, I took it."

Alias raised an eyebrow.

The druid gestured with his oaken staff at his wizard cohort. "Thorimund's father Thormord is highly placed in the Wizard's Guild of Willip in Furyondy. They are having some... difficulties, and we are heading there to assist."

Thorin's heart leapt up in his chest, but he kept quiet.

Alias bowed slightly. "The Hidden Jewel is your home for as long or as short a time as you desire, Wainold. I know you have just arrived, but may I be so crude as to request a moment of your time? We have a mystery that you may be able to help a good friend of mine unravel."

Some suspicion showed on the druid's face, but he nodded and motioned for Alias to lead on. The elven lord smiled and headed towards his personal dwelling, followed by four humans and one black bear.

And one human child. Thorin stayed back aways, but was determined to camp outside at the base of Alias' tree, if necessary, so he could apologize to Wainold when he came out. He'd then beg the druid to carry a message from him to-

"Thorin?"

The boy blinked at the sight of Alias, ahead on the path ahead of him. The elven monarch was holding out his hand.

"Would you come with us, please?"

Thorin's mouth dropped opened in astonishment. Ashamed of the long silence that promptly issued forth from it, he clamped it shut and shuffled forward. This wasn't what he had wanted. Wainold did not look at all happy about Alias inviting him along, and Thorin was sure this would wreck whatever chance he might have of speaking privately with him later. He couldn't begin to imagine what the ruler of Hidden Jewel was up to, but he did know that refusing him was out of the question...

The treetop dwelling of the King of Welkwood consisted of three levels compared to the usual two, but otherwise seemed wholly unremarkable. Thorin had only been here once or twice. He glanced around as he climbed up the rope ladder onto the bottom level and then followed the quintet up the wooden stairs that run around the trunk of the huge tree that held this home in its branches. The house seemed fairly crowded with elves, but they gave only passing smiles of greetings to Alias' guests, and did not attempt to engage them in conversation.

The staircase ended in what seemed to be a very comfortable-looking library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed with tomes, scrolls, maps and intriguing curios. Three plush chairs and one couch sat unused. The far wall, about fifty-five feet wide from trunk to where it bisected the curved outer wall, was a wood that seemed to grow directly into both floor and ceiling. Two oval-shaped doors, about fifteen feet apart, gave the appearance of eyes.

"Wainold, Thorimund, Arwald, Hengist," Alias intoned pleasantly while indicating the rightmost door. "Please make yourself comfortable. I shall join you in just a few moments." The elf turned to Thorin with one of his seemingly inexhaustible supply of smiles. "This way, my dear child," the elf said, indicating the other door. "We mustn't keep our guest waiting any longer than necessary."

Thorin's heart pounded in his chest as he approached the door. Who was this person he was about to meet, and how could a mere boy like him be of any use is solving a problem Lord Alias himself could not? The child steeled himself, putting on what he hoped was his best somber expression as he opened the door to reveal-

_"FATHER!"_

Thorin's body was already in motion, his legs pushing off in a great leap forward even as that wonderful word tore itself loose from his lips. Cygnus, clearly prepared for this moment, caught his son and the two of them whirled around. It was only after Cygnus had lowered Thorin to the ground but stayed bent over, keeping him in a hug did the boy realize that this was as demonstrative a display of affection that he could ever recollect from his father.

Trying to hold back tears of joy, Thorin could only whisper, "I've missed you, father."

"And I've missed you, Thorin." Cygnus stood up, smoothing his son's hair the way he always did. A wistful look came into the tall mage's face. "You've grown at least two inches in the last couple of months. Are you sure you're not using _growth_ spells on the sly?"

Thorin's happy attitude deflated, at least partially. "Not likely. I still can't even cast a cantrip," the boy groused.

His father raised an eyebrow. "You're seven, Thorin. Do you know of any seven year-olds who can?"

Thorin folded his arms across his chest. "Technically, I'm less than two years old, father."

Cygnus shrugged. "And you have the maturity of a ten year-old, if not more. What's your rush?"

His son looked down at the floor. He would have scuffed his feet, but the silken rug underneath looked expensive. "I don't know. I guess I just hoped that by studying with the elves, I'd be able to..." his voice trailed off.

There was a slight pause.

"There's more to life than wizardry, Thorin."

His son looked up at him.

"I'm not quite sure when I first realized that," Cygnus continued, "but it's a lesson that I get reminded of every single night, when I look over to your bed and realize that it's too dangerous to have my own son live with me at home. Arcana alone won't solve that problem, Thorin. It's a tool- perhaps the only one I know and will ever know, but I'm under no delusions- not anymore."

Thorin could only gape at his father. Two distinct thoughts screamed for attention in the child's mind. The first was the somber realization that Cygnus was not here to take him home- Nodyath was evidently still at large.

The second was even more startling. More to life than magic? His father had no hobbies or leisure pursuits that Thorin knew of. He couldn't ever recollect him professing an interest in anything else. Sometimes he would talk about Thorin's mother, but-

A lump rose in Thorin's throat, and he turned away so his father would not be able to see him pull himself together.

"Thorin," he heard his father say, "We have a very serious matter to discuss- and a very important decision to make."

Once again, Thorin stared at his father in disbelief.

Cygnus nodded. "That's right, son. I said _we_. This concerns both of us, and what we decide here today may well affect the rest of our lives. It's a decision I'm not willing to make unilaterally."

The boy stared into his dad's brown eyes as Cygnus slowly settled himself into one of the two wooden chairs by the small oval-shaped table in the room. The wizard gestured for son to take the other seat. 

Suddenly Thorin wasn't in such a hurry to grow up anymore...

Wainold glanced at his companions seated around the large table, then at the large cloth-wrapped bundle lying on the table's surface, and then up at the short man who stood nearby, attired in a green shirt, brown trousers and boots. This man was not looking at the druid however. Rather, he stroked his short beard as he gazed at the package.

The man had been waiting in this conference room when they walked in. They'd exchanged small talk, and were now waiting for Alias' imminent return.

Wainold disliked waiting almost as much as he hated his nickname. The druid scowled at the man.

"That boy Thorin- he's picked up some bad habits."

Aslan raised an eyebrow as he turned his attention back to the speaker.

"What, did he call you _Wayne?_"

The druid's expression made the answer he didn't give irrelevant.

The paladin shook his head. "Why does that upset you so?"

Wainold narrowed his eyes. "It shows a lack of respect. I'd expect no less from a buffoon like Bigfellow, but Cygnus seems like a sober enough fellow."

At that moment, the oval door behind them opened of its own accord, and Alias entered, carrying a tray with six glasses.

Hengist shook his head; the warrior's dark curls framing his tanned face. "I've never seen a king serving drinks before."

Alias smiled at him as he placed the glasses on the table. "I gave my serving girl the day off."

Aslan slowly took a sip and closed his eyes in satisfaction. The Brass Dragon did not carry Aleeian wine, and he found this a superior vintage. The paladin waited until everyone else had taken a drink, and then gestured towards the wrapped bundle on the table. "So what's all the fuss about, Alias?"

The elven noble untied the string holding the bundle closed, and gently opened it to reveal what looked like two sets of identical clothing.

Everyone leaned forward to examine them. "You can touch," Alias said. "Just don't try them on."

There were two white silk shirts, as fine in craftsmanship as anything Aslan had ever seen. There were also two doublets of fine cloth to be worn over them. They were an off-white, with gold filigree, ruffled sleeves and a subdued geometric pattern of white and tan diamonds with small embedded gemstones. There also two sets of light beige trousers, also of superior workmanship. The final items were two tan cloaks with a complicated red weave design running around the borders.

Aslan glanced over at Alias, but the elven ruler's face betrayed nothing.

"These are for a nobleman," Hengist offered, laying the shirt he had been examining back down on the table.

"A Furyondan nobleman," added Arwald. When the others looked at him, the warrior indicated the small metal cloak clasps. In the shape of a shield, each bore the royal insignia of the Kingdom of Furyondy.

Alias fingered his glass as he began to speak.

"Just over two weeks ago, a patrol from Baridel Castle discovered three humans camped out in their territory. They-"

"Baridel Castle?" interrupted Aslan. "I'm not familiar with it."

"Elin Baridel is a half-human adventurer from Celene who retired and settled down in Welkwood many decades ago," replied Alias pleasantly. "He built a castle about seven leagues due north of here. He helps us keep bandits and other visits from unsavory types to a minimum."

"Tell me," snorted Wainold. "When did they start calling grave robbers _adventurers?_"

"Just looking for some respectability, I expect," Aslan said with a thin smile.

The druid glared back, but said nothing.

"These humans did not appear to be the noble type," the elf continued. "They were camping in a matter that suggested they wished to avoid detection. When the patrol demanded their names and purpose, they took off. When they starting firing arrows, Baridel's men returned fire. Two of the interlopers were mortally wounded, but the third escaped."

Alias' face grew uncommonly serious. "The third man dropped two bundles during his escape," he said, indicating the clothes. "That's one of them. The other burst open upon hitting the ground. He gathered it up and fled, but the patrol leader's report said it appeared to contain clothing- for a noblewoman."

"Which way did he flee?" asked Wainold.

"North."

"Towards Furyondy, not away from it," mused Thorimund. The wizard's deep green eyes suddenly snapped up to meet Alias' light green ones. "Are these magical in any way?"

Alias nodded. "A _detect_ revealed nothing, but I had a hunch the aura had been masked- and so it had."

Thorimund's mouth was a tight line. "What type of aura?"

"Enchantment. Powerful. Very powerful. An unusual type, but sadly, one I've encountered before."

"Where?" Aslan asked.

Alias turned to him. "From you."

The paladin's eyebrows shot skywards. "Excuse me?"

"Valente."

A silence settled upon the room. Wainold and his cohorts seemed confused, but Aslan stared back at Alias for a few seconds before realization hit him and his head snapped back to stare at the garments.

"_Chams_ clothing," he breathed.

Alias nodded.

"We're not of much use if you don't fill us in," Wainold said quietly, frowning and drumming his fingertips on the table.

"Valente is a fiend we first ran afoul of several years ago," Aslan began, his voice low and his eyes downcast. "We eventually slew him, banishing him back to the Lower Planes for a century, but his legacy lives on in magic items he created- and his children."

The paladin drained most of his glass, waited a moment and continued. "They're hordlings- these beasts he called his children. Each one unique in appearance and abilities, but all utterly malign to the core. We've slain most of them as well, but at least one still survives, if not more."

Thorimund looked thoughtful. "I've not heard of them."

Aslan looked grim. "Your father has."

The wizard stared at the paladin, who responded with a bitter smile.

"Chic is one of the children of Valente."

The mage exchanged glances with his three companions, and then turned his attention back to Aslan. "Do these hordlings have any common weaknesses you know of?"

Aslan chewed his lip. "Cold iron, but only to a degree."

"You also mentioned magic items?" Wainold put in.

"Valente apparently was a master of creating unusual magic items, which he distributed either to his children, or to unsuspecting mortals." The paladin pointed at the clothing again. "A human-looking hordling named _Chams de Baron_ used sets of garments like these to cause untold woe. Fortunately, he eventually met his doom at our hands." Aslan paused. "I had thought all of the clothes were destroyed as well, but it seems not."

"Well, now for the prize question," Thorimund muttered. "What exactly do these clothes do?"

"You'll notice there are two identical sets," Alias stated. "That is part of the enchantment. When they are both worn, the minds of the two individuals involved are switched."

There was another silence.

"Permanently?" asked Thorimund.

The elven wizard nodded. "It's an instantaneous effect, much like _flesh to stone_. The clothing loses all power once the switch is accomplished, so a _dispel_ does nothing. There are certain spells that can break the enchantment and reverse the effect, but since neither person affected by the change radiates magic, it's difficult to know what you're looking for."

Wainold squeezed his ball of a beard. "Does the initial transformation require a certain range to take effect?"

"Yes. A mile, maybe less."

Thorimund ran his hand through his thinning hair. "Ingenious. The perfect tool for infiltration."

"Or assassination," added Arwald darkly.

"Either way, the target is probably one of the Knightly Conclave," Hengist said, frowning.

"Where do we figure in all this?" asked Wainold.

"I was hoping you might be able to speak to some of your forest friends," Alias replied. "They might be able to find and stop this villain before he escapes the Welkwood. If he has no special means of travel, he'll probably reach the forest's edge in two days. At the least, we might get a fix on his location. I already have Eldeth Shae working towards this end."

Aslan was still mulling over this discovery in his head. "Could this get any worse?" he sighed.

"As a matter of fact, it already has."

Aslan stared at Alias, but the elf looked like his nearest smile was a long ways off.

The paladin looked back out towards the library. "Before we go any further, we're going to need Cygnus in on this," he said.

"Yes." Alias' voice was soft. "You most certainly will..."

"So," Cygnus concluded, leaning back in his chair, "that's pretty much what's been happening back at home. Now, what about you? Tell me how things have been for you here."

Thorin hesitated. He was sure there was a lot more than what he had been told. Admittingly, Cygnus had just condensed four months of time into ten minutes, so he had been forced to leave out a lot. Still, the boy suspected certain events, such as the party's adventurers in the Pomarj or the recent revelations about Tojo, were more serious than his father was letting on. He shrugged uncomfortably and looked down, not really sure what Cygnus wanted to know.

"Okay, I guess."

Cygnus frowned. "I expect better elocution from you, Thorin. What have you been studying, besides magic theory?"

Thorin waved his hands about vaguely. "Well, when I first got here, I told them I didn't want to study anything else. I mean..." The child trailed off and looked at his father. "I mean, _you_ study magic... mostly... and it's always worked for you!"

Cygnus pressed his lips together. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"They wouldn't let me just study magic though," Thorin sighed. "So I tried other things. I like history, so I've been studying that a lot. I mean, I always kind of feel like I'm behind, you know?"

Almost imperceptibly, his father nodded.

Thorin hesitated. "I've also been... spending a lot of time outdoors. My foster brother Daekin and his friends... we go out into the forest a lot, and they're teaching me a lot about plants and animals." Unable to look him directly in the eye, the boy cast him a sidelong glance. "I like it... being outdoors. I mean, I like studying and all that too, it's just that-"

"That's good, Thorin."

The child looked at Cygnus in surprise, and was favored with a small smile.

"It shows you're more well-rounded than I am. You're putting into practice what I only know in theory. You always loved riding on the pegasi, or playing with the horses or dogs." The tall mage nodded approvingly at his son. "So, what have you been giving the elves in return?"

Thorin blinked, taken aback by this unexpected approval from his father. He struggled to formulate an articulate response to his father's question. "The only thing I have to offer. I'm teaching the Common tongue to young elves. I don't know why- almost everyone here speaks it as well as I do!"

Cygnus nodded. "It's the elven way, son. Everyone receives the benefit of the community, but everyone is expected to pitch in with something they know. How is Barahir? Do you see him a lot?"

More comfortable with this topic, Thorin straightened up in his chair. "He's staying in a different home, with an elf who specializes in looking after kids his age. I check on him every day though, just so he doesn't forget what a human face looks like!" He smiled proudly at his father, who returned the grin.

"Good. I'm sure the elves are taking fine care of Barahir, but I feel better knowing you're looking after him- and I'm sure Elrohir and Talass feel the same way."

The child beamed with pride, but that soon faded. Cygnus was looking at him now in deadly seriousness.

"Thorin," he said softly. "We had a meeting last night at the Brass Dragon- discussing whether we would be returning to the slavers' stockade. I was the first to speak." The mage hesitated. "I told them that I was seriously thinking of leaving."

Thorin's brow knitted in confusion. "Leaving?"

"Leaving. You and myself, Thorin. The two of us. Leaving the others for good and going off someplace else to live out the rest of our lives in peace."

The child's mouth went dry. "But," he stammered, "what about Nodyath? Couldn't he find us wherever we went?"

"We would not be telling anyone where we're going, Thorin," his father replied. "Nodyath is unlikely to spend all of his time trying to track us down when the others remain at the Brass Dragon."

Thorin's eyes went wide. An image of everyone back at the Dragon flashed in front of him. "Father," he whispered, not wanting to anger him. "Wouldn't they be at more risk, then? They'd be less able to defend themselves against Nodyath- or the Emerald Serpent!"

"I do care about them, Thorin," Cygnus responded, his own voice straining to remain level. "But I care about you more."

The boy couldn't say anything now. He didn't know where to put his eyes.

"Son."

He couldn't help but look. Thorin wasn't used to seeing his father this... unsteady.

"Son, back at the stockade- I thought I was never going to see you again." Those brown eyes were misting over. "I _swore_ on your mother's grave that I'd look after you. And no matter what else I have to give up to do that, I will. It's been months now, and we're no closer to catching Nodyath then when we started. Retirement isn't working. There's always another mission, another enemy. Talass' vision... I... I don't want to be apart from you forever."

"Father," Thorin said, his own eyes starting to tear up. "Please-"

"I've already lost your mother, Thorin. I... I can't lose you, too. I won't. _I won't!"_

The anger in his voice couldn't stop Cygnus from dropping his head to his chest. He dabbed at his eyes furiously, but his tears fell faster than he could dry them.

Cygnus felt the weight of his son on his knee, and then Thorin's arms were around his neck. His boy's face nestled into his shoulder.  
_  
"I love you, Thorin. Never forget that. No matter what happens- never, ever forget that."_

Thorin had barely heard his father's whisper, and wasn't even sure it had been meant for his ears. The boy squeezed his father again, and sat up, drying his eyes as best he could. Cygnus followed suit.

"Whatever you decide is best, father. No matter where we go or what we do, I promise you... I'll make sure you never have cause to regret it. I'll make you proud."

The wizard finally managed a shaky smile.

"You already have, son."

Thorin cleared his throat and abruptly changed the subject. "Father, that ranger from Chendl you talked about- Nesco Cynewine?"

Cygnus frowned, puzzled by the sudden change of subject. "Um, yes?"

"Is she going to be staying at the Brass Dragon from now on, like Zantac is?"

His father frowned. "I don't think so, Thorin," he replied. "I think we'd all like that, but she's an agent of King Belvor, and doesn't have the freedom to make those choices like we do. It's too bad, though," Cygnus mused, thinking back. "Too bad," he muttered.

"Is she pretty?"

The wizard's eyes flashed wide open in astonishment. "What?" Seeing the earnest look in his boy's eyes though, he considered. "Uh, yes, I'd say that she is." He eyed Thorin curiously. "Where did _that_ come from?"

The child bit his lip, looking away. "I don't know. It's... been a while. I didn't know if you were... were..."

Cygnus smiled, finally understanding.

"Son," he said softly. "Your mother was the only true love of my life. I have no problem whatsoever about spending the rest of it with her memory. I have no problem with that at all."

He hesitated. His son's eyes, as brown as his own, were tearing up again.

"Thorin?"

"Father," whispered Thorin suddenly. "May I make one request?"

"What is it, son?"

And the most precious thing in Cygnus' life turned his head to look directly into his eyes.

"May I see mother? Just once?"

Cygnus drew in a sharp breath. He knew what his son meant.

Thorin, seeing the hesitation in his father's eyes, waved a hand dismissingly. "That's all right, father. You don't have to-"

"No," said Cygnus firmly. "That's the least I can do for you. Besides... you deserve it." He swallowed hard and pointed towards the back corner of the room.

Thorin adjusted his position on his father's lap and followed his finger... and waited.

Cygnus' left hand, trembling badly, came out of his spell component pouch clutching a small piece of fleece. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then began to rub the fleece while speaking an incantation...

And Hyzenthlay was there.

She stood in the far corner of the room, smiling at her husband and her son. Her hazel eyes sparkled, and the ringlets of her long brown hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She wore a simple woolen skirt and flax blouse (_it'd be different if Thorin wasn't here_, Cygnus suddenly thought, and had to fight to suppress a grin).

Thorin was absolutely riveted.

Cygnus adjusted the tempo of his moving fingers, and Hyzenthlay walked slowly over to them, still smiling. She made no noise at all.

"She's so beautiful," Thorin finally whispered.

"Yes," his father agreed, his own eyes growing misty yet again. "Yes, she was, son. In so many ways."

The three of them stood in silence.

A family.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind them. Cygnus turned to see Aslan standing in the open doorway. The paladin's eyes were wide in astonishment as he gaped at the image.

The moment was broken. Cygnus lost his concentration, and Hyzenthlay winked out.

"That was for me, Uncle Aslan," Thorin spoke first, taking the initiative. "I, uh... I'd like to thank you for bringing my father here to see me."

Aslan tried to refocus. "Oh. Yes... you're welcome, Thorin." He laid a reassuring hand on the child's shoulder. "I've missed you, you know."

The boy nodded and smiled. "I've missed all of you too," he replied while standing up.

"Cygnus," the paladin said, his voice serious again. "We need you. We've got a new problem- or should I say, an old problem has resurfaced."

The magic-user rolled his eyes. "I didn't know they were any left we weren't already dealing with."

"How about another legacy of Valente?"

Cygnus stood up slowly, his expression grim. "I'll be right there."

Aslan nodded, flashed a grin at Thorin and left. Thorin, not wanting to stop talking, addressed his father as formally as his trembling body would allow.

"I meant what I said, father. I know the ultimate decision is yours, but if it helps, you will always have my support. If... if you don't mind, I think I need some fresh air. I'm going to take a walk. I'll see you later on?"

Thorin stared at his son, then burst back into life.

"Yes! yes, of course you will, Thorin. I'll send for you as soon as I know what's going on. We'll all have dinner together tonight, I'm sure, and we'll talk more then."

His son nodded, and walked slowly out of the room, his head held high. He was halfway towards the staircase when he turned around.

"Father?"

Cygnus, just about to open the conference room door, paused. "Yes, son?"

"Thank you."

There was a short silence, but not nearly as sad as the previous ones.

"Don't mention it, Thorin."

The boy smiled and left...

"All right," Cygnus said several minutes later, after the situation had been explained to him. "Now tell me how all this could possibly be worse than what you've already mentioned."

Six figures exchanged glances, and then all turned their eyes to the tall mage.

"Cygnus," Aslan said. "The man who escaped with the other set of Chams clothing... he's working for the Emerald Serpent."

Thorin walked through the forest, taking deep breath after deep breath. He wasn't leaving Hidden Jewel, but he wanted to be off the main paths. The child found a nice looking ipt and sat down, leaning against its trunk.

This had been one incredible day, and it wasn't even over yet. Traumatic to be sure, and yet... and yet somehow enlightening, in a good way. He'd loved the chance to talk with Cygnus outside of arcane lessons, and he looked forward to more such talks. There were a lot of things he wanted to ask his father. In fact...

Thorin frowned, concentrating.

There had been something important... something _very_ important that he'd wanted to ask his father about, but he hadn't thought then that he'd have the opportunity to do so this quickly, and now it had gone completely out of his mind.

He hoped he'd remember what it was later on.


	103. Argo Opts Out

**14th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

"Well," said Elrohir in what he hoped was a casual tone, "let's have another go at this, shall we?"

None of the other seven individuals seated around the large circular table in the common room so much as cracked a smile. Cygnus in particular seemed to assume the comment had been directed at him, and glared at his party leader.

Not that he was completely wrong in that assumption. It had after all been Cygnus who had dropped the bombshell on them two nights previous. It had been less than an hour after the matter of Tojo's fate had been (temporarily) resolved when the Aardian wizard announced out of the blue that he was considering leaving the party for good.

This had not gone over well with several people, least of all Elrohir. While the ranger certainly could not fault Cygnus' concerns about his son, Elrohir had gotten a subtle feeling that Cygnus felt Elrohir should be feeling the same way about Barahir. He felt like Cygnus was making him out to be a bad father, or at least an indifferent one, in front of the group. Elrohir resented this, feeling that Alias could protect his son far better than the party could. Just because he wasn't breaking down in tears in front of everybody about it didn't mean he didn't care.

Aslan had diffused the situation by taking Cygnus to Welkwood the following day, and the pair had returned this morning. Thorin not being with them, it was clear that Cygnus had decided to stay with the party, at least for now. The mage had said little about the talk he had had with his son, only to say it was "illuminating."

The information the duo _had_ brought back with them on the other hand, Elrohir would just as soon not have heard. The revelation about the Chams clothing was more bad news- the only type the party seemed to receive these days.

_Quit whining, Elrohir_, the ranger thought to himself, rubbing his eyes. _We're all in this together. They're looking to you for leadership, not humor._

"Cygnus," Elrohir said to his friend sitting to his immediate right, "is there anything else you wanted to add?"

The magic-user stared at the ranger, couldn't find anything accusatory in the question, and responded, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "Only that I'm not convinced of the theory that a noble couple is the Emerald Serpent's target. I think it could be anyone, and I'm sure the loss of half of the clothes will not deter their plan."

Zantac, sitting on his fellow wizard's right, frowned. "You're thinking their target could be us?"

Six men turned to regard two women.

Talass indicated with a barely noticeable shrug that she felt this was of no concern to her. Caroline Bigfellow however, favored the table with a smile.

"If someone comes up and presents me with an anonymous gift of beautiful clothing, I promise not to strip naked and put it on without speaking to one of you first."

Her husband, seated between her and Elrohir, raised an eyebrow.

"I'd hope you'd _always_ let me know before you plan on stripping naked, love."

Aslan, currently to Caroline's left, sighed disapprovingly, but wasn't able to completely hide the blush in his face. Argo, waiting for just such a reaction, was about to pounce when the paladin held up a warning hand.

"Don't. I'm not in the mood for it, Argo."

To everyone's surprise, and no one's more than Aslan, the big ranger dropped the topic immediately.

There was a short silence. Elrohir could feel the tension around the table, and he didn't like it.

"Zantac," he plowed on ahead. "Cygnus has indicated that despite his concerns, and they are valid ones," the ranger hastened to add, "he will be accompanying us back to the Pomarj. What is your view, and please speak your mind freely."

The Willip wizard shrugged. "I'm on board, Elrohir. I do need to mention something, however- I've only had the chance to talk with Cygnus about this, so far."

Seeing he had the table's attention, Zantac continued. "When I was at the guild researching the Pearls of Hamakahara, I met up with my friend Martan." The mage's mouth tightened. "You may recall Torlina had mentioned he had been looking to speak with me. Well, Martan is now firmly convinced that one of our members is in league with the Emerald Serpent. The guild is planning to capture Chic alive, on behalf of Baron Chartrain, and Martan fears the project may be sabotaged. He's also convinced that the Serpent remains dedicated to our annihilation, and that another attempt towards that end will be made. And no, he had no specific details."

"But he have suspicion as to who traitor is?"

Zantac turned to regard the samurai sitting to his right. "Yes, Tojo. He does."

"Aimee." Cygnus spoke the name matter-of-factly.

Zantac hesitated, seemingly uncomfortable with this theory, but nodded assent. "I'll try and stay on top of this as much as possible. I just wanted... everyone to know."

Elrohir gave a nod of acknowledgement. "Thank you, Zantac. Tojo- anything you wish to say?"

The samurai considered for a moment, and then shook his head without comment.

Elrohir continued around the table. "Dearest?"

His wife spoke slowly, her eyes downcast. "I'm going."

"What about your vision?"

Talass raised her eyes, zeroing in on the questioner. "Justice demands we see through this task to completion, Argo. And as for my vision, what is preordained to happen, will happen. Acceptance of what the gods decide is as much a pillar of your faith as of mine, isn't that right?"

Bigfellow met the cleric's eyes without flinching. "I've never claimed to be a pious person, my good lady."

Talass' reply was cold. "This might be a good time to start."

"Aslan." Elrohir rushed to fill the silence, perhaps a little too quickly. "Your thoughts?"

The paladin folded his arms across his chest and sighed. "I'm sure it's no surprise to anyone that I'm going back as well. There are a few logistical points I'd like to address, however." Aslan looked at Elrohir with a courteous expression that he hoped would convince his friend he wasn't stepping on his leadership toes. _Lord, but he can be sensitive sometimes_, he thought.

Elrohir appeared to take the hint. "By all means, Aslan," the ranger said graciously.

"First of all, I'm going to contact Sir Dorbin in Willip before we leave. Update him on all that's been going on, and have him keep a close eye on the inn again. I'm sure at least some of his party won't mind taking over for us again. Also, based on my reconnaissance back at the stockade, there's a few items I'd like us to stock up on before we head out. These will be best procured for us at Chendl."

Cygnus frowned. "Aslan, we're flat broke again."

The paladin nodded. "I know, Cygnus. I plan to barter my private services to King Belvor for what we need. This includes any... healing we might need after the fact, since the Royal Court will no longer pay for it."

"Let me make sure of something," Zantac said with a tight smile. "You say _healing_, but since you can heal us all given time, what you really mean is getting us _raised_, don't you?"

Before Aslan could reply, Elrohir cut in. "Private services? You mean as a psionic mercenary?"

Aslan smiled a genuine smile. "As one paladin to another, I'm sure his Royal Majesty will not command me to do anything objectionable. And yes, you're correct Zantac," he added, turning the same smile on the mage. "Just trying to put a better face on it is all, but you're right- I should have been more direct."

"This might mean we'll be without you for a while after we get back, Aslan." Talass did not look happy at the prospect.

"All the more reason to have Sir Dorbin as close as possible," Aslan responded.

Argo snorted at that. "You could make the same deal with Melinjaro here in Willip, or even Lancoastes if you're desperate."

"I have another reason for basing this trip out of Chendl." The paladin's voice abruptly turned hard as his smile vanished. "A private one."

Even Elrohir didn't think to interrupt the unexpected silence that ensued. Eventually, Caroline, who was next in line, took it upon herself to speak.

"I can't go," the young woman whispered, staring down at the table. "I'm sorry, but I've lost my nerve. I don't know what it is, but I know I'd fold when you needed me the most. I know you all think I'm a coward, but..." Caroline's voice trailed off as her eyes filled with tears.

"You're not part of a mercenary company, love," her husband said, as she leaned into his arms. "You're part of a family."

There followed a respectful period in which Caroline was allowed to compose herself, and assorted expressions of understanding were tossed her way.

"Well," Elrohir finished, "that just leaves you, Argo. Any nuggets you'd care to share?"

Argo Bigfellow Junior hesitated a moment, and then nodded, slowly stood up and soberly eyed every single person sitting around the table, ending up on his wife.

"I'm not going."

Six pairs of eyes flashed instantly to Caroline, but her shocked expression was all-too genuine.

"What?" Elrohir was first with the word.

"I'm worried about Caroline, and so I'm staying with her. I didn't tell her because I didn't want anyone thinking she had talked me into this." The big ranger's auburn eyes swept back over to Aslan.

"Argo," Caroline croaked, "you don't have to-"

"Of course I don't _have_ to," her husband interrupted. "I _want_ to. That's all the difference in the world, and it's been the very cornerstone of this family since the beginning. The first person who tells me I _have_ to do something gets to see my back as I walk off into the sunset."

Caroline was starting to look absolutely terrified. Despite Argo's last statement, it looked as if most of the table was turning against him.

_I was right_, she thought. _I'm no big loss if I don't go, but Argo..._

"Is this because of Caroline's dreams, Argo?" Talass asked, making no effort to keep the ice out of her voice. "You seem selective in the omens you listen to."

Bigfellow's return smile was equally cold; a rarity for him. "Been speaking with the horses lately, my good lady? They're having the same type of dreams. You should know by now I don't believe in coincidences."

"We would have died last time without you, Argo," Elrohir had stood up and leaned forward, placing both hands on the table.

Argo mirrored the gesture, glaring back at his party leader. "If you're not expecting it to be any easier this time around Elrohir, then I strongly suggest that you don't go."

"Let him go, Elrohir." Aslan waved a dismissing hand. The ranger stared at him in disbelief, but the paladin merely shrugged. "If his heart's not in, he'd be useless to us. He let us know quite clearly outside the stockade last time what his priorities are."

After a moment, Elrohir nodded, but was clearly trying to rein in his anger. Caroline, who had not been present at that scene, looked confused, but the others looked back and forth between Aslan and Argo. The latter switched his piercing gaze over to the former.

"What part of _family_ don't you understand, Aslan?" the big ranger hissed. Then his expression suddenly brightened into one of mock understanding. "Oh, that's right. The part that involves _being a part of one_."

Aslan's eyes narrowed. When he spoke again after a silence that was entirely too long not to cause any damage, his voice was controlled and modulated.

"This is a pre-mission briefing, Argo."

It took a moment, but the light quickly dawned in Bigfellow's eyes.

"Of course. Forgive me. Forgive _us_."

He spun around to his wife. "Get up, Caroline. It's late. We're turning in."

Looking as if she truly wanted to drop dead right then and there, Caroline slowly rose to her feet, not meeting anyone's gaze, and allowed her husband to take her by the arm and lead her out of the Brass Dragon.

The others watched them leave. Elrohir turned back to Aslan.

"I'm not going to mince words, Aslan. We're at a tremendous disadvantage without Argo's sword arm, and you know it!"

The paladin's face resumed a calm demeanor as he turned back to face his party leader. "I won't deny that for a minute, Elrohir. However, allow me to elaborate on my plan for resolving that situation."

"Another happy meeting," groaned Zantac, rising to his feet. "Is the kitchen still open?"


	104. Daughter Of The House Of Cynewine

**23rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Cynewine House, Chendl, Furyondy**

"Harder."

Nesco and Grimdegn Cynewine stopped sparring. Nesco glanced over at Sir Alexor.

"Father," Nesco said, "He's not going to learn any faster if I break his arm."

The knight's hazel eyes never left his daughter's face. "You think an orc is going to care? _Harder_."

Lady Cynewine grimaced and looked back at her younger brother. Grimdegn's tanned face was glistening with sweat. Wide-eyed with exhaustion and despair, the boy looked a lot younger to her than his fifteen years. His breath was coming in great ragged gasps, and both his practice sword and his wooden shield bobbed up and down as the youth's arms struggled to stay upright. His eyes, the same green with a hint of hazel as his sister's, silently begged for succor.

Nesco gave him a few extra seconds of rest by turning to her father again. "With Sir Juntaros now going through officer training at the War College, Grimdegn isn't likely to see action again so soon. Why put him through this?"

Sir Alexor folded his arms across his chest. "If Sir Juntaros has requested additional combat training for his squire, I take it as given that such training is required. Proceed."

Nesco turned back to Grimdegn, shrugged, gave him a sad smile and mouthed _Sorry_. She was getting ready to swing again when the teenager spoke up.

"Sir Juntaros thinks I'm a coward."

She blinked. Her little brother looked so miserable, she wanted to give him a hug, not swing a sword at him. "Does he think everyone who doesn't see action in a particular battle is a coward?" the ranger asked, hoping she was keeping the anger out of her voice.

Nesco had been so taken aback by her initial discovery that her brother Joseph had recently been involved in his first battle that she had completely forgotten at the time that Juntaros had also been assigned to the same unit in the Vesve Forest. They had come under orcish assault while setting up camp for the night. Grimdegn had been ordered to take shelter in one of the rear tents with the other squires and protect the porters, cooks and other non-combatants. He had done so, and although the orcs had come close to their tent, they had been driven back before they actually reached it.

"You stayed at your post- what else does he want?" she continued. "If they'd had a few more high-quality scouts, you wouldn't have been caught unprepared in the first place! Sir Damoscene can't be expected to do everything by-"

"I'm not going to tell you again, Nesco," Sir Alexor interrupted. His voice carried the weight of a commander. "Get on with it."

"Yes, Father," she mumbled and turned her attention back to her current pupil. "Try it again, Grimdegn. Remember, watch where my blade is _heading_, not where it _is_. Lead with your shield, and cover the exposed space with your sword."

"I won't be in a position to counterattack if I do that!" the youth complained.

"I'm teaching you defense," Nesco retorted. "I'm trying to keep you alive, not fill your head with stupid notions of being a hero. Your master is supposed to look out for you. If you're cut off from help and under attack, you _run_. You got that?"

Grimdegn started trembling again, but this time it was from emotion, not fatigue. The boy's eyes grew moist.

"No matter who I obey, someone is going to be angry with me."

Nesco locked eyes with her brother. "Grimdegn," she said as calmly as she could. "In position. Here I come."

The ranger attacked with her own practice sword, hoping the necessity of defending himself would snap Grimdegn out of his melancholia, even if only temporarily. It seemed to work. He blocked her first three swings, even with the increased power behind them, but he was just a second too slow responding to the next one, which bypassed both sword and shield and rammed full on into the boy's crude leather jack. Grimdegn gasped in pain and doubled over, dropping his sword. Nesco, a heavy feeling in her own chest, waited until she was sure he wasn't seriously hurt.

"I can't," Grimdegn gasped, "I can't-"

"Sir Juntaros should be returning shortly," the Cynewine patriarch stated with no apparent emotion. "Go and clean up, Grimdegn."

Without a word, the teenager picked up his sword and staggered off. Nesco couldn't tell if he was crying or not.

When the ranger turned back to face Sir Alexor, his eyes were already waiting for her.

"Walk with me," he said.

Nesco was sweating more now than she had during the spar session. It was a hot summer's day, and she was clad in her new chainmail armor. It was not dyed like her old armor had been, and it still didn't feel quite as comfortable. Instead of a helm on her head, Nesco now wore a chainmail coif. It was more stable, but it made her feel even hotter.

Alexor steered them away from the grassy field into the winding paths among the flowerbeds that constituted half of the rear grounds of the Cynewine mansion.

"You looked tired out there," the knight commented, his gaze wandering from a buzzing bee to his daughter's face, "even before you started."

Nesco sighed and pulled off her open-faced mail hood. Her hair was plastered to her head in various unflattering ways, and her face was covered with sweat and grime. She really didn't feel like waiting for Alexor to get to the point. "Is there something you wanted to ask me, father?"

"I've been concerned about you, Nesco," he replied in an unexpectedly mild tone.

This remark caught Nesco so off-balance that she almost stumbled, but her father kept pace with her without comment.

She stared at him as they continued their stroll. Alexor merely shrugged. "You've had a brutal time of it recently, and the last two weeks haven't been quite as... stable as I would have hoped for you."

A grim smile settled on Nesco's features. "Are you referring to my brief stint at the War College?"

"Possibly," her father admitted, taking the time to stop and lean his face into a lilac bush.

"I lasted what, a week? I think that may be a record."

Sir Alexor turned his head and gazed at Nesco silently. If his intent was to agitate his daughter into speech, it succeeded.

"Why, father? Why did you let mother enroll me for officer training? I have absolutely no desire for that, and you know it! It was a colossal waste of time!"

"Both Joseph and Sir Juntaros were enrolling, and your mother wanted you to do so, as well," he replied. "I saw no reason to deny her."

Nesco mulled this over. "You knew I'd get myself expelled. This was just throwing Gella a bone, wasn't it?"

Her father said nothing, but started again down the path. Nesco hurried to catch up.

"I'm not a leader, father. You know that I'm better-"

Sir Alexor abruptly stopped again and held up a hand to cut her off. "You're not officer material, Nesco. That's completely different from saying you're not a leader. In the right situation, such as in a small group of irregulars, you would flourish in a leadership role. Sir Damoscene told me that, and I concur with his opinion."

Nesco was too disturbed by her recent memories of the College to pay attention to the compliment. "If you did this to placate Mother, it didn't work. She's as angry with me as ever. She thinks I didn't even try."

The knight shrugged. "You didn't try, Nesco. It would have been too painful for you."

She gasped, stung by the unexpected criticism. "I can't believe you're siding with _her!_" she cried. "That woman has done nothing but make-"

_"That woman is your mother!"_ Alexor roared, stopping short and grabbing his daughter's arm. "And I will hear no more against her!"

The ranger just stood there, trembling, hovering somewhere between anger and a cold hurt.

Her father's face softened, but only partially. "Do you wonder why your mother is as she is, Nesco, or do you concentrate only on yourself?" he asked, letting go of her arm.

Unable to meet his gaze, Nesco looked at a rose bush instead.

"We are Cynewines, Nesco," she heard her father say, and she knew he was drawing himself up to his full height. "The Cynewine men serve. They are trained as warriors, and they serve their king as such. It's been this way for the past fifty years, and it will go on that way for as long as I have anything to say about it." The knight paused, taking a deep breath. "As for the women..."

Nesco glanced over to him.

"There is no such family tradition. I chose to allow my daughters that option. My eldest took it, and she has made me very, very proud of her. As proud of her as I have ever been of any one of my sons."

Nesco blinked in surprise. Speech failed her, which was just as well because her father had started walking again. It was all she could do to get her legs moving again to keep up.

"Put yourself in your mother's place, Nesco. Her oldest son has died, and now her next son has as well- and yes, she knows it to be true, no matter what she says. Her third son has already been in battle, and shows a recklessness that marks him as a dead man unless he learns to temper it. Her fourth son, Nesco- _just barely a man_, is about to become a warrior. She looks at her youngest son- page to a knight already, and knows that his fate is just as uncertain as his brothers. And now one of her only two daughters, who is not obligated to risk her life as her brothers must, chooses that life nonetheless."

Sir Alexor gazed evenly at his daughter as they walked. "Lady Gella Cynewine knows that she will preside over the funerals of her own sons- a burden no woman should have to bear once, let alone _again and again_. She considers our family motto to be a curse, not a blessing, and she cannot understand why you do not feel the same way."

Nesco could only shake her head in bewilderment. "Then why did she marry you, father?" the ranger asked. "And why does she treat her other daughter- the one who _didn't_ go off to battle- so poorly?"

There was a pause, and when the elder Cynewine spoke again, it was no longer spoke with authority- only weariness.

"Your mother is no angel, Nesco," he said quietly. "None of us are. She thought that she would be able to bear the burden of the Cynewine name when she married me- and I agreed that I would support her whether her resolve failed or not. And as for Bretagne... your mother piled all of her expectations upon her. She intended for Bretagne to be her successor, as it were. It was inevitable that at some point, the poor child would fail to live up to that impossible standard."

"You cling ferociously to who you are, Nesco." Her father's voice regained its authoritarian edge. "That is why you abandoned the god that all other Cynewines venerate. That is why you refused to accept the restrictions that becoming an officer would have placed upon you. That is why you prefer the company of those who do not demand you to question your values."

Nesco stopped again. Her face flushed, and her eyes could only move in the general direction of her father's face. Her hand squeezed the mail coif she held until her knuckles hurt.

"Do you approve or disapprove of this, father?" she was finally able to ask. "Is who I am a blessing or a curse?"

Sir Alexor smiled. His response was again unexpectedly mild.

"You tell me, Nesco," he said. "That's your decision, not mine. I have already told you that you have earned my respect."

The knight walked over to a nearby bench and sat down. Smile intact, he glanced back at his daughter and patted the wooden surface next to him.

For the first time that afternoon, a legitimate smile appeared on the ranger's face, and she sat down next to her father. They both watched the flashes of yellow as warblers chased each other among the branches of a flowering bush opposite them. It was a few minutes before Sir Alexor spoke again, and when he did, his voice was much lighter.

"Sir Juntaros seems persistent in his attentions. Do you wish me to divert him when he arrives, so that you may make your escape?"

Nesco's smile turned into a half-grimace. "He's a good man father, but I don't love him."

Sir Alexor waved an acknowledgment. "I know, daughter. And you have comported yourself honorably around him. Eventually, this bee will take the hint and move on to another flower."

Nesco shook her head in mild exasperation. "I don't understand men, father. How can they be so dense sometimes? How can you look directly into someone's eyes and not see-"

She stopped dead. An image had just come crashing into her mind.

Suddenly Nesco no longer felt hot. The sweat felt cold on her body. In fact, she felt absolutely frozen, unable to even turn her head when she heard the voice of their butler.

"A visitor wishes to speak with you in the parlor, Master Cynewine."

"Coming, Jeffers." Sir Alexor rose up. Nesco didn't even know if he had noticed her sudden discomfort, but when she finally managed to look up, he was still standing nearby and looking at her. The expression on his face clearly indicated he had.

"Be careful in combat, Nesco," her father said softly. "Be even more careful in love."

He turned and followed Jeffers back into the house.

Nesco spent the next few minutes bringing her breathing back under control, and used thoughts of Sir Juntaros, irritating as they were, to try and push that other image out of her mind. That was part of her past now. She'd been more successful than she'd have thought possible in returning to her own life. Even the pains of dealing with her mother were useful distractions towards that end.

Sir Juntaros however, wasn't getting the job done this time. _Well, that's one thing I can't blame on him_, the ranger thought to herself with a wry smile.

Joseph. _That did it_, Nesco thought as she recalled her brother's insufferable attitude towards her, in or out of the War College. He knew Nesco never wanted to be an officer, but that didn't stop his constant harping about she had brought shame to the Cynewine name by being expelled.

The ranger glanced down at the wooden training sword hanging from her weapons belt and thought about her other sword. Her _real_ sword, currently lying in her room upstairs at the house. Only the fact that Nesco had given up on ever getting Sundancer's special power to ever work for her had saved Joseph's sword from being turned to glass- preferably right in front of all his sniggering friends.

Knighthood. Nesco clenched the mail coif tightly again in frustration before dropping it on the bench, leaning back and looking over her shoulder towards the edge of the Cynewine estate, and the city of Chendl beyond.

This was the newest bone of contention between the two Cynewine siblings. At present, Joseph was nowhere near being able to land that coveted title. He may have been admitted to the Azure Order, but he was still wet behind the ears, and everyone knew it.

Nesco, on the other hand, had dared to hope that her heroics in the Pomarj (on two separate occasions, no less) might have been sufficient for her ascendance to knighthood. Two factors had dashed that hope, though. The first was that her latest expedition had not been technically a success, although she couldn't believe that anyone who had seen the devastation she and the others had wrought would call it a failure.

The second and more damning factor was, of course, her being dropped from the War College. Comitello had told Nesco not to rule out all hope, but he admitted her knighthood was not a subject likely to come up in the near-

"I must say, Nesco- you have very persistent friends," came the voice of her father.

Nesco closed her eyes in resignation. _I should have taken Father up on his offer_, she thought before putting on a proper smile of greeting and swinging her head back around in preparation of standing up.

She never made it all the way.

Nesco froze, still in a crouch. She barely registered her father, or Jeffers standing behind him and off to the side. All she could do was gape at the figure standing on her father's left.

The figure that was supposed to be Sir Juntaros but wasn't.

_Oh my god. No. Not again._

And Nesco Cynewine fell right back into that face and right back into those eyes, as if not a single moment had passed. Her heart hurled itself around inside her chest, and her own eyes surrendered their independence. They couldn't look anywhere but right into that face.

"Hello, Nesco," said Aslan, smiling wide. "Miss us?"


	105. The Luncheon

**23rd Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Cynewine House, Chendl, Furyondy **

_Lord Zeus. Give me strength. _

The thought passed through Nesco's mind as the ranger slowly managed to rise up from the crouch she had been frozen in. Aslan was still smiling pleasantly at her, no doubt assuming her expression to be one of simple surprise at seeing him again.

The paladin was wearing a lightweight green shirt and brown trousers, both of what looked to be of a heavy silk of some kind. Despite the heat, he appeared comfortable enough. Aslan had a rather high forehead, but his hair was long in back, usually resting just above his shoulderblades. Today though, it was bound up in a ponytail, a style Nesco had not seen on him before. His beard was neat and trimmed, and genuine pleasure radiated out of those light blue eyes. The whole package just took Nesco's breath away. He looked absolutely... absolutely...

_Lord Zeus. Give this man a clue. _

Nesco tried on a wobbly smile as she stepped forward. "Aslan! It's wonderful to see you!" She stopped awkwardly right in front of him, watching his body language to see what kind of a greeting he might be expecting. Aslan also hesitated for a moment, and then made a move towards Nesco's hand, which she offered. She was expecting a warm handclasp, but the paladin instead lifted it to his lips and planted a small kiss there.

Cynewine felt as if gentle, invisible hands had lifted her into the air several inches, and then set her down again. The outside world was giving hints like it might start spinning around soon if this kind of reckless behavior continued.

_I need a distraction. Where's a rampaging horde of orcs when you need one? _

Aslan, looking self-satisfied, had already released Nesco's hand and was relaxing now. "I'm glad to see you too, Nesco. Of course, as you might expect, this is not just a social call."

That was something Cynewine could focus on, so she did, giving the paladin a curious look.

"Talass told you we'd be going back to the stockade, Nesco," Aslan announced, his grave voice at odds with the sly smile he was unable to hide. "It would be poor manners not to invite you along, don't you think?"

Nesco frowned at him. "Aslan, I don't have that option-"

"Apparently you do, Nesco," Sir Alexor interjected.

Her daughter stared at him, but it was apparent the Cynewine patriarch had just been given the news as well. "Your friends here from Willip have been in contact with the Royal Court through Comitello for some days now. They were unable to meet directly with his Royal Majesty, but Aslan here tells me that although their mission is not officially sanctioned, you have again been given leave to accompany them as a representative of the Crown."

"So if we die, it's going to cost us, but your soul still gets a free ride home," Aslan said, then added hastily, "Not that any of us is going to die, of course."

"I know, Aslan." Nesco smiled at him again and amazingly, could feel herself start to relax as well. As woman-to-man, she had no idea what to do about Aslan, but as a fellow party member, she was as comfortable as a well-worn pair of gloves. For the time being, she decided she'd play that role.

"Where are the others?" she asked. "Are they here?"

Aslan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "They're running interference with your mother so I could speak with you."

Nesco grimaced. "I'll immediately put in a petition with the Royal Court to have them all awarded medals."

Her father, who was instructing Jeffers to lay out a cold lunch for everyone, turned and scowled at Nesco, but she was already motioning Aslan back towards the house with an innocent hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going to take a bath and change," she said to him, embarrassed suddenly for no good reason. "I'll see you in the dining hall shortly."

The paladin nodded, seemingly unaware of any discomfort on her part. "Until then."

Nesco Cynewine hurried through the hallways of her home, calling for a bath to be drawn much more urgently than she usually did for such things. She dashed up the stairs towards her room to grab a few things, her mind racing furiously all the while. Near the top, she suddenly stopped dead and grasped at the banister as the realization struck her.

_Mother, Father, and all of them together in the same room? How can I possibly be looking forward to this? What in the name of the Nine Hells was I thinking_?

She took one more deep breath and continued her dash towards her bedroom, making one more silent request to her deity as she did so.

_Lord Zeus. Please strike me dead with a thunderbolt. _

Although the ruler of Mount Olympus apparently saw fit not to strike Nesco Cynewine down with a bolt from the blue, as she slowly walked towards the dining hall the ranger could not suppress a sigh of relief that her god had indeed been listening.

The maid had informed Nesco during her bath that Lady Gella Cynewine had suddenly remembered an "urgent" appointment she had elsewhere in the city, and with pleasant words and a smile tight enough to make a sculptor jealous had quickly departed the mansion, pausing only long enough to grab young Lencon by the hand and rush out, the poor boy's feet barely touching the ground.

The mood in the Cynewine House, guests and servants alike, lightened noticeably after that.

Nesco's step quickened as she heard the babble of a multitude of familiar voices from inside the dining hall. _It'll be wonderful to see them all again_, she thought to herself, allowing that good feeling- that feeling of _belonging_- to sweep over her as she turned the corner into the large room.

All conversation died.

Aslan and the others were standing around the long rectangular table that spanned the length of the hall, obviously waiting for their hostess' arrival before taking their seats. Jeffers, directing the flow of servants bringing the food and beverages, kept his eyebrows from leaping up off his face entirely only with some effort. Even Nesco's father was staring at her with a mixture of surprise and curiosity.

Everyone else was simply gawking.

And Nesco Cynewine achieved that same kind of disconnect that Cygnus had told her about earlier, back outside the stockade. Her mind seemed to leave her body and float effortlessly about the room. She had a bird's-eye view of the guests, the meal, and even herself.

Her astral self blinked.

_Nesco_, she told herself. _You're wearing your dress._

Nesco Cynewine owned all of one dress. To the surprise of no one who knew her, she hated it. As a member of the nobility however, there were bound to be some occasions where her presence would be required at upper class functions; not as a member of the Azure Order of the Hart, but as a daughter of the House of Cynewine.

She had received the dress six years ago, and had probably worn it about as many times, and under protest each time. It was woolen, but made of the lightest and softest wool that could be spun. It was dyed a deep azure (of course) with white highlights and trim, and featured long sleeves that reached down almost to the floor. A midnight-blue surcoat, open in the front, was worn over it. Subtle floral patterns were embroidered around the outfit. The dress featured a deep, U-shaped neckline that seemed to be adequately fulfilling the dressmakers' design of where to draw the viewer's eye.

On her feet, the ranger wore velvet-lined pattens, and whatever jewelry she had been able to find had been haphazardly placed, hopefully on the correct body parts.

Nesco Cynewine couldn't remember changing into any of this, although now that she thought on it, the last twenty minutes or so had been pretty much of a blur. She recalled that her bath, while cleansing her well enough, had failed utterly to relax her, and she could now remember one of the servants asking her what clothes should be made ready for her upon her emergence...

She moved slowly, jerkily, into the room, not even sure of what expression to attempt to plaster onto her face.

It was Elrohir who finally managed to speak first.

"Lady Cynewine," her fellow ranger said, bowing to her. "We are honored." With a quick, permissive-seeking glance at his wife, the party leader cleared his throat and added, "You look exquisite today."

"She certainly does," came a voice from Nesco's left. "However did you manage that?"

Nesco gasped, looking over. A small portion of her barely-functioning brain had noticed the large man in plate mail standing off in the corner when she had entered, but she had assumed it was Argo Bigfellow. Her all-seeing astral self had apparently missed him completely. Now she could do nothing as a red flush which was creeping up her face anyway suddenly accelerated its travels.

"Sir Juntaros," she managed.

The Furyondan knight seemed torn between his entrancement at Nesco's appearance, and his realization that it was surely not for his benefit. He removed his gaze from Elrohir, of whom he had asked his question, back to Cynewine. "You look even more beautiful than usual in that dress, my lady," he said with a bow of his own. "Just as I told you the last time you wore it," he added as he straightened up, a sad smile on his face.

Nesco was heartbroken. She hadn't wanted to do this to Sir Juntaros. The knight, only an inch or so shorter than Argo and with the same powerful build, began scanning the other faces in the room.

_He's looking for the one that I'm wearing this dress for_, thought Nesco. _But that one doesn't even know_.

Juntaros' eyes finally settled upon the one individual who went on staring at Nesco after everyone else had stopped.

Cygnus.

Nesco blinked in utter confusion and anguish. "Everything made sense when I woke up this morning," she whispered to herself...

The sound of silverware clinking against plates melded with several separate conversations overlapping at once. The lunch had been in full swing for a half-hour now, and no one seemed in a hurry to end it.

Except the lone female ranger present.

Beginning the meal (Nesco mentally reminded herself to thank Jeffers for breaking that hideous silence) had seemed to restore the atmosphere in the dining hall. The Elrohir party marveled at the decor, the architecture and the food. They all seemed eager to fill Nesco in on what had happened since their last meeting. While Tojo's story was not mentioned due to privacy concerns, Nesco had looked over and met the samurai's violet eyes. The small smile that had graced Tojo's face was enough to let her know that, at least for now, things were all right on that front. She managed to relax a bit at that and gave a non-forced smile back at him.

Sir Juntaros, ever the chivalrous warrior, was again Nesco's good friend, or at least acting the part. He spoke freely with the others, and seemed genuinely interested, even impressed, by their exploits. When the tale of Nesco's defeat of Captain Stalworth and her acquisition of Sundancer was related, he glanced back over at her as if seeing her with new eyes.

Grimdegn, overjoyed to be sitting with such august company, gawked at Aslan. "Can you _really_ turn into an ogre?" he asked in awe over the table.

"Only when he's hungry," came the response from the youth's left, where Zantac was sitting. Grimdegn laughed, choking a bit on a piece of cold pheasant. Aslan scowled at the Willip wizard, who merely shrugged, smiling.

"_Someone_ has to fill in for Argo, you know."

The uncomfortable silence returned, albeit for a different reason. Nesco put down her knife and decided to try and break through it directly.

"I'm no substitute for Argo, Elrohir," she said solemnly to her fellow ranger.

Elrohir appeared about ready to reply, but Aslan uncharacteristically cut in.

"You're quite right, Lady Cynewine," the paladin began, his voice carrying a hard edge that Nesco found disturbing. "You were still standing when that horrible cloak-thing was destroyed. Argo wasn't. You delivered the deathblow to Captain Stalworth; Argo was about to receive one. You performed outstanding acts of courage when you, Elrohir and I were battling our way beneath the temple in Highport-"

"Aslan," Elrohir spoke over his friend, "I _ordered_ Argo to stay topside back in the temple. He-"

"It doesn't matter, Elrohir!" Aslan wasn't quite shouting, but it was close. "Nesco is here. Argo isn't. Nesco is putting the welfare of the group first. Argo has chosen not to. No indeed," he finished, pointing a fork at Nesco while still looking at the party leader, "Lady Cynewine is no substitute for Bigfellow. Right now, she's a hundred times better."

The paladin took a deep breath, apparently trying to calm himself. For the first time that afternoon, Nesco couldn't look at him.

"Argo is doing what he feels he has to, Aslan." Cygnus' voice was quiet, but it carried well in the newest silence.

Aslan turned to the tall mage, his temperature rising again. "The Sir Dorbin party is back at the inn by now, Cygnus! And according to the _sending_ Elrohir received from Monsrek, Unru has been healed and is with them again. What protection can Argo possibly offer Caroline that they can't?"

Cygnus paused a moment before replying. "The love of a spouse."

Aslan brushed this off. "That's not always enough, Cygnus," he growled- and then stopped.

The paladin's light blue eyes went wide, and then closed in sorrow. By the time he opened them again, everyone else's attention had moved over to Cygnus.

The Aardian wizard was trembling slightly. His arms and neck seemed to withdraw slightly into the folds of his brown frock like a turtle. His eyes looked out a large window towards the midday sun, as if he was searching for something there. "I know, Aslan," he whispered. "I know."

"Cygnus," Aslan began, his voice hoarse, all traces of anger gone. "Cygnus, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean-"

"That's all right, Aslan," Cygnus waved a hand in dismissal. "I know you didn't." The magic-user picked up a cloth napkin and dabbed his eyes with it, then took a deep breath and seemed to collect himself again. "Arguments come and go," he said, looking not at Aslan now, but at Nesco with eyes that seemed both sad and wise.

"Friendship. Love. These are eternal. Not even a god can stop them."

At this point, Sir Alexor Cynewine, who had been extremely quiet during the entire meal, suddenly raised his glass.

"To Friendship!" he suddenly called out. "To Love!" 

Awkwardly, with stops and starts, everyone joined in. _Friendship_ and _Love_ washed over the table.

And awkwardly, with stops and starts, the smiles returned to the table as well...

Lunch was over. The party had left, returning to the local inn they were staying at. They would stay there until tomorrow morning, when Aslan would begin the teleportation process that would take them all back to the Pomarj. Nesco was due to leave on the following day, the 25th, but she would confer with the others tomorrow, and bring herself up to speed on their latest battle plans.

There had been goodbye hugs (Tojo excepted, of course), but these were happy hugs; _welcome back _hugs. It was as if that whole terrible scene in the chapel was being replayed backwards. 

Not that everything was perfect, of course. Nesco could see in Sir Juntaros' eyes that he had finally realized the true situation, although she couldn't tell if he had accepted it or not. The knight had kept glancing over at Cygnus.

For his part, the tall magic-user had made no move to hug Nesco, and when she had taken it upon herself to do so, she had felt him stiffen up and tremble like a frightened little boy. He had mumbled something polite and indistinct before pulling away, no longer meeting her eyes.

And of course, she had saved Aslan for last.

For his part, seeing what had gone before him, the paladin was ready with a hug when the time came.

_Lord Zeus_, Nesco thought. _Please tell me what this is I'm feeling_.

She pressed her cheek against Aslan's beard, and was surprised that it tickled. Suppressing a giggle, she just let the feeling- the scent of the man- wash over her.

If it wasn't for the confusion that kept filling her heart, Nesco was pretty sure this was what traveling to the Seven Heavens would feel like.

That, and the fear.

Now she stood silently, watching the servants clear the table. Jeffers had caught her eye at one point, but she couldn't quite read the expression there.

"I shall clean and pack your _adventuring_ gear," he said, clearly pleased with accenting that word. Before leaving the dining hall, the Cynewine's chief manservant turned around briefly.

"Do be careful, milidy."

As Jeffers left the room, Nesco's father caught her eye. She caught her breath.

Sir Alexor was not a man to drink to excess, and it was debatable whether he had done so now. The knight's stance was a little unsteady, and his hand trembled as he handed his empty goblet off to a serving girl. His hazel eyes took a moment to focus on his daughter, but when he spoke, his voice was strong and steady.

"Jeffers has beaten me to the punch, Nesco, but the sentiment remains. You're going into situations the likes of which even I've probably never had to face."

Nesco nearly snorted in disbelief. "Please, Father. I'm not half the-"

"Listen to me, Nessie," Alexor interrupted, holding up his hand. His hazel eyes caught and held hers.

She was silent. Her father hadn't called her that in years. Over a decade.

"I... I'm not like Helgin," the knight began, referring to his eldest son. "He was the kind one, the gentle one, the one that all of you turned to when you needed someone to talk to, or a shoulder to lean on. To this day, I don't know how he was able to be all that and still be the warrior he was." He shook his head in disbelief.

Nesco slowly walked over to her father. Alexor was right- he was not a gentle man by nature, and Nesco was unsure of what he was looking for now, or what she could do to help him find it. And then to her immense surprise, he leaned over to her and kissed her on top of her head- something else he hadn't done in years.

"I meant what I said earlier, Nessie," he said into her hair. "Be careful. The wrong choice in combat will end your life. The wrong choice in love will haunt you until the end of it."

He quickly turned and left.

Nesco Cynewine silently stood there, resplendent in her gown. Silent servants moved past her, cleaning and tidying.

She thought about everything that had happened before, and wondered what was yet to come.

_Lord Zeus_, she prayed. _Help me._


	106. Return To The Fortress

**26th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

The sounds of combat were growing closer.

Markessa gulped and stepped behind her desk, casting a cantrip as she did so.

The screeches of goblins could still be heard from beyond the double doors, which were about seventy feet from where the elf currently stood. Markessa had briefly heard the deeper, gruff shouts of Adhu Nazaryet, the hobgoblin shaman. But then only a minute ago Markessa had heard Adhu scream, and then there had been nothing more from him.

Markessa cast another spell on herself, and looked around one more time at the thirteen goblins scattered around her laboratory. Seven were on the balcony that surrounded the room on three sides, while the other six were down below with Markessa. 

"Ready!" she shouted one more time at them. The goblins below drew their short swords, while five of the seven humanoids above nocked arrows on the strings of their short bows.

The howls of worgs could now be heard. Markessa bit her lip and drew her own short sword. The enemy had reached the worg guard post, which was just outside the door.

The elf inclined her head, straining to hear one specific, hollow, rumbling voice.

She didn't hear it.

Blackthorn was either already dead, or he had betrayed her.

_For your sake, you'd better be dead_, thought Markessa as a savage sneer flashed across her face.

The double doors now began to shake under assault. The crossbar holding them closed cracked slightly, but held.

Markessa glanced to her left, tilting her head upwards. 

"Move out in front," she said. "Give yourself room."

Her reply was a burst of steam and a loud growl, barely understandable even to her. The large figure moved out and around the desk. Markessa took one step sideways to her left, retaining the partial cover the desk offered her, but allowing her a clean line of sight to the door.

The crossbar started to crack as the doors began to push inward. There weren't many goblin voices coming from beyond anymore.

Markessa's eyes darted to the vials, flasks and assorted alchemical equipment scattered on the desk in front of her. Breathing heavily, the elf snatched up a vial of black liquid, pulled the stopper off and swallowed the contents in two gulps. She hurled the empty vial away, and readied the first attack spell she intended to cast in her mind.

The bar was about to give. Aside from a worg or two, the only sounds the elf could hear now from outside were the voices of the intruders. Those damnable humans she hated above all others. The humans that she had prayed she would never see again.

The humans who had ruined everything.

_"The Abyss take you all!" _she screamed in Common as the doors gave way.

One of the attackers rushed forward into the room. It was a tall human, wearing a brown, hooded frock-style robe and carrying a quarterstaff. Even from her location all the way across the laboratory however, Markessa knew who it was. The mage called Cygnus.

The elf grinned. Perfect. She hadn't expected the invaders to expose one of their wizards so recklessly. It was a mistake that they would not have the opportunity to learn from.

_"Now!" _she screamed at the two goblins situated on the balcony, directly above the doors.

With no small amount of groaning, the small humanoids tipped over the cauldron they were balancing on the balcony railing. Over twenty gallons of brine plunged down, and the magic-user vanished underneath that salty waterfall.

Markessa shrieked in triumph. _Let him try casting now_, she thought. The elf was about to cast her own spell before she realized something was wrong.

Cygnus was not standing there, gasping for breath. He wasn't standing there, clawing at his eyes in agony.

In fact, he wasn't standing there at all.

He had disappeared as soon as the deluge hit him.

_Illusion_.

The word, currently an obscenity, stuck in Markessa's throat, but the elf growled and flung the thought aside. There was no time for that now. She incanted and pointed right at the doorway, where the rest of the party were bunched oh-so-conveniently together.

The _lightning bolt _effortlessly discharged from her fingertips- and then abruptly dissipated.

Markessa could only gape. Never outside of training had she ever been counterspelled.

From somewhere within the ranks of the invaders came a loud, cheery voice...

"I gotta hand it to you, Elrohir. Prepping ahead really does pay off!"

"Don't flatter yourself, Zantac- he just didn't want any of us getting caught by your lousy aim," Cygnus cut in.

The party leader, currently standing in front of the latter mage, grimaced as he tried to ignore the searing pain in his right foot he had earned from that last final kick on the doors. Aslan, currently to his right, gave his friend a quick encouraging look and then plunged into the room, shield held at the ready.

Arrows rained down from above, but they either missed or bounced harmlessly off the paladin's shield. Aslan peered down the length of the laboratory at their quarry. He was about to make a pithy remark designed to reinforce the advantage that they held- but it died stillborn on his lips when he saw the figure standing in front of the wooden desk about fifty feet straight ahead of him.

_Bullish friend_, he thought ruefully. _That's not what I thought Blackthorn meant_.

Talass entered the room and immediately slid along the wall, keeping about fifteen feet directly behind the paladin.

Tojo charged ahead, winding up slightly behind and to Aslan's left. The samurai's mouth tightened as he looked at what the paladin was looking at.

Nesco finished off the last remaining worg by ramming Sundancer into its already mortally wounded body, and then hustled forward, ending up at the spot where Cygnus' image had drawn the goblin's ambush.

Half of the remaining goblins charged. One each reached Aslan and Talass- and paid for it with their lives, their respective quarries easily deflecting their sword strikes and delivering lethal responses with longsword and warhammer. A third, charging from Nesco's left, actually managed to get a strike in on the ranger, but it bounced off Cynewine's ready shield. The other three goblins clustered around Markessa in anticipation of any rush from the humans.

"Everything going according to plan in there, Aslan?" Elrohir called out from his position just inside the doors.

Aslan looked behind him for a moment and exchanged glances with Tojo before refocusing his attention forward.

"Bit of a snag, Elrohir," the paladin said, too softly for his friend to hear.

The minotaur charged.

For a moment, Aslan thought he'd been fast enough.

Then, in the space of an instant, one of the oncoming minotaur's horns pushed aside the paladin's shield and slammed right through Aslan's breastplate. He cried out in agony as he felt the ivory tip carve into his upper chest. As the monster lifted its head up from the charge, Aslan felt himself being lifted off his feet for a moment before the horn withdrew. Incredibly, Aslan managed to remain upright, but the world was now a distorted blur viewed through his tears of pain.

But he knew somewhere in that haze was a gigantic double-bladed battleaxe with his name on it.

As fast as plate mail would allow, Elrohir came lumbering onto the battlefield, and came up on Aslan's right. Using his larger size to his advantage, the minotaur swung his axe at the ranger before he even got there, but Elrohir had seen it coming and neatly sidestepped the blow without checking his momentum.

Simultaneously with Elrohir, the real Cygnus now ran into the room, making a dash for Markessa's operating table. This gave him some cover from the elf down at the far end, but even though he was a good ten feet to Aslan's left, the mage realized belatedly that he was a little bit closer to the minotaur than he thought he would have been.

There was that, and the seven goblins above now drawing a bead on him with their bows.

Cygnus didn't take long to decide where to strike. Ignoring everyone else, the tall wizard used the moment in which the giant bull-man had swung at Elrohir to incant, and his _magic missiles_ tore into the creature's furry hide. It roared in pain and then gazed with fury at the magic-user.

Zantac came rushing up to Cygnus' left, and the latter mage bit off the retort he had been planning.

The Willip wizard, alone among the party, still sported a serious injury- in his case, a vicious worg bite to his left shoulder. Aslan had healed everyone up right before the final rush towards the double doors, but Zantac had still managed to get on the wrong side of one of the worgs before the others took it down. There hadn't been time for any more healing at that point- and besides, he had no idea how much Talent Aslan had left. Zantac gave Cygnus a _don't worry about it_ look before turning his attention downfield. Like himself, Markessa was crouching down slightly, using her desk for partial cover. That in addition to her goblin bodyguards, left very little of the elf that Zantac would see.

But you didn't need to see all that much for _magic missiles_.

Unfortunately for Zantac, Markessa was thinking the same thing. The elf was a split second faster, and three white streaks shot across the intervening distance- only to vanish a foot or so in front of their target.

Zantac grinned like he'd just swallowed a canary. "_Shield_, Markessa!" he shouted. "Don't they teach you the classics where you come from?"

Four return missiles shot forth from Zantac's outstretched left hand- and likewise vanished just short of their destination.

Too far away to make out Markessa's facial expression, Zantac could only shrug helplessly.

"I'll drop mine if you drop yours."

Zantac couldn't understand elven, but he was pretty sure he knew profanity when he heard it...

Using his Talent was not an option. He needed to conserve it.

Aslan gritted his teeth as his vision cleared again. His sword danced with the minotaur's battleaxe for a few moments before striking deep into the creature's thigh. The beast's tan fur was soon stained a dark red. The paladin winced as the monster's roar of agony washed over his ears like a tangible and painful wave.

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrohir could see his wife starting to come up and join the battle. "Talass!" the ranger yelled. "We've got this one. Get the goblins above!"

Talass partially obeyed. She did alter her forward course and skirted further to the right, sidling along the east wall, out of reach of the minotaur. But as she cast a spell that created a shimmering, silvery field of energy around herself, the cleric's attention was focused not on the goblins on the balcony, but on their mistress. "They won't keep fighting after Markessa's dead!" she yelled back.

Elrohir would have rolled his eyes, but his tactical situation wouldn't allow it.

Yanigasawa Tojo leapt onto the operating table, and the samurai's katana slashed across the minotaur's chest, drawing yet another bellow of pain from the creature. Its own return strike was far too slow, and easily evaded. Blood continued to issue from the bull-man from both wounds, and it seemed certain like it wasn't long for this world.

Nesco Cynewine didn't bother with combat expertise versus her goblin opponent. With sheer brute strength, she batted aside its shield and then plunged her sword down through the creature's leather armor, through its ribs and into its heart. The ranger was already moving northwest when she yanked Sundancer out of the goblin's corpse, which she had started to drag behind her. She wound up just to Zantac's left.

Although Nesco had intended to clear the balcony first, she caught sight of Markessa at the far end of the room.

The rage she had been repressing erupted without warning. Her anger at that damnable elf dovetailed perfectly with the final instructions her father had given her concerning Markessa. The one who had killed his son. Nesco's brother. Sir Miles Cynewine.

_Gut the bitch_, Sir Alexor had said.

Arrows rained down again and Zantac heard Cygnus cry out on his right.

The tall wizard was moaning and leaning over to his left, his hand clamped over his ear. An arrow had struck him in his left ear, not hard enough to remain, but with enough force that Zantac could see blood dribbling out between his fellow mage's fingers. Another arrow grazed Zantac's right leg, but he ignored it to shout out further to his right. "Aslan! Talass! Cygnus has been hit!"

Apparently, Cygnus still retained some hearing, because he immediately overrode his friend. "Never mind- keep going!" he shouted out. "Kill first! Heal later!"

At this point the minotaur let loose with a splitting scream that put an ache into everyone's ears.

The battleaxe came swinging around fast, in a horizontal sweep to the right.

Elrohir ducked. Aslan did so instinctively, although the axe would have passed over his head anyway. Tojo, still standing on the operating table, leapt up and the blade passed under his feet. However, the minotaur managed to quickly redirect the axe swing straight up, where it scraped along the samurai's back. Tojo managed to grit his teeth and hide his pain, but he couldn't conceal the dark red stain on the back of his new silk shirt.

A second later, and the minotaur screamed even louder and longer- one last time.

The axe fell from its hands, which scrabbled uselessly at the blade that had slid up through its abdomen and under its ribcage.

With a heavy grunt, Elrohir yanked Gokasillion clear, and the minotaur toppled to the floor.

In obvious pain, Cygnus straightened up, and dug into his spell component pouch. Zantac saw what his peer came out with, and the two wizards locked eyes.

"I've had enough of this," Cygnus whispered, right before he uttered a short incantation.

The tiny orange sphere streaked towards the far side of the room. Cygnus thought he saw Markessa incant and vanish a split second before the _fireball_ detonated.

The roar of the explosion filled the room as an orange ball of fire enveloped the desk, along with the three goblins that had been standing in front of it. There were several secondary explosions as various mixtures in vials that were on top of the desk exploded as well, and then a thick, black, greasy smoke enveloped the back third of the laboratory.

_Liquid smoke_, thought Cygnus. _The same stuff Aiclesis used to carry in his backpack. Damn. I don't have a spell to disperse this._ Still wincing from the pain in his left ear, the magic-user glanced over to his right. "I'm not sure, Elrohir, but she might have gone invisible!"

Elrohir thought for a moment and then pointed towards the smoke.

"It narrows down there!" the party leader shouted, referring to where the room constricted to a mere twenty foot width, with an additional five feet on either side for the staircases leading up to the balcony. This was roughly where the boundary of the smoke cloud was located. "Everyone line up and head that way!" the ranger continued. "Keep her boxed in!"

"How are we going to find her in there, Elrohir?" Aslan inquired, also pointing towards the smoke.

"_Detect_," piped up Talass, with a grim smile. "Invisible or not, she's all shined up."

Elrohir nodded and mirrored his wife's grin. "Do it, people."

Sweeping his quarterstaff in a wide arc in front of him like an extremely angry blind man, Zantac circled the operating table and slowly walked over to the indicated section of the laboratory, taking up a position next to the western staircase. Aslan soon followed on the opposite side, with Talass right behind him.

Tojo came up on Aslan's left, and Nesco filled in the gap between the samurai and Zantac. Everyone peered intently into the smoke- looking, listening. Zantac and Talass prepared to cast.

There was no sign.

"Cygnus!" Aslan called out over his shoulder. "How do we know she didn't _teleport?"_

The twanging of numerous bowstrings being released was his reply. Shouts and yells came from the party as goblin arrows flew all around them, several bouncing off due to ineffectual penetration.

_"Ow!" _yelled Cygnus from behind them. "They're not giving up, and they're too spread out! It'd take all of my spells to get them! _One_ of you draw your bow and take them out! I'm a pincushion here!" The wizard was rubbing the back of his neck, where the latest goblin missile had scraped by his flesh, drawing more blood.

Aslan suddenly stamped his foot in frustration. "I just remembered!" he shouted, pointing into the smoke again. "There's another door on the west wall, behind the staircase! Did anyone hear a door open?"

Tojo suddenly looked over his right shoulder. "Tarass-san," the samurai said calmly. "Reprace me." 

And with that, he ran into the smoke, heading towards the location of the door. Talass had been about to make a comment, but merely threw up her arms. "Here we go again," the cleric muttered, as she moved into the samurai's vacated spot.

Nesco looked back and over at Elrohir, who was just coming up. "I think the battle plan is falling apart," she said.

Elrohir was about to fire off a retort when Tojo's voice came out of the smoke.

"Door is rocked from this side. Not think she reave this way."

Elrohir sheathed Gokasillion and drew his bow. "Cygnus! Get to cover!"

Cygnus looked around, but he couldn't see anyplace in the room, even underneath the balcony, where he wouldn't be exposed to fire from at least two goblins. Mumbling a curse, the magic-user dashed out just beyond the open double doors and waited there.

Zantac cast.

"Nothing." He frowned. "That's not good. I wish I knew how powerful she is. Maybe she did _teleport_."

"Or she's slipped past us," Aslan offered, turning around and looking back from whence they had come. "Cygnus!" he yelled out. "Close one of those doors and block the other one! If she is still here, we don't want her slipping out by you!"

"If she's invisible, I can find her," Talass said suddenly, staring at Zantac, who nodded and turned to Elrohir.

"She has a prayer that could do it, Elrohir, but we've got to decide if-"

Cygnus screamed.

Six heads turned just in time to see Markessa standing in front of Cygnus, her right arm raised almost delicately to touch the mage on his left shoulder. Arcs of blue electricity were leaping from her hand to his body. Smoke arose from the mage's shoulder, and then he collapsed into a twitching heap on the floor.

_"GET HER!" _Elrohir screamed.

The order was redundant. It was only with the greatest effort that Aslan refrained from hurling a _psionic blast _at the elf. The paladin lumbered back towards the south, Talass keeping up on his left. He knew he could never catch Markessa if the elf bolted- unless he polymorphed, which he didn't want.

A shriek came from above. Tojo had ascended the west staircase and had just cut down the goblin on top of the landing. The remaining six goblins all fired at the samurai.

Tojo's katana whirled in a steel circle around him. Two arrows were deflected and three more missed, but one plunged halfway into the samurai's stomach. He made no move to pull it out.

Nesco hesitated. Her hatred of Markessa was trying to hurl her forward towards that monster, but she just couldn't bear to watch Tojo fighting up there all alone.

She took a deep breath and plunged into the thick smoke, heading for the eastern staircase.

For her part, Markessa seemed to realize escape was impossible. The elf sidled west along the south wall, until she reached the corner of the room, intent on making her stand there. A bold smile crossed her face as she pointed at Aslan and Talass and incanted.

The duo tensed up but nothing happened, other than a scowl replacing Markessa's previous grin.

Elrohir was now running as fast as he could back along the west wall, underneath the balcony. The ranger put back his bow and drew his longsword again as he came.

Zantac stayed where he was and considered his options. They weren't numerous. He had few spells left, but there was one that just might make a difference.

"Time to take off some of that shine, sister," he muttered as he pointed at Markessa, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder.

"I'll help Cygnus! Get Markessa!" Talass shouted at Aslan as she darted forward and then knelt down by the unconscious wizard. The paladin altered course towards the cornered elf, huffing and puffing all the while. No matter how many times he did it, running in plate mail was always an arduous exercise.

Tojo moved down the balcony, cutting down another goblin. Five more arrows flew at the samurai, and one struck his left calf hard enough to hurt.

The goblin that had fired that arrow grinned, proud at his marksmanship. That feeling lasted for about six seconds- the length of time it took for Sundancer to plunge into his back and slice into several vital organs that desperately needed to remain whole in order to function.

"Are we _going wired _now, Nesco-san?" Tojo shouted at Cynewine across the room.

Nesco gave the samurai her widest smile.

"We certainly are, Tojo. We most certainly are..."

As he came up, Elrohir noticed a sudden expression of dismay on Markessa's face. The elf glanced down the room at Zantac, but quickly returned her attention to bring her sword up to meet Gokasillion's charge. The ranger hoped that Markessa's fighting skills were not up to par with her sorcery.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Markessa was small, but she was fast. Her short sword easily parried Elrohir's longsword. The elf actually pirouetted while pressing her blade free, and then cross-slashed, undercutting Elrohir's shield and making an X-shaped gash in his breastplate. The tip of her blade _almost_ missed cutting his flesh.

Zantac cast another _detect_ on Markessa, trying to analyze the readings he was getting. From the vicious look the elf had shot him, he was confident his _dispel_ had stripped something from her defenses, but she still looked to be going strong. Zantac had no more _dispels_, but he was pretty sure Talass did. The wizard slowly started moving back towards the double doors.

At about ten feet out from Markessa, Aslan suddenly cried out in pain as he slammed his forehead into some kind of invisible field. The elf's head spun to the right to glare at him, and a cruel smile appeared back on her features.

"Well, hello. If it isn't the fly in my ointment."

Aslan forced a polite smile onto his own face. A strange courtesy he thought, for someone he was about to kill. "If you'd keep your workplace cleaner, you wouldn't have these kind of problems," he managed.

Markessa's smile stayed put where it was. "I intend to eliminate many problems today."

Aslan tried to think from behind his own frozen smile. He couldn't physically reach Markessa, and even if he had dared a psionic blast, Elrohir would be caught in it as well. Switching to his bow carried a similar risk of hitting his friend. The paladin glanced back over his shoulder. _Put your pride in storage, Aslan_, he thought. _The best tool for the best job_.

"Talass!" he shouted. "We need you!"

The priestess smiled in satisfaction as Cygnus slowly regained consciousness. She was trying to convince him to stay down when she heard Aslan's command. The cleric hesitated. Cygnus was still much weaker than she would have liked, but Aslan had more potential than she did for healing, anyway. Without another word, she headed towards Markessa, passing Aslan en route.

The paladin helped the tall mage to his feet. "Stay here, Cygnus. You're still-"

The wizard cut him off. "Still wounded? I'm used to it by now, Aslan."

Somewhat unsteadily, the magic-user tried to walk around Aslan and towards Markessa, but the paladin grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Let them handle it, Cygnus," he said, leaning his face close in to his friend. "Save your spells. I have a feeling we're going to need them later."

Tojo and Nesco now occupied both southernmost corners of the balcony, having cut down the goblins that occupied those spots. The remaining two goblins retreated to the center of the east-west section, directly above the double doors. They stood back-to-back, dropped their short bows and drew swords.

Over their heads, Tojo and Nesco smiled at each other.

Markessa shrieked as Elrohir scored his first hit, the ranger's blade streaked with red as it sliced through the elf's studded leather armor to cut her left thigh.

"What's the matter, Markessa? No more pithy comments?" The party leader's comment was designed to (hopefully) unnerve his opponent more than anything else.

The cruel smile returned, displacing the previous grimace of pain. Markessa said nothing, but her short sword whirled, sliced and stabbed. Elrohir avoided the blows, but realized a second too late that he had been forced back an inch or so too far to interfere in her next foray.

The elf pivoted to her right, stepped forward and thrust forward. Talass was unable to check her forward momentum in time, and the short sword pierced her chainmail, stabbing through by her left armpit. The cleric cried out and backed up a pace, all thoughts of attack temporarily forgotten.

Markessa turned back to Elrohir. "Pithy enough for you?" she began, but was cut off by the tip of a quarterstaff swinging upwards and catching the elf under her chin.

"Am I late to the party?" inquired the newly arrived Zantac, swinging his staff around for another attack.

Talass was literally growling. Wounded despite her _shield of faith_, the priestess maintained just enough presence of mind to step back another few feet. She began casting again, her light blue eyes never straying from the one who had struck her.

"Are you sure you can afford this, Aslan?" Cygnus queried as the paladin poured his healing energies into him. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you," the mage added as the worst of his pains faded.

Aslan favored his friend with a tight smile. "Just don't get hurt anymore, okay?"

Cygnus raised an eyebrow. "You do like to have control of the battlefield, don't you?" he asked, slowly moving northwestward to get a line on Markessa. Noticing Aslan's glare, he hastened to add, "Don't worry. No spells unless you or Elrohir say so. I just want to be in position if I'm needed."

The paladin looked grim. "We need to finish this quickly," he said without elaboration.

Acting on an unspoken wavelength, Nesco and Tojo simultaneously dropped their swords, drew their bows, notched an arrow and let it fly. The twin missiles impaled the two goblins' necks to each other. They both made rattling noises in their throats and slumped to the balcony floor.

Blood sprayed on both their faces as Elrohir and Markessa tore into each with renewed ferocity. Defensive maneuvering faded into the background as both combatants seemed to simultaneously decide on a battle of attrition. Zantac's attempt at another attack was ineffectual.

"Aslan!" the Willip wizard shouted at the paladin. "This is getting ugly!"

"He's right!" confirmed Cygnus. "And who should know better?"

Aslan started to walk forward again towards the melee, and then stopped in a bitter realization. _Dammit! I can't even get close enough to Elrohir or Talass to heal them! _He clenched his fists, upset with an unaccustomed feeling of helplessness.

_CRACK!_

The sound of bone breaking underneath Markessa's studded leather armor was audible even over the general din of the melee.

The elf nearly doubled over, clutching her chest with her left hand, while Talass wound up her warhammer for another swing.

"With all the _strength_ scrolls you seem to have around here, I'm surprised you're not more prepared for that," the priestess snapped at her foe. "Hold that position!"

The truth of the situation was beginning to dawn on Markessa now. With another scream, she launched into a fusillade of blows against Talass. Her short sword slammed into the cleric's forehead just underneath her helm, and blood poured down Talass' face. Markessa paid for the diversion however, as Gokasillion found its mark again and again.

_"Talass- pull back!"_ Elrohir shouted.

_"You're as bad off as I am- you pull back!"_

Zantac swung with his staff again without effect. "Remind me to remain single!" he called out to no one in particular.

"Like that's a problem?" came Cygnus' voice from behind him.

"Har-de-har-har."

Aslan was about to admonish the two wizards for their excessive banter in a situation he felt was too serious to warrant it when the paladin caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled around, but it was merely Nesco and Tojo, dangling from the lip of the balcony above. As he watched, the ranger and the samurai let go, landing on the floor above with matching grunts.

_Oh, what the hell_, the paladin thought as he moved towards Tojo. "There are better places to store your arrow collection, Tojo," he said, yanking the projectile out of the samurai's abdomen with one hand while healing him up with the other. Tojo gasped and clutched his stomach, momentarily unable to reply.

"No."

Elrohir stared at Markessa.

The elf had lifted up her head to stare at the ranger after gazing almost calmly at the sight of Gokasillion buried in her chest halfway to the hilt.

Her one word, spoken in elven, had no emotional inflection at all behind it. It wasn't a plea for mercy, or an exclamation of disbelief.

Elrohir stared back into Markessa's amber eyes. It almost seemed as if she had answered a question that he hadn't even formulated in his mind yet.

Markessa sank to her knees, and then crumpled over on her side. Her ragged breathing continued for a few more seconds, and then ceased.

"How much?" Elrohir asked Aslan softly, as the paladin finished healing everyone up to at least a modicum of health.

"About enough for one _teleport_." The paladin's reply was equally quiet, but everyone was close enough to hear it anyway. "What have we found?" he asked the others, trying to redirect their thoughts.

Cygnus looked down at what he had salvaged from the burnt remnants of the desk that Markessa had been standing behind; two metallic claws wrapped in a large white handkerchief. "If these are really adamantine as I suspect, they're worth a pretty copper."

Talass was examining a pair of electrum bracers and a bloodstained neckguard she had taken off of Markessa's corpse. "These are valuable too, but not magical." She indicated the elf's body with a nod of her head. "Both the armor and the sword are, though. I wouldn't bother with the leather, but that sword has a pretty strong aura."

"Evil?" Her husband asked, looking over to Aslan. The paladin concentrated briefly, then shook his head.

Elrohir slowly bent down and retrieved the sword.

Aslan suddenly turned to Zantac. "Can you secure those with a spell?" he asked the magic-user, pointing towards the double doors they had entered from.

Zantac nodded soberly, taking note of the seriousness in the paladin's voice.

Aslan nodded. "Do it," then turned his attention to Cygnus, who was going over some rolls of parchment he had discovered on top of a cabinet. The tall wizard glanced up.

"Useful," he said with a smile. "Names of all the slave merchants that do business here-"

"Did," Talass said with finality.

"That _did_ business here," Cygnus continued. "Also a record of all the slaves processed through here in the last few months. Names, where they were taken, where they were sent... Hmmm- _that's_ interesting."

Elrohir's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Cygnus screwed up his face, as if he were trying to recall an obscure fact.

"What?" Aslan asked, his impatience leaking into the syllable.

The Aardian wizard suddenly looked over to his right, where Nesco Cynewine was kneeling on the floor, examining some of Markessa's surviving alchemical equipment.

"Where is Suderham?"

There was a pause.

Slowly, the ranger rose to her feet, staring at the tall mage.

For the third time in the last ten seconds, the question "What?" was heard.

Cygnus indicated the parchments with his eyes. "It says here that the slaves deemed _most valuable_ were taken by caravan to a city called Suderham. There's a rough map here of the route."

"That's not possible," Nesco whispered. "Suderham was razed years ago to the invading humanoids. It was the capital of The Pomarj under the Suloise warlords, and the seat of King Olaric's power. It was the last city to fall." Cynewine looked thoughtful. "It was said to be a marvel to behold," she mused. "It was built on the slopes of Mount Flamenblut, an extinct volcano."

_"Lord of Justice,"_ breathed Talass. "A volcano?"

There was another silence. A much longer one.

"Who receives the slaves that are supposedly sent there, Cygnus?" asked Elrohir eventually.

The wizard looked down again at the papers, and then shrugged.

"They're referred to here only as _The Nine."_

"Aslan," the party leader announced, turning to his friend, "we may have to change our plan."

The paladin shook his head. "No."

"Let's assume your theory is correct Aslan, and since the amphitheatre of that cloak-thing was empty, there's no reason to doubt it," Elrohir said, as patiently as he could while pointing to the door in the laboratory's rear. "Somewhere down that way are all the slaves that are currently being held here. Seventy, maybe eighty-"

"One hundred twenty-two," cut in Cygnus, waving a sheet of parchment, "assuming all the ones listed here are still alive."

"One hundred and twenty-two," Elrohir repeated, crossing his arms across his chest. "You want us to lead that many people westwards across the Drachensgrabs almost two hundred miles, until we reach the Jewel River? Talass can keep what, thirty people supplied with food and water? Nesco and myself- perhaps another ten each, if that! And that's not counting the terrain or any encounters we might have along the way! They won't make it, Aslan," he finished, shaking his head sadly. "They won't make it."

Aslan gazed steadily at his party leader. "They'll be killed if we leave them here, Elrohir. We started this, and now we have to finish it."

"Change the plan," the ranger insisted. "Supposedly the Royal Court was going to contact the Principality of Ulek, who would send out men to receive us at the border, right? Tell them we've secured the fortress, and have the Ulekians come and pick up the slaves here!"

Aslan sighed. "First of all Elrohir, we haven't secured the fortress. In fact, it's probably about to degenerate into anarchy very soon. Second of all, the Principality is very unlikely to agree to such a major undertaking. And thirdly, the slaves wouldn't even last that long- not trapped here with a horde of cannibalistic goblinoids!"

Elrohir clenched his fists in frustration. _"We can't save them, Aslan!" _

The paladin's voice fell back into quietude. "Then I'll die trying." His light blue eyes searched his long-time companion's face. "We need a miracle, Elrohir. I know it's a heavy burden, but that's what you do. Don't let us down now."

"Aslan," the ranger said, his own voice low; his expression showing naked despair. "I don't know how we can do it. I don't know-"

With no warning whatsoever, Yanigasawa Tojo suddenly ran at full speed towards the door in the back. When he reached it, the samurai placed his ear to the wood and then abruptly stepped back.

"Tojo!" said Zantac. "What is-"

The door began shaking under an assault.

"Never mind," the wizard muttered.

From beyond the double doors came the howling of wolves.

"Trouble," said a tight-lipped Nesco.

Everyone stared at the south entrance. They all expected the double doors to start trembling under a pounding from without at any moment.

But what no one expected was the simple, almost gentle knock that they heard.

"Hello in there!" came a calm, hollow voice.

The word was torn out of Cygnus' throat. "Blackthorn."

"I'm glad you've freed us all from Markessa's tyranny," the voice continued. "May I come in? I only wish to thank you properly."

Nesco's blood ran cold. "You're not fooling us, Blackthorn!" she shouted.

"You have no idea, Lady Cynewine," came the chilling response. "You have no idea."


	107. Say Goodbye To Hope

**26th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

The sounds outside both doors were growing closer.

Elrohir gulped and stepped into position on Aslan's left.

The howling of wolves (along with other unidentifiable sounds) could still be heard from beyond the double doors, but the knocking had stopped, and Blackthorn was no longer responding to anything the party said. The rear door continued to resound with the sounds of weapons, mainly axes, chopping at it. Cygnus had been forced to throw his own hold portal spell to reinforce that door. That had bought them some time, but the wizard had made it clear to the party that it wasn't going to hold indefinitely.

The two magic-users were triangulating the rear door from about forty feet out. Meanwhile, Elrohir, Aslan, Tojo and Nesco had lined up facing the double doors at about the same distance. Talass stood a few steps behind Aslan.

The party leader steadied his nerves with a deep breath and looked over to the paladin.

"This is what you were afraid of, eh?"

Aslan nodded grimly. "Yes. Blackthorn lets us wear ourselves down doing his dirty work for him, and then he sweeps in and picks up the pieces."

"And we're the pieces," muttered Nesco.

"I hope your guess about Blackthorn's friends was right, Aslan," Talass, currently standing behind Nesco, said to the back of the paladin's head. Her hands gripped her warhammer tightly. "Otherwise all these preparations will be for naught. As it is, all our protective spells have already worn off."

"I'm right about this, Talass," Aslan responded without turning around.

_I've got to be_, he thought. He looked again at Elrohir and the two locked eyes, but didn't speak. He could see the ranger examining his entire party while trying to be discreet about it. Aslan knew Elrohir was checking out their remaining wounds and making silent estimations as to their battle readiness. Aslan had thrown massive amounts of his Talent into healing but everyone except Nesco was still wounded to one degree or another. The paladin instinctively glanced over to his right and gave a smile of encouragement at her. _At least she'll survive_.

Nesco caught Aslan smiling at her, and the ranger's eyes widened momentarily before she threw her glance elsewhere. A faint blush appeared in her cheeks, and she seemed for some reason to be trying to suppress a smile of her own.

Aslan frowned in puzzlement, but at that very moment the double doors unexpectedly swung open.

There hadn't been so much as a tap on them, but both doors suddenly swung inward of their own accord. There was a man standing just outside them. He seemed to be in his late fifties, with short white hair that ran down the sides of his head to merge smoothly into a stubbly white beard. He wore a chainmail shirt over nondescript brown clothing, and a dull gray was cloak draped over his shoulders.

The paladin frowned. Something about this man didn't look right.

In his right hand, the man carried a worn-looking longsword. His left hand held a small wooden rod of some kind, whose tip had been carved into the likeness of a clenched fist. This he now stuffed under his belt as he gazed at the party inside with a small smile.

There was no sign of Blackthorn. And yet...

Aslan kept his eyes on the man while speaking out of the corner of his mouth to Elrohir. "From what I heard Markessa saying, Blackthorn has the ability to _polymorph_. I think that may be him."

"I don't think it is," came the voice to his left.

Aslan looked over in surprise. "How do you know?"

Nesco shrugged. "That's the slave driver we saw on the road on our first trip here. Remember? There's no reason as far as I can see for Blackthorn to assume his likeness."

Elrohir nodded now. "She's right. That is him."

"Well, fine," Aslan conceded. "Then where is Blackthorn? And where are his-"

From the shadows beyond the doors, three figures came charging into the room. All were completely covered in short, silvery-gray fur. From their lupine faces erupted a series of howls, snarls and growls. Their lean, muscular legs powered them forward faster than any man, and they ran hunched over for speed, their pointed ears pressed flat against their heads.

The creature in the center headed straight for Aslan, effortlessly leaping over the operating table en route to the paladin. The others had to alter their course slightly to get into line with Elrohir and Tojo, their intended targets, but came on just as quickly.

Just as the three were about the reach their human quarry, Aslan made his tactical decision and spoke up.

"The middle one- _fire!"_

Four hands aimed and released their grip. Four bowstrings twanged. Four arrows sped towards a single target, which took no notice whatsoever except for an evil, toothy grin that seemed to reveal an utter disregard for the actions of its prey.

That grin vanished as the arrows hit.

The werewolf yelped like a kicked dog as four silver arrowheads buried themselves in its flesh, one severing the major artery in its neck. Spinning and twisting, trying vainly to snap at the arrow shafts, the lycanthrope lost its balance and stumbled to the ground at Aslan's feet, where it writhed in agony.

The other two launched themselves at Elrohir and Tojo tooth and nail, trying to rend tender flesh between slavering jaws and beneath filth-encrusted nails.

_"Cari! Filch! Sic 'em!"_

Aslan shot a glance over towards the double doors and frowned. He had assumed the gray-cloaked man's command had been issued to the two surviving werewolves, but she could see now that the man wasn't even looking into the laboratory; he was facing back into the corridor.

The mystery was quickly solved. The two gray-skinned, misshapen creatures that they had seen accompanying the slave merchant earlier came loping into the room. One, carrying a dagger in each hand, came skirting around the operating table to the west. The other wielded only one dagger, but its stinger-equipped tail came up and over its head, scorpion-like, as it came around on the other side. Both creatures emitted moaning sounds of gibberish as they came, saliva pooling and then dripping out of their deformed mouths.

The memory of a tortured creature on that same table suddenly flashed through the paladin's mind. _By the High One- these are Markessa's creations!_ He shot a quick look into the room's southwest corner, where the body of the stockade leader still lay crumpled in a silent heap.

_Your legacy survives you, Markessa_, he thought. _Unfortunately. How many others have you done this to?_

_"Damn it!"_

Talass, the only one who could currently afford the luxury, glanced backwards. Cygnus was facing them, his left hand outstretched and a sour expression on his face.

_"Sleep?"_ the priestess asked wryly.

"I don't know what those things are!" the tall mage shouted. "I thought it might work!"

"Save your spells!" Aslan shouted over the sounds of his combat with Elrohir's werewolf. "We don't know what might be coming through that back door!"

"Seems like there's already plenty coming through the front door!" Zantac chipped in. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Yes!" Aslan yelled back.

_Maybe_, he thought, but then a feeling of quiet confidence unexpectedly flowed through the paladin.

_We'll come out on top_, Aslan decided, as a small smile played around his lips. _Somehow, we always do._

Behind him, the source of that confidence incanted softly as her left hand closed around her holy symbol.

_Bless us in our trial, Lord_, Talass prayed. _See us through._

Elrohir, having experienced his wife's blessing before, smiled inwardly. He let his plate mail bare the brunt of the werewolf's scrabbling claws as the ranger dropped his bow, drew a dagger and brought his shield into position. The creature's jaws lunged towards his face, just in time to catch the edge of Elrohir's shield on its upwards swing. The lycanthrope's teeth closed briefly on the steel surface before jerking back in disgust.

Nesco couldn't tell if Tojo was grateful for his hated dastana at the moment, but she was certainly glad he had them. Despite the calming effect of Talass' bless, Cynewine's heart nearly stopped as she saw the werewolf's teeth and claws stop inches away from tearing into the samurai's skin. Like Elrohir and Aslan, Nesco had also discarded her bow in favor of a shield and a silver dagger she had picked up in Chendl. Tojo had insisted on using his katana, and there had been no convincing him otherwise.

_I hope that'll be enough_, Nesco thought as she tried to distract the were-creature that was still trying its best to claw the samurai. _I hope we can-_

Everything went white.

It was all instinct and no thought that threw Elrohir forward into the very arms of the creature that was trying to kill him. For all the foolhardy maneuver that it was, it spared the ranger the full force of the terrible, killing wave of cold that passed by from his left. Even so, the back of his skull seemed to scream out with its own voice as a chill so severe that it burned swiped at his body. Elrohir's cry of pain merged with his battle cry as he hugged his surprised opponent- and then buried his silver dagger in the werewolf's back.

It wasn't a lethal blow- Elrohir's hand had been trembling too much for that. The party leader did manage to yank the weapon back out while pushing the lycanthrope back with his shield. He glanced over to his left- and saw exactly what he was afraid he would see.

Aslan's unconscious movement had not been to dodge, but rather to throw up his shield on his left side and hold his face as close behind it as possible. The agonizing frigidity that sapped all of the life out of the rest of his body at least missed his head. It seemed like small comfort as the paladin struggled to keep the silver dagger in his right hand from falling out of his frostbitten fingers.

He looked over at Elrohir's attacker, and then buried the weapon in the werewolf's right shoulder.

"Hold onto that for a moment, would you?" he asked the creature, ignoring its latest howl of agony as the paladin tried to shake the life back into his limbs.

Yanigasawa Tojo, while closest to the origin point of the _cone of cold_, had sensed the presence of something to his left. In that split second, the samurai had bent backwards from the waist nearly ninety degrees in a limbo move that, like his companions, has spared him the worst of the polar blast. Nonetheless, it left him instantly covered in frozen perspiration. In the next fraction of a second, the Nipponese warrior had made his decision. His already in motion katana altered its trajectory and pierced the now-visible Blackthorn's chain shirt to briefly penetrate a solid foot into his bony chest.

A cry of pain was forced out of Blackthorn's throat and he staggered slightly, but the gaunt figure used his _nagamaki_ polearm to keep himself upright. He quickly regained his composure and grinned at the samurai, his sunken eyes registering his triumph.

"Not good enough, samurai," he said softly in Nipponese. "Not nearly good enough."

Tojo was preparing to strike again, assuming that Nesco would deal with the werewolf that had been attacking him when it occurred to him that he hadn't heard anything from the female ranger after the cold had hit.

There had been nothing for the samurai to hear. Not a sound had escaped from Nesco Cynewine. Unlike the others, she had born the full brunt of the hellish cold. She stood in shock, swaying slightly. Underneath the overlay of white frost that coated her, every inch of Nesco's exposed skin had turned blue, and parts were now turning black and hardening. Her green eyes, also coated with frost, didn't seem to be looking at anything.

Talass, standing behind her, had managed to duck down and avoid the worst of the killing freeze. However, she had already been wounded as much as anyone, and now the blood froze to her forehead and her left side, making every attempt at muscular movement an exercise in agony. The world blurred in front of the priestess and she could feel her knees beginning to buckle, but she knew Nesco was in the same shape- and the ranger was still in the front line.

Screaming with the pain the effort cost her, Talass reached for Nesco's shoulders to try and pull Cynewine back, but the lycanthrope that had been attacking Tojo sensed easier prey and lunged at the ranger first.

It seemed nothing less than a miracle that this action snapped Nesco back into cohesiveness as quickly as the deadly frost had robbed her of it. Or perhaps it was plain luck that her silver dagger managed to find itself square in the path of the werewolf's oncoming jaws.

The were-creature shrieked and pulled back, blood dribbling from it's sliced tongue.

Elrohir couldn't even spare the time for shouting. The monstrosity that the bearded man had called Cari had now pulled up next to the ranger's lycanthrope opponent and started stabbing and slicing with both daggers at him. It wasn't a particularly skilled fighter though, and the ranger breathed a silent sigh of relief that it didn't seem to have the tactical sense to get behind him. For now, he'd continue to concentrate on the werewolf.

Filch, like the other werewolf, seemed to zero in on Cynewine as an easy target. It moved directly in front of the ranger and swung its tail at her, but a mere flick of Nesco's shield batted it aside. Nesco still had no expression on her face at all, and she still said nothing. Talass swallowed hard. It was possible that Cynewine was running only on adrenalin now, and when that faded-

_If I heal her, she'll just get attacked again, but if I join in, she may collapse anyway_, the cleric thought frantically. _What do I do?_

In her own addled state, Talass had forgotten about the party's own arcane contingent.

Cygnus ran up about twenty feet and cast. Suddenly, both werewolves stopped their attacks. Whimpers of fear, sounds that they had never made before, issued from their throats.

Zantac was just trying to decide what to do about Blackthorn when the rear door gave way. He whirled around to stare into the savage grin of a hairy figure nearly seven feet tall.

The mage was ready though. He cast and the bugbear and all its allies behind it found themselves suddenly entangled in a white, sticky _web_. Ignoring their shouts and screams of frustration, the Willip wizard turned back to the main combat.

Zantac knew the _web_ wouldn't hold them for long, but he also saw that there was no one who could spare the time right now to help him.

Talass was just about to try pulling Nesco out of the front line again when she saw the slave merchant coming up.

A sinister grin on his face, the man was coming up near the west wall of the room, apparently intent upon flanking Elrohir.

"Not happening," Talass growled as she concentrated again, feeling her holy symbol growing warm in her frozen hand.

The slave dealer had of course been nowhere near Blackthorn's _cone of cold_ when it went off.

That didn't stop him from suddenly freezing up, however.

Immobilized, he could only stare in frustration as the two werewolves (one still with a silver dagger embedded in its shoulder) suddenly turned and bolted back out through open double doors, yipping in fear.

Blackthorn's nagamaki came up barely in time to parry Tojo's katana. The tall man leaned forward breathlessly as both combatants tried to push the others' weapon aside.

"You're doomed," he said simply to the samurai. "You know that, don't you?" 

Tojo was about to reply when he noticed the blood abruptly stop pouring out of the hole in Blackthorn's chest.

His hollow laugh was still ringing in Tojo's ears when Blackthorn vanished from sight.

Elrohir didn't even spend the extra second to draw Gokasillion. The ranger feinted, and then made his move. His silver dagger plunged into and out of Cari's long neck. The creature's bulbous eyes were still registering surprise when the dagger plunged back in again, this time popping its heart like a worn balloon.

Not having his dagger handy anymore, Aslan did pull out his longsword. "Tojo-" he began, but the samurai uncharacteristically interrupted.

"Not gone! He invisiber!"

"Are you sure, Tojo?" Zantac shouted from the rear of the room. "I can _detect_ if need be! We don't know how powerful a magic-user he may-"

"He not magic-user, Zantac-san," Tojo again interrupted, his violet eyes somehow locking and holding Zantac in place with that statement.

There was a slight pause. "How do you know?" the mage queried.

Tojo's face was once again that old familiar blank mask.

"He not human."

Filch screeched as the tip of his tail, which had now been swinging at Tojo, went flying across the room- severed by Aslan's sword strike. The misbegotten creature turned its attention towards the paladin, and thus never saw the katana swing that decapitated him.

The samurai swung his sword around him in sweeping, searching arcs. "Must find quickry," he announced. "Must awe attack at once, or Brackthorn sray us awe."

"What is he, Tojo?" Cygnus asked as he came up to stand next to Talass. "Are you all right, Nesco?" he continued, not waiting for the samurai's reply.

The sound of her name seemed to register somewhat on the ranger. She slowly turned around to face him.

"I'm so cold," she whispered.

It looked to a stunned Cygnus like Nesco was trying to cry from the severity of her injuries, but she couldn't. He realized with a start that her tear ducts had been frozen solid.

"Someone heal her," Cygnus whispered, but Nesco had already replaced her dagger and drawn Sundancer. Her eyes seemed drawn to the illusionary sunlight gleaming off its blade.

"Tojo is right," Cynewine said, still in a whisper. "We have to find Blackthorn before he-"

A small sigh of relief escaped the ranger's frozen lips as Talass laid her hand on Nesco's shoulder. A small fraction of warmth returned to Cynewine's cold-wracked frame. Nesco hesitated for a moment, and then turned to look at her healer.

"Talass," she croaked. "You needed that as much as I did."

The cleric managed a weak smile and pointed at the party's paladin. "We've got Aslan for that."

Aslan looked troubled. In point of fact, he was way beyond troubled. His eyes scanned the room, trying to come up with some miracle as he did so. "Talass, that prayer you mentioned-"

_"Assistance please!"_

The others turned. Zantac was by the open space that formerly held the rear door. The Willip wizard was swinging his quarterstaff at the bugbear webbed in the doorway, but seemed to be having little effect other than to make the large goblinoid even angrier than it already was.

A wave of anger suddenly surged through Aslan. _"Dammit!"_ he shouted. "Someone take care of him!" the paladin yelled, pointing towards the _held_ slave merchant. "I'll see what I can do!"

"I'll handle it," Elrohir muttered darkly, drawing Gokasillion and striding towards the slaver, who could only show his terror in his eyes.

In the meantime, Aslan had now arrived in the rear, and stood about twenty feet from the _web_, staring grimly at the assorted bugbears, gnolls and hobgoblins entrapped within. There were at least ten of them as far as he could see, and as he watched, some of them began to tear free from the sticky strands.

Aslan motioned Zantac out of the way, and the wizard quickly complied. _Father of Victory._ The paladin closed his eyes for the silent prayer. _Save my friends. One more time. Save my friends, and deliver the slaves here to freedom._

He opened his eyes again.

_Here goes everything._

Aslan fired a _psionic blast_ at the doorway.

The humanoids shrieked and started clawing at each other. The final strands of the _web_ gave way as the creatures bolted back down what looked like a twenty foot-wide corridor before vanishing down a turn to the left.

_That'll give us a minute_, the paladin thought. _Maybe one minute. At most._

He turned slowly around to face the others.

"I've got nothing left, people."

"Spread out!" Tojo ordered the others (something he almost never did) as the samurai backed up towards the eastern wall, his eyes still darting around the room. His katana waved through the air like an ant's antenna.

Aslan was still staring at the open doorway when it suddenly filled with white.

Instinctively, expecting another blast of frigid death, he threw up his shield again and turned his head. Aslan saw a figure move up behind him and tensed up even further, but then relaxed as he realized it was merely Cygnus, standing there with a sad smile on his face.

"Blackthorn's not the only one who can manipulate ice," the tall wizard said quietly, "but this means we'll have to deal with the werewolves again when my fear spell wears off- and that shouldn't be too long now."

Aslan nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Cygnus," he managed, before trying out several deep breaths to clear the still-cold air in his lungs.

_He doesn't know how right he is_, the paladin considered, his recent spurt of confidence a distant memory now. _It won't be long now._

Elrohir looked over his shoulder as he strode towards his intended victim. "Do you have any healing at all left, Talass?"

The priestess hesitated.

"One more time," she finally said, "but that's only if I give up my _purge_. I was about to cast it."

"Cast it, Talass," Nesco told her, the ranger's voice unexpectedly back at its normal volume. "It's our only hope to defeat Blackthorn."

_"Then say goodbye to hope!"_

Everything happened at once.

Blackthorn materialized directly behind Talass, his nagamaki already in motion even as the echoes of his last boast still lingered.

Nesco reached forward, her left hand dropping her shield as it grabbed hold of Talass' left shoulder and pushed down. Still weak and unsteady from her injuries, the cleric cried out and went down at Cynewine's feet.

There was a sharp pressure on Nesco's chest when the polearm struck her, but it didn't hurt as much as she would have supposed. But then suddenly Nesco's feet left the ground. She stared down with bewilderment at Blackthorn's eyes, sunken deep in that skull-like face. Her neck was still mostly frozen, so the ranger couldn't really glance down to see how badly she was hurt.

Then she was being swung around in a half-circle, and then she dropped back down to the floor, where she lay on her back, staring up at the _continual lights_ that illuminated the ceiling far overhead.

They looked rather pretty, Nesco thought, then decided to rest for a moment and take it easy. She needed to regain her strength….

All other combatants forgotten, the party converged on Blackthorn, attempting to surround him. Only Talass did not participate. As Elrohir raised Gokasillion for the charge, he could hear his wife's voice as she bent over Cynewine.

"Hang on, Nesco. Blackthorn won't get away now- I can spare the healing, and besides, we need you back in-

"Nesco? Talk to me, Cynewine- hang in there now. Give me a sign… Nesco?"

_"NESCO!"_


	108. Death

**26th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Elrohir had spun around even before he realized it.

The clang of metal on metal rang out as Gokasillion came up to deflect the thrust of the slave merchant's longsword. The two of them had exchanged subsequent blows before it dawned on the ranger that the slaver had somehow freed himself from the hold Talass had placed on him. His opponent scowled as he realized his chances of victory in a straight-up sword battle were not to his liking.

Talass was unaware of her husband's newest struggle.

At the moment, she wasn't even aware of the others converging on Blackthorn. The priestess was on her knees, simultaneously trying to heal Nesco while yelling at the top of her lungs for to wake up. Her hands worked feverishly, stuffing a cloth she'd pulled from her belt pouch into the gaping hole in Cynewine's chest.

Within seconds, the cloth was saturated with dark, cold blood. Talass alternated between pressing down just below the ranger's ribcage and furiously shaking her shoulders.

"It's not supposed to be you!" the cleric screamed. "You weren't even _in_ my vision! Don't leave us, Nesco- _it wasn't supposed to be you!"_

Talass suddenly snapped her head up at Blackthorn in an animal rage- just in time to see the gaunt man's shadow looming over her. His gleaming white teeth sparkled as the bloody nagamaki raised up and then came straight down.

In retrospect, had Talass thought about it, trying to "save" Nesco was pointless. The priestess of Forseti neither thought nor hesitated, though. She grabbed Nesco's body and threw the both of them off to the side as the polearm's tip slammed into the stone floor next to them. Talass wound up on her back, grunting under the weight of Cynewine's armored corpse.

Elrohir was livid with rage.

Not at the slaver as a person, but rather as the opponent that was preventing him from getting to Blackthorn- and from trying to save his wife.  
_  
"The Abyss take you!"_ the ranger screamed, unknowingly echoing Markessa's earlier exclamation against his very own party.

The slave merchant screamed with pain as Elrohir's sword found its way past his chain shirt and plunged into his right thigh. An instant later, the same blade had somehow found his left arm, rendering it useless with a deep bite.

Blackthorn turned to the left as Aslan came charging at him from the north, but the tall man's nagamaki was too far out of position from his attempted impaling of Talass to come back in time, and Aslan's sword made another hole in Blackthorn's chain shirt enroute to his vitals. Again Blackthorn grimaced in pain, but quickly recovered-

-only to cry out as Tojo, now flanking him across from Aslan, cut a deep gash across his left leg. Blackthorn buckled, and again was only barely able to retain his footing. His skull-like head whipped around to glare at the samurai.

Tojo's face was red with barely constrained fury. "Maybe not good enough, Brackthorn-san," he seethed, "but I getting better."

From the north side of the room, four white streaks flew unerringly towards the party's enemy- and nothing happened.

It wasn't a _shield_. The _magic missiles_ had struck Blackthorn. They simply vanished on contact. That long neck swiveled around as an very angry looking Cygnus came rushing up, quarterstaff in hand, to stand between Blackthorn and Talass.

"I enjoy a good fight," that hollow voice boomed at him, "especially since I never lose!" 

"First time for everything, you freak!" yelled Zantac as he came running up to swat ineffectively at Blackthorn with his staff. At this point, four of the party were surrounding the gaunt man.

Talass gave in to her rage.

Pushing Nesco's dead form off of her was even more agonizing than trying to heal her had been. Talass knew she had failed to save Cynewine, but right now nothing in the whole world mattered as much as killing that skinny, gray-skinned bastard responsible. Staggering to her feet, she came in screaming and swinging right between Aslan and Cygnus, but her warhammer was unable to land an effective blow.

With a mighty effort, the slave driver pushed Elrohir back a pace, then back up several steps before turning and dashing out through the double doors to the south. The ranger didn't give him a second glance, but turned and immediately headed back towards Blackthorn at top speed. The nagamaki came around, but being surrounded was starting to hamper Blackthorn. The polearm was not designed for such in-close fighting, and Elrohir easily avoided it and stabbed with Gokasillion at the first piece of the tall fighter that presented itself as a target.

For the first time, Blackthorn actually screamed in pain and nearly doubled over, his linen pants running dark with blood at the crotch. White teeth grinding and sunken eyes watering from within the depths of that gray face, Blackthorn lifted his head to glare at his newest opponent, now comfortably ensconced between Zantac and Tojo.

_"Time to end this!"_ he roared.

And vanished.

Myriad weapons swung wildly at the space where he had been, but none connected. In fact, both wizards' quarterstaffs collided with each other, and Tojo's latest strike came perilously close to Aslan, who had been leaning forward for another sword thrust.

"Where is he?" the paladin shouted out. "He couldn't have escaped!" he yelled, although his trained tactical eye showed him a space between Tojo and Cygnus that their cadaverous opponent might have been able to squeeze through.

Still, something didn't seem right.

There was a moment of relative quiet.

And in that moment, all eyes went to the figure lying limp and still on the stone floor.

"Oh, god..." Cygnus began.

"Blackthorn is still here!" Elrohir abruptly shouted out. "No one is to think about anything else until he is dead! _That's a direct order!"_

_"That's it!"_ Talass suddenly shrieked and thrust her holy symbol directly over her head.

Suddenly, a ripple in the air exploded outwards from all directions from the cleric with an audible woosh. None of the party felt anything as it passed over them, but all heads turned to follow the wave's progress. It faded away like ripples in a pond at about twenty-five feet, but just as it did, about fifteen feet to the south of Elrohir and Tojo a figure rippled and shimmered into existence.

But-

"That's not Blackthorn," Elrohir gasped with astonishment.

Yanigasawa Tojo took a deep breath and gripped his katana with bold hands, holding it out in front of him in his battle-ready stance.

"Yes, Errohir-san," the samurai said with assurance. "That him."

The eye was drawn up. And up.

Blackthorn now towered a good three feet above his previous seven-foot height. Light blue skin covered a muscular mass that literally rippled with power. Small curved, white horns towered above a healthy head of dark brown, greasy hair, which came down the back of Blackthorn's head in a single crude braid. The eyes were black, with small, white pupils. The small fangs that jutted out of his lower lip were as coal-black as the rest of his teeth, which were dimly visible in the monster's open mouth. Dark wisps of steam came out of that orifice in ragged breaths.

The wounds the party had inflicted remained, but they were starting to heal up even as they watched.

"What is it?" asked Zantac in a horrified whisper.

Tojo tightened his grip on his sword. The frozen perspiration on his face was now melting rapidly.

"It... oni," he replied. "What you carr _ogre mage_."

And with that, the samurai screamed out his battle cry and charged.

Now unconfined, and with an even greater reach, the nagamaki shot out to easily intercept the oncoming samurai. Tojo might have dodged, but seemed so intent on attacking Blackthorn that the thought of evasion never entered the samurai's mind. Even as the polearm's blade cut into his his left shoulder and the blood spurted, Tojo retained his grip on his katana with his right hand alone, and continued on to plunge the sword into the oni's stomach. Blackthorn lifted his head to the ceiling and roared in agony, for that moment only sounding like the type of ogre the party was more familiar with.

Aslan followed up with his own charge, but the creature's thick skin turned aside his blade.

Cygnus and Zantac rushed forward as well, but neither mage's staff had the slightest effect.

Talass rushed forward as well, but there was a crowd around Blackthorn now. She spied an opening to Aslan's right, but bellowing his rage, her husband shot past the cleric to reach the spot first.

Blackthorn zeroed in on the party leader. "What's the matter, Elrohir?" he asked loudly, that same hollow voice carrying even over the ranger's inarticulate cries of rage. Those dark eyes flickered over Elrohir's head back towards the center of the room, and then swept back to meet his gaze.

_"Lose another one?"_

Elrohir went dead silent.

A single tear slowly fell down the ranger's cheek.

"We all lose things dear to us, Blackthorn," he replied softly, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

Still without a sound, Gokasillion came up. Blackthorn moved to parry, but Elrohir abruptly jerked his sword away from the arc of the nagamaki. The oni overbalanced as his polearm swung further than he expected, and the longsword shot forward, just missing the ogre mage's right side- and then swung straight up.

Blackthorn's right arm flew off at the shoulder. The nagamaki clattered as it skidded across the floor.

"Case in point," Elrohir said.

The creature screamed with pain, but reacted faster than anyone expected. With his left hand, he reached down and scooped up his severed limb.

"Till we meet again," Blackthorn hissed.

And then there was only a large cloud of mist, which quickly flowed out through the double doors and was lost to the darkness beyond.

Elrohir stared after it for several seconds.

"We have to get out of here." The ranger's voice was hoarse with emotion as he finally turned around. "We have to-"

But the others were already closing in around their fallen member. Five pairs of anguished eyes met those of their leader, and Elrohir could feel a wave of grief building within him. He knew neither he nor his companions had the time to give in to it now, but the pain rose within his breast like an relentless tide.

Blackthorn, for all his sadism, was right.

He'd lost another one.

"They'll raise her," Zantac said hopefully. "The Royal Court said they'd raise her, right?"

All eyes now turned to Talass, who couldn't meet them.

"It doesn't always work," she responded, shaking her head slowly. "Nesco turned her back on the very same god that Heldenster is going to beseech for her return."

Now her gaze came up to meet the others.

"What would you do?"


	109. Secret Of The Slavers Stockade

**26th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

Elrohir and Talass looked at each other.

For once, husband and wife were on the same page.

"We have to get out of here," Talass said again to the quartet at her feet, as Elrohir turned back to keep watch towards the south, his eyes and straining to catch any movement or sound that would herald the return of their enemies.

But something seemed to be happening to the four individuals who were kneeling around the fallen Nesco Cynewine. Their eyes went back and forth to the dead body between them and each other, the silent grief building with each second. Their limbs stiffened with sadness even as their eyes watered.

"It's my fault," Aslan whispered.

Elrohir turned around, frowning. "What? Aslan, I'm the party leader, remember? For better or worse, I-"

"She's only here because I _asked_ her to come, Elrohir!" Aslan replied sharply. The paladin kept his eyes focused downward. "I asked her to come because we needed a replacement for Argo!"

Aslan abruptly raised his head, but the paladin wasn't looking at anyone or anything in the wrecked laboratory. His fists clenched, his lips pressed together, and he began visibly shaking with anger.

"Because _Argo_ wouldn't go..." Aslan spat out the name.

"Don't go there, Aslan," Elrohir muttered, but the paladin said nothing more.

"She brave so," Tojo said softly. "She die with honor. She terr me-"

The samurai abruptly shook his head, trying to hide the quick swipe of the back of his hand across his eyes. He then turned away and studied a featureless spot on the west wall.

Talass narrowed her eyes as she watched. Cygnus was also trembling, although the mage said nothing. His hand slowly reached out as if to touch Nesco's face, but recoiled at the last instant, as if a magical field of some kind prevented contact.

_He must be thinking of Hyzenthlay_, Talass decided, even though that explanation for some reason didn't seem like quite a perfect fit.

She couldn't even hazard a guess about Zantac, but chalked it up to the Willip wizard not being as seasoned a combat veteran as the rest of them. He probably wasn't used to being this close to death before.

Talass turned and again studied her husband. He was currently facing away from her, but she could even decipher the back of his head. Elrohir was only partially functioning. The priestess closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and tried to hang on to the lingering effects of her earlier _bless_.

She wasn't going to say it out loud, but as of this moment Talass knew she was in charge.

The cleric turned back to the others. "We're getting out of here now, and that means taking Nesco with us," she proclaimed. "Take her sword along if you want- she'll want it later, I'm sure."

_May as well act as if the best case scenario is going to come true. What the hell_, she thought with a bitter smile. _Maybe a miracle will happen_. "Leave everything else behind." Talass gestured at Nesco. "Get that chain off of her, then decide who's going to carry her. Aslan!"

The sharpness of her voice partially broke through the paladin's fog. He looked up at her.

Talass fixed him with her best icy gaze; an easy task, considering the chill that still pervaded her body. "How long until you can _teleport?"_

Aslan tried to concentrate. "Umm... it depends on what we run into, Talass. If we're constantly being forced to fend off attacks, it could be eight hours, or even longer. If not," he shrugged. "I doubt I'm going to get much rest here, so no less than three hours at the least."

When Talass next looked over to her husband, she saw he had moved to the edge of the double doors. The ranger's hand went to the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"I hear voices," Elrohir said. "They're faint and far off, but I didn't hear them before." He glanced back at her. "We've got to go!"

Talass nodded in agreement and then turned back to the rest of the party.

They hadn't done a thing. All four of them looked like they were scared to death to touch Nesco.

_"What's wrong with you people?" _Talass shouted out as she dropped to her knees beside them. _"Never mind- I'll do it!"_ she snarled, yanking off the dead ranger's chainmail coif, and then taking off her boots and gauntlets. The cleric then started peeling off the various sections of mail rings that covered Cynewine's legs, hips and torso.

The four men continued to act like they were in shock. Talass continued to mutter under her breath as she worked. Nesco's gambeson- the padded clothing that was worn underneath the chain shirt to reduce the chafing- was soaked with cold blood. The priestess considered. Wet, the gambeson added quite a bit of weight, but Nesco had on only a thin linen undershirt beneath which was probably in even worse shape. _Leave it on_, she decided, looking again at her petrified party members. Talass gritted her teeth. They were making this harder than it had to be.

"Tojo!"

The samurai looked over to her.

"I know I can depend on you for honesty and straightforwardness, Tojo-sama," Talass began in what she hoped was a calm and collected tone. "I know your left shoulder is in bad shape, Tojo, but I also know you're one of the strongest men here. Tell me truthfully, now. Can you-"

But Tojo's violet eyes went wide, and then began darting around the room in the samurai's characteristic display of discomfort.

"I... cannot..." Tojo ground out, and then went silent, his eyes closing in shame.

Try as she might, the priestess couldn't stop the sigh of exasperation that escaped her lips. "_Now_ what?" she blurted out.

"Talass."

She looked over. Aslan was looking at her again. For some reason, Tojo's plight seemed to focus the paladin somewhat. "Talass," he began hesitantly, "Tojo cannot handle a... dead body. It's against his spiritual beliefs."

The cleric frowned and glanced back at the samurai, who studiously avoided her gaze. She hadn't known that about Tojo, and while she of all people could respect someone's religious taboos, this was a _hell_ of a time to start finding out about new ones.

"What about you, Aslan?" Talass asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Is it a paladin thing?"

Anger flashed in Aslan's eyes for a moment, but was quickly replaced with sadness again. Talass could see him slipping back into his torpor of grief as his gaze turned back to Nesco. The paladin's head slowly shook from side to side.

"I can't do it, Talass," he whispered, and when he looked back up to her, his light blue eyes were filled with tears. "And I don't even know why."

The cleric tried to digest this, but couldn't. There just wasn't time.

"I'll do it," she said, bending down and slipping one hand under Nesco's knees and the other around her ribcage. "I doubt she weighs any more than all that extra weight you made me lug around because of Nodyath," she added. "I'm sure I can-"

But Talass' side under her left armpit exploded into agony as she tried to stand up. She didn't make it a foot before collapsing, her head falling down onto Nesco's stomach. She lay there for a moment, trying to rein in her tears of pain.

"I'll do it, Talass."

The voice was so soft, the priestess couldn't even identify it. It was only when she saw Cygnus' long, thin hands coming in to relieve her of the burden did she look up.

She had seen Cygnus more grief-stricken before, but Talass had never seen the wizard look more _uncomfortable_ than he did at this very minute. With surprising strength, the tall mage straightened up, grimacing only slightly at his own wounds clamoring for attention. He adjusted his right arm so that Nesco's head fell against his shoulder.

Cygnus couldn't even look at Nesco- he kept his eyes focused straight ahead, but those brown orbs kept threatening to fill up with tears.

"Zantac," he croaked out. "Take my staff and _dispel_ that ice I created. Let's get moving."

Slowly, the sextet headed towards the rear doorway. Talass walked silently alongside Cygnus in the middle of their current marching order.

Just as they reached the now-open exit, Talass felt the need to say something encouraging to Cygnus, who was now turning sideways to get through the space with Nesco. The cleric decided on something safe.

"I had no idea you were that strong, Cygnus."

She was wrong. It wasn't safe.

The wizard turned his head to look at Talass. The look on his face brought a sickening reminder to the cleric. Cygnus looked the way that she had felt when she thought that Elrohir was lost to her forever.

"I'm not, Talass. I'm the weakest one here."

Inside the cavern, the din was deafening.

What had to be close to a hundred slaves (they hadn't gotten a headcount yet) were milling all around the party as they moved through the maze-like sections of underground caverns that served as the holding pens for the stockade slaves. They were of all races and ages, united only in their desire for freedom. Elrohir, Tojo, Zantac and Talass were moving through the crowd, asking questions and giving answers as best they could. Although very hungry and thirsty, most of the prisoners seemed to be in fairly decent health.

No goblinoids, or any other guards or overseers for that matter, had been encountered. The prisoners housed closest to the cavern entrance had reported seeing a dozen or so of them running by a little while ago, apparently heading for a back exit.

Just as in their experiences in Highport, crowd control was proving to be a difficult issue. Some of the prisoners did not get along with some others, accusing them of being "sell-outs" to their captors. Of course, exactly who these supposed traitors were proved impossible to easily verify, so for the moment the quartet was concentrating on simply getting everyone formed into some kind of semi-cohesive unit.

Standing back about forty feet from the cavern entrance, Cygnus stood quietly, still holding Nesco Cynewine's dead body in his arms. Sword and shield in hand, Aslan stood guard next to him.

"She kept... looking at me."

Cygnus turned to regard Aslan. "What?"

The paladin shrugged, while avoiding the magic-user's gaze. He didn't know how to express this.

More importantly, he didn't know why he was even trying.

"Nesco," he elaborated, trying to keep his voice from choking up. "Every so often, I'd catch her... just kind of _staring_ at me."

Aslan hesitated, unsure as of how to continue. He hoped that Cygnus might chime in with some sort of comment to help him along, but there was nothing at all from the mage. He glanced back over at him.

Cygnus was giving Aslan a cold glower that would have done Talass proud.

"I'm sure you were mistaken," was all that he said, before turning his attention away, ostensibly back towards the cavern entrance.

Aslan adjusted his grip on his shield and sword. He was aching all over, but didn't dare say anything. Not while Cygnus was still carrying Nesco.

Even at this distance, the two could hear the low roar of the slave crowd. The noise did nothing to alleviate an uncomfortable (and to Aslan, unexplained) silence between them.

Eventually, the paladin cleared his throat and tried again. "I am feeling better now, by the way. If you'd like me to take Nesco for a while, I'd be-"

"I've got her." A low, monotone response.

Aslan could feel himself starting to simmer, but stamped down on those emotions. _We're all strained to the breaking point_, he reminded himself. _It's not the first time this has happened. It's your responsibility to be the stabilizing influence here, _he reminded himself.

He put on a thin smile and turned back to his friend. "We'll get her raised, Cygnus," he offered, feeling an unexpected lump rise back up in his throat as he said so.

The tall wizard shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Maybe," he said, still not looking at the paladin. "Or maybe Heironeous will say _no_. Talass has a strong point, you know."

Aslan's simmer was going up, not down. "Then I'll take her to Melinjaro, in Willip."

Now Cygnus did look over at his fellow party member, albeit with a smirk on his face. "The Church of Zeus is not under the jurisdiction of the Royal Court. Melinjaro won't do it for free-"

_"Then I'll pay for it myself!"_ Aslan shouted, abruptly boiling over. _"Don't you want her back, dammit? What's wrong with you?"_

The two glared at each other. Slowly, and with a great deal of conscious effort, Aslan forced deep, regular breathing back on himself. Cygnus' expression slowly transformed from a cold cynicism to- something else.

Again, silence.

This time, it was Cygnus who spoke first, once more turning away from the paladin.

"I remember us sitting around the table at the Willow Tree, in Willip. She... she was saying something to me, and all of a sudden she just reached across the table and took my hands in hers. I looked at her- and suddenly all I could see was Hyzenthlay. And I always thought I'd made my peace with what happened. Her memory gave me comfort; it gave me strength- it never made me weak. Even when it spurred my thirst for vengeance against Iuz, it never made me weak. But this time... this... terrible feeling of _loneliness_ came over me."

He turned back to eye Aslan. "And no matter how well it hides, it's been with me ever since."

The paladin furrowed his brow, remembering. "The Willow Tree? I don't remember Nesco doing that-"

He stopped. Cygnus was shaking his head.

"No. Not then. This was back in Fireseek, when you, Elrohir and Tojo were off at Sandcat's lair."

This did not nothing to relieve the paladin's puzzlement. "But we hadn't even met Nesco then-"

"Not Nesco!" Cygnus interrupted. "Torlina!"

"Torlina?" Aslan was lost, and not adverse to admitting it. "Cygnus, help me out here."

The wizard took a deep breath of his own, while shifting his weight back to his other foot. "It's not as if I was in love with her!" he said loudly, again not looking at the paladin. "But Torlina just looked at me, and I remembered my wife... I remembered _loving_ my wife!"

Aslan closed his eyes. He was suddenly much more uncomfortable than he had been a moment ago.

"I'd never betray Hyzenthlay's memory!" Cygnus continued, apparently unable to stop now. "It's just that... I'd never been able to love another person before I met Hyzenthlay. She not only _gave_ me her love, she _taught_ me how to love! How could I betray that by feeling lonely- for wanting to be with someone else, if only because they somehow reminded me of her?"

"I... uhh..."

Cygnus gave a short, barking laugh. "I don't think you're the best qualified person to give me advice here, Aslan!"

The paladin slowly resheathed his sword as he turned back to the mage. "I admit that freely, Cygnus. Maybe I'm just a fool, but I still don't see what any of this has to do with Nesco."

For the first time, Cygnus looked down at the still figure nestled in his arms.

"I lied to Thorin while we were in Welkwood," he said softly. "I looked my own son right in the eye and lied to him. I told him how I _should_ be feeling, rather than how I actually felt."

"You're blaming yourself for how you feel, Cygnus?" Aslan asked, shaking his head. "Come on, now. We both now you're smarter than-"

"I loved Hyzenthlay, Aslan, and now she's dead. I looked at Torlina... and just _imagined_ what it would be like to be with her... and then she died."

His long face turned back to Aslan, and he stared directly into the paladin's eyes.

The wizard said nothing more, but Aslan's breath momentarily caught in his throat.

"I don't think I want to talk about this any more, Aslan," Cygnus muttered. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't-"

Aslan waved the concern away. "Don't worry, Cygnus. I won't. _Believe me_, I won't."

The mage nodded and turned away, apparently satisfied, but now Aslan felt like he was sinking into some kind of swamp.

The paladin kept stealing sidewise glances at Cynewine, as if ashamed that she might suddenly awaken and see him. He knew this was insane, but he couldn't help himself.

Nesco was not a pretty sight. Despite her position, she did not look asleep in the slightest. Her face and all her exposed skin was either blue, black or covered in dark, dried blood. Sections of it were cracked, with an ugly white pus frozen in the act of seeping out from within. The jagged hole in her gambeson was a horrid reminder of her death wound. Even the smell- Aslan knew the smell of cold death. He knew it ever since his youth in Rekamifoke, back on Aarde. And he smelled it on Cynewine.

_That's not Nesco_, Aslan rammed the thought down his throat. _That's only a reminder of her. We'll get her raised, and then I'll... I'll..._

The thought blocked up his throat, and suddenly the paladin couldn't breathe. His heart began pounding so furiously, he was certain it was going to burst.

"Aslan? Are you all right?"

Aslan turned back to Cygnus, unsure of what to say, but then realized with a start that it hadn't been the mage's voice he had heard. The paladin spun around again to lock eyes with a very concerned Elrohir.

The realization that he had to hide all this from Elrohir- from everyone- shocked Aslan back into new awareness.

"I'm fine, Elrohir," the paladin lied. "Let me guess. _We have a problem."_

The ranger smiled.

Elrohir, Aslan, Zantac and Tojo stood outside the corner cell. Talass was guarding Cygnus now. For their part, the former slaves were all standing far back from the quartet, with only the bravest peaking at them from around the corners of rough-hewn stone walls.

This particular cell seemed no different from the others. The back wall and the wall on the left were formed by the stone cavern, while the right and front walls were composed of bars, with a cutaway section of bars in the front that functioned as a door. Elrohir's sword having destroyed the lock, the door was currently swung open.

They stepped inside, Zantac's _light_-equipped quarterstaff and Gokasillion shedding the only light in this area.

In the center of the ten-by-ten cell was a stone stalagmite, about five feet high, which had obviously been placed here from elsewhere. It was roughly cylindrical shaped, and had been even more roughly chipped at until an extremely vague representation of a humanoid head and torso had begun to appear.

Aslan's lip curled in disgust as he walked around the stone formation. A scalp encrusted with dried blood drooped long blonde strands of hair down the statue's "head." The face was as crudely done as the rest of the idol and equally as repulsive. Two squashed beetles, glued to the stone by some unknown adhesive, functioned as eyes. The mouth, a crude hole chipped into the stone, featured a white, dessiccated centipede as a tongue hanging out. Small teeth, probably humanoid and filed to points, were set all the way around the rim of the mouth in a ring of fangs.

"It's Markessa."

The others looked at Zantac, but the wizard merely continued to stare at the statue.

"How you know this, Zantac-san?" inquired Tojo.

The mage shrugged and indicated the far wall, where a roughly triangular section had been removed, about three feet wide at the base, tapering down to a foot at about five feet height from the floor. He gestured with his left hand, currently holding Cygnus' staff. "Her experiments in creating the perfect slave. Deformed, wretched creatures, like Cari and Filch. They live in natural caverns in there."

Elrohir nodded grimly. "The prisoners call them _cavelings_."

There was a slight pause. "How many are there, and do you think they're a danger to us?" Aslan asked.

"I don't know," the ranger replied, "but we've been told occasionally certain cavelings with the ability to squeeze between these bars would come out and slip into a prisoner's cell. Apparently, they can see in the dark, and that gave them the advantage. They'd kill the poor soul in the cell, then cut their body into pieces with knives and daggers and slip back into that hole with them."

"Guards not stop them?" Tojo demanded, his expression darkening. "Sraves worth so ritter to them?"

Zantac could only shrug again. "No way to know. Perhaps Markessa felt the fear her cavelings generated helped keep the prisoners in line. An acceptable price to pay- for her."

Aslan frowned as he examined the stalagmite again. "I wonder. Do the cavelings despise Markessa for what she did to them, or do they worship her as some sort of twisted Creator?"

Elrohir considered. "I don't know Aslan, but keep in mind this stockade has been operating here for years, and Markessa had plenty of time to practice her dirty little secret. This could be a major complication if they decide to come out after us. With a little rest and healing, I don't think we'd be in danger, but trying to protect a hundred defenseless-"

But the paladin had already drawn his sword. "Zantac- _light_ this up, if you please."

Elrohir was getting his shield ready even as the mage complied. "Let's do it."

Aslan shook his head. "No. I want to reconnoiter, not attack. See what we're dealing with."

The ranger did not seem inclined to concede the point. "You could get lost too easily in there by yourself, Aslan. And without your Talent-"

"I think I've gotten enough back that I could _polymorph_ once if I needed to, Elrohir."

Another lie.

Elrohir gave his friend a sour look. It had been less than an hour since the battle in the laboratory. "Scouting is not your forte in human form, Aslan."

The paladin did not look over his shoulder as he headed towards the hole in the cavern wall. "Our scout is dead, Elrohir."

Aslan cautiously stepped inside.

The illumination from Zantac's cantrip gave him about twenty feet of decent vision, with things darkening quickly outside that radius. He was standing at the endpoint of a corridor that more-or-less maintained a constant width of about six feet, and extended as far as he could currently see.

The paladin felt the top of his helm scrape the ceiling overhead at his next step and bent down slightly, grimacing. Aslan was pretty short as it was, and if the cave got any-

He stopped. There was something ahead of him in the tunnel. About thirty feet out.

Taking very slow (and very loud) steps, Aslan began to move forward again. It looked like a large mound of rags and old clothes, with what might be bones sticking out of the pile. The paladin grimaced. _Leftovers_, he thought and tightened his grip on the sword, directing his gaze to the blackness of the tunnel beyond.

At about twenty feet out, the pile of rags began to move.

Aslan stopped as a head pushed up out of the clothing fragments. It was only marginally human, with large dark eyes, a tremendous rounded mouth, and no nose that the paladin could detect at all. What had looked like bones suddenly revealed themselves to be two unnaturally long arms. Large hands, each with an extra thumb sewn onto the opposite side, pushed the creature's body off the ground.

What there was of it.

It looked as if the original creature had been sliced in half at the hips. The thing's lower body bulged out like a pear, and glimpses of a scar-covered bottom could be soon as it began to walk towards Aslan using its hands. Its gait was lurching, but easily equal to what Aslan could manage in his plate mail, and quite possibly faster.

Although he sensed no evil coming from the caveling, Aslan stood in battle readiness as the thing approached to within perhaps eight feet and then stopped, slowly lowering itself back down to the stone floor. Its eyes never left the paladin.

"The Outside!" it abruptly shouted. "The Outside comes Inside!"

Aslan hesitated. "I mean you no harm," he said.

Another lie? The paladin wasn't sure anymore just where the truth ended. "Do you understand me?" Aslan continued, trying to keep his nerves steady. He wasn't sure what he was doing- the paladin hadn't intended this to turn into a diplomatic foray.

The head bobbed up and down. "The Mouth knows! Only The Mouth knows the Outside words!"

Slowly, Aslan lowered his sword. He would have sheathed it entirely, but he needed the light. "We, uhh..." he thought furiously, unsure of how to phrase this. "We of the Outside are going to leave. You from the Inside have killed and eaten many of us. You must not do this."

The creature gave Aslan what he took to be an inquisitive look. "Be ye the thrice-curst messenger?" it asked. "Woe to the world now!"

It then rose up on its hands again and began a wordless lament of some kind, laced with hoots and wails. Throughout it, the paladin stood still and watched.

Faintly, from further inside, came inarticulate sounds that were clearly responses of some kind. _Is he announcing me, or warning them of an intruder?_ Aslan wondered.

After about a minute, "Mouth" ceased his caterwauling. The other voices fell silent. There was no sign of any other cavelings approaching.

The paladin glanced back over his shoulder. Twenty feet or so back, Elrohir, Tojo and Zantac were crowding the entranceway. "We heard, Aslan!" Elrohir shouted out.

"That _light_ won't last forever," Zantac reminded him.

Aslan had one thing in common with Argo Bigfellow, loathe as the paladin might be to admit it. He always felt better after making a decision and acting on it.

Unlike Argo however, Aslan always regretted it if it turned out to be a really lousy idea.

"I won't be long," Aslan told his companions, then slowly started moving forward again. He tensed momentarily when Mouth spit on him as he passed, but the gesture did not seem to be one of malice. The caveling just "stood" there, eyeing him silently.

Further on, Aslan could see the tunnel split off into numerous passages.

He mouthed a silent prayer and moved on.

Elrohir knew that only a few minutes had elapsed. The ranger also knew full well how time only seemed to move slower in tense situations like this.

That knowledge did nothing to help.

"I should have gone in there with him," he groused to the others. "Damn stubborn fool."

Tojo was quiet, but Zantac felt compelled to say something, even though he knew Elrohir probably didn't want to hear it.

"His _light_ is going to give out any moment."

Elrohir turned and gave the wizard the stink-eye, but at that moment a sound came out from within the caverns. It was so faint that if they hadn't been so familiar with it, he and Tojo might have missed it altogether.

But they were, so they didn't.

It was the sounds of melee combat.

Elrohir concentrated. Aslan's voice all right, although he couldn't make out the words. He frowned. If Aslan was shouting out while fighting by himself, that probably meant he was in trouble.

_Enough for a polymorph, my eye_, the ranger thought. _I knew he didn't sound right when he said that_. He turned to the others. "I'm going in."

Tojo had already drawn his katana. Elrohir had intended to ask the samurai to remain here and guard the others, but a quick glance told him that would be a waste of time and breath. "Stay close to me, Tojo," he said, indicated the white light issuing from Gokasillion. Tojo nodded.

The two plunged in. Mouth, who had retreated back to his bed of filthy rags, rose up again as they approached, but they breezed right by him, ignoring his inarticulate shouts and rain of spit. It was then that they heard the sounds of footsteps. Running, armored footsteps.

"Asran-san!" the samurai shouted out.

"Tojo!" came the response from somewhere ahead. "Is Elrohir with you?"

"Right here, Aslan!" the ranger yelled back.

"Stop running!" came the response. "My _light_ is out, and I'm trying to get a fix on yours!"

The duo stopped, Elrohir holding his sword steady out in front of him. Gibbering noises were starting now, on the edge of their hearing, but it was only a few seconds later when Aslan came bursting out of one of the side tunnels.

"Go!" the paladin shouted.

Yanigasawa Tojo stood by the hole in the wall, katana at the ready, looking obviously disappointed that combat did not seem imminent. Elrohir and Zantac stood nearby as Aslan caught his breath, stareing down at the floor.

"We're moving out," the paladin announced between inhalations. "I don't know whether or not they're going to come out after us, but we need to get moving. Tojo," he ordered the samurai without looking up, pointing back to the corridor that paralleled the slave pens. "Go to the head of the crowd, and get them moving. I think the back exit that leads to the outside is about two hundred or so yards down the way we were heading. Zantac, get back to Cygnus and Talass. Get them in the middle, or up front with Tojo- I don't care. Elrohir and I will cover the rear."

Elrohir frowned. Aslan's breathing returned to normal, but he made no move to raise his gaze up from the floor.

The party leader nodded to the others, and they left as instructed.

Elrohir waited as the mass of people slowly moved by out in the corridor. At about three minutes, he judged it was time for the two of them to move on.

"Aslan?" the ranger asked quietly. "Are you ready?"

The paladin did not reply. By reflex, Elrohir looked down to the floor as well, even though he knew there was nothing there to-

Elrohir had good eyes. Perhaps not the equal of Tojo's, but good enough to see the drop hit.

Aslan was crying.

And then Elrohir saw another drop hit.

A red one.

The paladin's sword was dripping fresh blood.

"Aslan, what is it?" the ranger asked.

When he received no reply, Elrohir slowly placed Gokasillion's glowing blade right under the paladin's face.

Aslan's face shot up to meet the gaze of his friend. Elrohir didn't know if Nesco's death was getting to him again, but he could never recall him looking this wretched. The paladin suddenly grabbed both of Elrohir's shoulders and moved as close to him as two suits of plate mail would allow.

_"Pray for me, Elrohir,"_ he whispered into his ear. "Pray to Lord Odin for my soul."

Elrohir began trembling, and he didn't know why. "What happened in there, Aslan?" he asked without turning his head. He could feel Aslan's beard as the paladin kept the side of his face pressed against Elrohir's, apparently unable to look him in the eye.

"Many small caverns," Aslan began, his voice thin and unsteady. "Cavelings in all of them. Most of them didn't bother me. A few came at me, but... they were nothing. I didn't even need to use my sword. I'd kick them, and they'd scoot away. Clicking, gibbering, moaning..."

Elrohir waited.

"I walked into one last cave," the paladin continued. "It was very small, with no other exits. Only two cavelings, and they didn't attack. There wasn't any other exit, and I had just decided to start heading back when one of the cavelings turned around."

Aslan slowly pulled back, his light blue eyes bloodshot with fatigue, tears and something else Elrohir didn't want to examine too closely.

"It was him, Elrohir!" The paladin's shout was weak, but he continued on. "His body was... all cut up and stitched back together... wrong... but the face... I knew as soon as I saw it that it was him!"

"Who?" Elrohir asked.

Aslan didn't seem to have heard him. His face contorted even further in anguish. "I didn't have to do it!" he cried out. "He didn't attack me- he never made a move! I just saw that face- _and I knew what I had to do!"_

The ranger could feel the echoes of the _cone of cold_ starting to return to his body. He still said nothing.

_"I smashed his face in with my boot!"_ Aslan yelled. It... it caved in like a pie! And then I-" He swayed for a moment, but Elrohir held on tight.

"It was mercy, Elrohir! It was the only thing that could be done! I couldn't take the chance that she would ever see him! But I can't tell her! And neither can you! _No one must ever know!"_ he finished with a shriek.

_"That WHO would see him? Who are you talking about? What happened, Aslan?" _Elrohir yelled back, shaking his friend now.

There was no answer but the agony in those eyes.

In desperation, Elrohir tried a different tack. "Aslan," he said in a low but trembling voice, "when I pray to Lord Odin, what do I need to ask him?"

That got a response.

"That if Nesco Cynewine comes back, and if despite our silence, her god or any other god ever tells her, that she can... can forgive me."

The ranger stared.

Aslan's voice was going now. "Elrohir... Markessa didn't kill him."

Elrohir's gaze shifted to Aslan's sword. The dripping blood.

And suddenly he understand. His mouth opened in horror as he looked back at the paladin's face as he heard Aslan's last coherent words.

_"I did."_

Elrohir held onto Aslan as best as he could, the paladin's sobs echoing throughout the empty cells.

And he began to pray for his soul.


	110. Point Of View

She was nothing but a point of view.

And that view was of the Mountain.

It could only be _The Mountain_. The one that all others were birthed from. A mountain so large, no world could be big enough, or grand enough, or strong enough, to serve as its base.

And so none did.

It towered so high, the sky had to rise up still higher or be torn asunder by its peak. An eagle would be hard-pressed to fit between the two.

It bristled with the power of youth.

It was older than the gods.

The view had no heart to be filled with awe. It had no brain to even try and comprehend the incomprehensible power and majesty of The Mountain.

And yet the view trembled as it approached.

Even though the view flew forward faster than thought, The Mountain grew very slowly. It would only be approached on its own terms. It could only be seen as it willed.

And only the rarest few could ever, ever reach it.

Was the view one of these few? It didn't know. It _couldn't_ know.

And yet it flew on.

Buildings started to appear on the slopes.

They nestled on ledges. They perched on crags. They filled ravines and clung to sheer cliffs.

They were marble. Magnificent, white, pink, speckled, clear, veined, pristine, weathered marble.

Rounded columns rose tall and powerful.

And as much as the view focused on them, it wanted to be closer still.

The view wanted those buildings to fill itself with.

They were a promise of perfection not yet understood.

Slowly, they grew.

But now something else came into the view. It demanded focus.

The sky around the Mountain grew dark. Stormclouds appeared from left and right, heading towards each other.

The view trembled again, switching back and forth between the advancing fronts. If they met, they would obscure The Mountain. That would-

Lightning flashed.

Bolts of white and silver. Jagged bolts, with angles sharper than any straightedge might make.

They did not strike The Mountain, but flew back and forth between the clouds on left and right. Without losing their sharpness, they whirled and writhed; glowing ropes in the sky.

And the view could not truly understand, but it knew where to focus. Somehow, it knew.

The lightning spoke.

Not to the view, and not to The Mountain (although The Mountain heard), but to itself. Bolts flew from the left. and bolts flew from the right, vanishing into the opposing cloudbank, where they vanished in a burst of light; a brief illumination of rolling, boiling gray.

And something else. There was something else- something _in_ the clouds, but the view would not, could not focus there. It was gently but firmly turned aside. And then the lightning would be gone, and only the floating darkness remained.

This was not an argument. It was a conversation, and although the view could not understand the words, it knew what they were talking about.

They were talking about the view.

And then something new suddenly came to the view. Somehow, it understand one word of what the lightning spoke.

A name.

And then there was more. Things about the name.

The view split off a small portion of itself, and brought an image of the name into focus.

The name had once meant a great deal to the view, in some impossible way it couldn't fathom. Now, it meant nothing.

No. That wasn't true. It still meant something. Not so much the name itself, but what it represented.

It represented... _a choice_.

A chance to regain something the view didn't even realize until that moment it had lost. 

The view tried to focus on what this lost part of itself was- but it couldn't. It shook again as it realized that in order to see what this was, it was going to have to make a decision to do so.

This would not have been a concern to the view, but it knew now that if it made the decision to focus on this... this lost fragment, it might never be able to focus away from it again.

And that meant The Mountain would be lost.

The view tried to decide, but it didn't have the tools. It didn't know what this fragment was. It seemed impossible that it could offer more than The Mountain.

So why was the choice so hard?

The lightning had ceased.

The Mountain beckoned, even as the darkness closed around it .

And the view decided.

Instantly, one more lightning bolt erupted from the clouds that now covered everything.

In mid-stream, it suddenly turned and came straight at the view.

And as everything turned white again, the view realized that it was more than itself.

It was... _hers_.

It was _her_ point of view.

She was hurtling backwards now. It had grown so agonizingly slowly, but now The Mountain receeded with horrifying speed and was soon lost.

She could no longer alter her focus. She could not see where she was going- only where she had been.

And now she could feel things, although she couldn't sort out what they were yet.

A universe of forests, lesser mountains, deserts and oceans flashed by in an instant.

Suddenly, perspective shifted. Sky was all she could see as she suddenly felt herself being hurtled downwards. It seemed as if she must strike the ground in an instant- but she just fell and fell.

She was going even faster now.

She had no flesh to feel it, but she knew she was cold.

She had no ears to hear it, but a wind that only the mind could feel was buffeting her to and fro.

She was not sure when all of reality had turned into an infinite expanse of silvery-gray.

And like the clouds before, a darker gray was now approaching from both sides. It was nothing in the physical sense- it was the universe itself starting to contract.

She took only passing notice in this, however. Something much more important was happening.

She was being born.

No- she was being _reborn_.

Faster than she could absorb them, images poured into her. Places, things, people.

_People!_

Names came with all of them. They were coming in fast, but with an incredible rapidity, everything was being fitted into its correct slot. She felt larger somehow, as if the immensity of everything inside her was making her swell. She still had no flesh, but that didn't matter. Joy was seeping into her through all names and the feelings and the memories and impressions. Happiness, love, was the glue that held her together.

The flesh was merely the recepticle. She had thought that mortality was the fragment for which she had pined- for which she had sacrificed, but she knew now that wasn't the case.

_This_ was what she was. This was what she was focused on. Her inside. Her essence. Her _soul._

And just as she was about to shout out with her mind and heart and soul that she was so happy to have made the right decision, something went wrong.

Even as she was going faster and faster and faster, the universe had contracted into a long, dark gray tunnel.

It was growing smaller, and although she knew the end of her journey was very near, the awful truth flowed straight into her because any defenses that might have kept it out hadn't been built yet.

_She wasn't going to fit._

She slammed into the side of the universe, and began to fall apart.

A few names and faces tore loose and were lost.

She rebounded off into the other side of the universe. Some skills and experiences went flying.

Her focus began to spin, but there was nothing to see but the gray.

A lesson she had learned in battle slipped away. A childhood nickname was obliterated.

The universe closed in around her now. She screamed out for The Mountain. She screamed out for her god.

And as more and more was lost, one last thing came back.

Pain.

Then the gray turned to black.

**27th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Temple of Heironeous, Chendl, Furyondy**

The blackness began to recede, but everything still hurt.

She heard a sound. An actual sound, that fell upon real ears and was heard and understood by a real brain.

It was a sharp intake of breath. A gasp of astonishment, followed by a small and tinny female voice.

"She lives... she has returned!"

And then there was a male voice, strong and confident. She knew it at once. It belonged to the name that the lightning has shown her.

"Praised be Heironeous, Archpaladin. Our lives are for you to use in your wisdom."

She couldn't talk- she wasn't sure if she even remembered how, so she tried to concentrate on what she could feel.

She was lying down. That much she knew. She also knew she was wrapped in something (a blanket?), but the surface underneath was still hard. Her head however, was resting on something very soft and warm, and that felt good.

She took a deep breath, but that didn't feel very good. Her chest was hurting more than anything.

She decided she was going to try opening her eyes.

Even the light hurt, though it wasn't very bright. She squinted and waited patiently for the shapes to resolve themselves. It didn't take long.

She was happy that she recognized most of what she was looking at.

She had been afraid.

The figure bending over her was clad in a silver surplice over a white cassock with blue trim. He was not tall, and his face looked tired, and worn with fatigue. The cheeks were sunken, but the eyes were strong and clear.

And so was the smile.

Trembling slightly, he reached inside the white blanket that covered her from neck to knees, and gently came out holding her left hand in his.

"Welcome back to us, Lady Cynewine."

Nesco opened her mouth, and only then became aware of how dry and cracked her throat was. She couldn't speak.

High Priest Gaereth Heldenster motioned with his eyes above and behind Nesco's head, where she couldn't see.

Suddenly, the ranger felt two hands gently raise her head and shoulders up, perhaps a third of the way towards a sitting position. They relaxed slightly. The pillow on which Nesco's head lay was now propped up on a wedge of some kind.

Another figure came around into view on Cynewine's right. This was a female priestess of Heironeous, wearing a white cassock in gold trim. She looked about Nesco's age, and had brown eyes and long dark hair that was wound into two braids down her back. In her hands she held a silver goblet with what looked like wine within.

Nesco frowned, concentrating even as she sat up further. She didn't know who this was. Was it someone she had never seen before, or someone she had forgotten? She could only remember meeting one other priestess of Heironeous before. That was back in Willip. She had seemed like a very nice person.

Nesco couldn't remember her name, though.

The cleric flicked her eyes down to the goblet, and then back to the ranger while gently offering it to her. She didn't speak, and her smile was thin and nervous.

Nesco had trouble holding onto the chalice with one hand, so the priestess aided her, tipping it back gently so that Nesco could drink. She dribbled some of it down her chin, staining the beautiful white wool purple. She couldn't have cared less. It felt wonderful going down.

"Rest now, Lady Cynewine."

Nesco had no problem at all following that order. She leaned back down on the pillow and allowed her eyes to wander over the mosaics of Heironeous that covered the ceiling, and the tapestries on the walls. She knew what this room was. When she was younger, she had seen it once, glimpsed through an open door.

It was the Room of Return.

But wait a minute.

That meant-

_"My god!"_

The sound tore roughly out of a sore throat as Cynewine bolted upright, her eyes wide. In panic, they zoomed back in on Heldenster, who nodded slowly while squeezing her hand again.

"Yes, Lady Cynewine. You have made the ultimate journey, by the blessing of the Invincible One and the largess of his Royal Majesty and the Noble Council." The High Priest arched his eyebrows. "And I do hope that your exclamation does indeed reference the appropriate deity."

Nesco couldn't believe any of this.

_Dead? But I was... was-_

The pain was as much mental as physical as the shock tore through her. She gasped for breath in ragged attempts as the memory came. She remembered pushing Talass down and out of the way as Blackthorn attacked- and nothing after that.

She desperately tried to connect the right thoughts together, but they wouldn't come. She gave a pleading glance at Gaereth, who again nodded in understanding.

"I know little, Lady Cynewine, but I have been told that your companions are all alive. They have lead the rescued slaves out of the slavers' stockade, and have begun the long shepherding westward, towards the Principality of Ulek. You need not fear for them."

Nesco relaxed, letting out a long sigh of relief as she lay back down. They had triumphed.

Well, of course they had. Didn't they always, somehow? She smiled at the thought and closed her eyes, listening to Heldenster's voice even as fatigue began to slowly pull her away.

"Rest now. I will be back shortly to check on you, Lady Cynewine- and perhaps then we can discuss the relative merits of the gods in Heaven above."

Nesco rolled her eyes underneath her lids at that, but she didn't even care. Everything was all right now. She could afford to sleep. She barely heard the voice of the female acolyte.

"Your Grace, I told him that she has returned safely, but he states that he still wishes to see her."

"Hmmpf. Apparently patience is a virtue not preached by most other gods. Tell the paladin he will wait."

"Yes, your Grace."

Nesco fell asleep, and dreamed of a Mountain.

She awoke slowly, and permitted herself the luxury of a long stretch.

Nesco almost threw the blanket off- it was almost uncomfortably warm now- but realized that she was naked underneath. The ranger considered. Probably the female acolyte had been called in to clean Nesco up prior to her- her coming back.

Her lips trembled as she examined herself. She had been given some healing, but there was still an ugly-looking wound right between and just below her breasts. it looked like there was going to be a scar there. Well, that was just something she was going to have to live with. There wasn't a one of her friends that did not now sport additional scars gained in the short time she had known them.

Cynewine looked around the room. A dressing gown (emblazoned with the holy symbol of Heironeous, of course) lay folded on a shelf built into the far wall. Trying to take it nice and easy, she slowly sat up...

She had just finished donning the robe when the door opened abruptly and Heldenster came in. There was a moment of mutual surprise, which the High Priest broke first.

"Your stamina is commendable, Lady Cynewine, but not needed at present. Do not overexert yourself- you wouldn't want to undo my reputation as a miracle worker, would you?" he asked with a wry smile.

Nesco smiled back, although she didn't really feel like it. She bowed to him. "I cannot thank you enough for what you have done, your Grace, but I feel I must make ready to depart."

Heldenster frowned. "I'm sorry- I don't understand."

She didn't like that frown. _Hold up_, Cynewine thought. _Let's start at the beginning here._ "How long have I been here?" she asked, trying to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

The cleric eyed her carefully. "You were brought in about four hours ago, Lady Cynewine."

"I was brought back by Aslan- correct?"

Gaereth nodded slowly, his expression cautious. "Yes."

Nesco relaxed slightly. "Well then, I must return with him to The Pomarj! There were over a hundred slaves imprisoned there! They'll need my skills as a ranger to help guide, feed and protect them. I know my efforts will only be a small contribution of course, but-"

"Lady Cynewine," the High Priest cut in.

She stopped.

"Yes?" Suddenly a whisper was all she could manage.

Heldenster's eyes dipped slightly. "The paladin saw you briefly, while you were asleep. He then retired for a few hours to regain the use of his Talent. He did mention that his friend Elrohir had devised a plan to supply and protect the former slaves, but-"

_But what?_

Even a whisper was out of reach now, but Gaereth understood. The High Priest wrung his hands together. "Lady Cynewine, Aslan has since left Chendl. He made no mention whatsoever of returning to take you back to The Pomarj."

The universe closed in on Nesco.

_"What?"_ It wasn't a question. It was a plea.

The High Priest again raised his eyes to the ranger's face. "I am sorry, Lady Cynewine. Please- remain here until I return. I will try to find out if he spoke more in depth to anyone else before he left."

He turned and quickly left the room, too nervous to even shut the door behind him.

Nesco's knees began to go. She just barely made it back to the altar, where she sat, shaking worse and worse with every passing second.

_I don't understand it- why would he leave me? Whatever plan they've come up with, surely my being there can only help! It doesn't make sense! It doesn't make-_

A sound of pure grief suddenly burst out of Cynewine's lungs even as the pain closed in her mind with a sickening realization.

_I died- I was slain! That's why they don't want me back- I'm a burden! I'm not the warrior that they are! I knew that from the beginning- even Sir Damoscene told me so! But I thought- I thought..._

And Nesco Cynewine buried her face in her pillow and let the tears flow.

She didn't want to think about anything anymore.


	111. Argo and Caroline

**27th Day of Flocktime, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The banging on their cabin door startled both Bigfellows.

The large woolen blanket undulated for a moment, and then two somewhat disheveled faces emerged from underneath it.

"Who can that be at this hour?" whispered Caroline.

Less than a foot away, Argo Bigfellow Junior tried very hard to bring his breathing under control. Without any enthusiasm whatsoever, he tried to tear his attention away from his wife's face and listen. There was no further noise from outside.

"Told you we should have left Grock inside," Caroline said to him softly. "He'd have given us warning."

Argo turned just in time to catch his wife's smug expression.

"I don't like those eyes watching us from the foot of the bed," he groused as seriously as he could, which wasn't very. "I feel like I'm being critiqued."

"You are," she replied with a smile, "but not by him."

Argo's eyebrows shot skywards, but at that point the banging resumed.

"Who is it?" the ranger yelled out, more to distract himself than anything else.

"Argo, it's Aslan. Open the door please, I need to speak to you."

The two looked at each other.

"I swear to Hades," Argo yelled out after a moment, "Unru, if this another one of your pranks, you'll wish you were still _feebleminded!"_

The banging resumed, harder now.

"Argo!" came the voice of the paladin. "If you don't open this door in thirty seconds, _I'm teleporting in!"_

Bigfellow considered. "Loud... crude... no sense of humor," he mused. "Sounds like Aslan, all right." Frowning, the ranger got up, grabbed the nearest piece of clothing and wrapped it around his waist, then headed into the cabin's main room. Pausing only to throw another piece of wood into the fireplace, he snatched the key off its hook on the wall, unlocked the door and swung it open.

It was cool for late Flocktime; a clear low summer's night. Aslan the Paladin stood front and center, wearing his green linen shirt and brown trousers. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was the usual grim one Argo had long come to associate with his companion.

On Aslan's left stood Sir Dorbin and Monsrek. To his right were Wescene and Sitdale. All wore carefully neutral expressions.

All five of these somber visages turned to curious ones as Argo's audience involuntarily lowered their eyes several degrees.

Bigfellow folded his arms across his bare chest in imitation of Aslan. "Good evening, my friend," he intoned pleasantly, "and how might I be of service this fine evening?"

In the soft white glow of the light emanating from Dorbin's helm, the paladin's face could be seen struggling to keep any trace of levity out of it. "I'm sorry Argo. I didn't mean to disturb you in a personal moment-"

"What makes you think you did that?" retorted Argo, his auburn eyes locked on Aslan's.

"Argo," cut in Wescene, "you're wearing your wife's skirt."

Aslan had to give Argo credit. The ranger didn't even glance down. He didn't skip a beat.

"Keeps my thighs from chafing," he said. "I reiterate- how may I help you?"

The paladin took a deep breath. "This is the situation, Argo. We've slain Markessa and have escaped the stockade. We currently have over a hundred former slaves in our charge. We have a two-month march ahead of us to get them to the Principality of Ulek. Feeding, sheltering and protecting them is going to be a monumental task. Elrohir asked me to return here and ask Monsrek and Wescene if they would return with me to The Pomarj, and they have accepted." The aforementioned individuals bowed their heads slightly. "We're in desperate need of clerics to provide food, water and healing, and rangers for food, clothing, shelter and protection." Aslan's pressed his lips tightly together for a moment. "Elrohir requested me to once again ask you to join us."

Argo studied the paladin's face carefully. "And you disagreed with him?"

Aslan's light blue eyes glinted coldly. "Only in part. I agreed that we need you. However, I told him it would be a waste of time to ask you. I'm doing so only to satisfy my promise to him that I would do so."

Bigfellow scowled at the paladin. "You don't consider Lady Cynewine an adequate substitution for me?" He shook his head. "She is perfectly capable of-"

"Nesco was killed, Argo."

It was a cold, cruel and very unpaladin-like satisfaction that Aslan received as he saw the look of surprise and then grief that passed over the big ranger's face. He let the moment last until he saw that Argo was about to speak, and then cut him off.

"I brought her back to Chendl, and she has been _raised_," Aslan continued. "But she is-," he hesitated, "in no condition to return to The Pomarj."

He watched as Bigfellow's face slowly resumed it's former neutral expression. "I'm glad you were able to bring her back," Argo said after clearing his throat. He again locked eyes with the paladin. "Don't try to make me feel guilty over my decision, Aslan. I've got tons of faults, but I'm immune to guilt."

The two stared at each other for a moment, and Aslan's face suddenly appeared to collapse.

"I know you are, Argo," he said quietly, wiping his forehead with his hand. "I wish I could be. I really wish I could be." The paladin made a gesture of surrender. "I won't push the issue, Argo. I asked and you've given me what I presume is your answer. I'll be leaving in the morning, so I'm going to go-"

"He'll go back with you, Aslan."

Argo blinked at the voice that came from his right.

As the others watched, Caroline Bigfellow, holding her her gray _yukata_ robe closed with one hand, slowly moved into view to stand next to her husband.

Argo stared down at his wife.

"Excuse me, lady," he finally managed. "Do I know you?"

Caroline trembled, but her weak smile flitted across her face. "You don't_ have_ to go, love, but you'll _want_ to."

Bigfellow still looked as if he'd just taken a sucker punch to the gut. "I will?"

His wife nodded. "Aslan is taking me, and I know you want to be with me to protect me, so..."

The big ranger's gaze shot back to the paladin. Aslan's look of confusion seemed genuine, but it quickly melted into an appreciative smile.

Argo looked slowly back and forth from one to the other, then slowly bowed to the paladin.

"Let us know when you're ready to leave, Aslan." There was no smile on his face as he straightened up. "You win."

Caroline's face lost all traces of satisfaction as her husband's glare turned on her. It did not soften.

"We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, Caroline. We'd best get to bed."

The ranger walked out of sight, back towards his bedroom. They could hear the interior door close.

Aslan felt a sudden surge of pity for Caroline. She saw it in his look, and held up her hand.

"My decision, Aslan."

He nodded, unable to look her in the eye. "I understand. Thank you Caroline. There are scores of innocent lives at stake-"

"I was listening," the young woman stated. "That was the main reason. Somehow, I feel better when I'm not focussing so much on myself." She looked back at Aslan and shrugged, giving him another weak smile. The paladin, raising his gaze just in time to catch it, smiled back.

"Sir Dorbin," Caroline called out just as Aslan was turning to head towards his own cabin, "have you told Aslan what's been going on here?"

The knight nodded soberly, but Aslan felt compelled to elaborate.

"Yes. Increased brigand activity to both our north and south. Signs that we are again under surveillance, and that another attack may be forthcoming. The fact that Baron Chauv disappeared while in Willip and is now considered dead. News that the Willip Wizards' Guild has again failed to capture Chic, and that the Emerald Serpent's servant was last seen entering the city with the _Chams_ clothing." The paladin's face grew somber as he processed these developments, one-by-one.

Caroline nodded weakly. "I just wanted to make sure," she muttered, sounding foolish to her own ears.

"Aslan," Sir Dorbin suddenly turned to address the paladin, who again paused as he was about to stride off.

"Yes?"

A sly smile made a cameo on the knight's features. "Forgive me, but I did neglect to mention that Monsrek and Wescene's participation in this endeavor will come at a small price."

Aslan eyed him suspiciously. "And that is?"

"That before you bring them to The Pomarj, you will first take me to Chendl."

The paladin gave him a look of naked confusion. "If you wish, Sir Dorbin. May I ask why?"

The smile returned. "I will find it useful... for something I wish to accomplish."

Aslan looked at Dorbin, but clearly no other information was forthcoming.

"Sir Dorbin?"

The knight looked back over to Caroline.

"Our enemies. They'll know that Monsrek and Wescene have left, won't they? Won't that make the rest of you more vulnerable?"

Sir Dorbin smiled again, and by way of reply looked over to Sitdale. When Aslan and Caroline followed his gaze, they were shocked to catch the very end of an illusion.

The tanned face of Unru smiled at them from where Sitdale had been standing a moment before.

"They'll know what I want them to know, and nothing more," the illusionist said quietly. "I've been craving sweet foods since my recovery, and I hear revenge fits that bill of fare."

"I do wish you'd stop doing that," Dorbin shook his head as the quartet returned to the Brass Dragon.

"I wish I could feel more confident about this," Aslan admitted to Caroline before walking off.

Mrs. Bigfellow stared at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and preparing herself to face her disappointed husband.

"I just wish my dreams would stop," she whispered before closing the door.


	112. Misunderstandings

**3rd Day of Wealsun, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj  
(about 12 miles west of the slavers' stockade)**

Aslan woke up locked in combat.

There was a roaring in his ears. Still clad in his plate mail, he grappled with the armored man who was pinning him down on the rocky ground.

The paladin went for his sword, but his opponent grabbed his right arm.

Aslan snarled and was about to fire off a _psionic blast_ when he realized with a start that it was Elrohir who was straddling him.

And as his mouth opened in astonishment, Aslan began to hear the ranger's words.  
_  
"Aslan! Wake up! Snap out of, dammit! Wake up!"_

The paladin went weak with shock. Slowly, Elrohir let go of his friend and awkwardly rolled off of him.

Both men stood up; Aslan still in a state of confusion, and Elrohir with a deep sense of worry written on his face.

Aslan looked around. Argo Bigfellow, just now resheathing Harve, was sitting back down on a mid-sized boulder. Cygnus was sitting upright staring at him; the wizard's hands clenched the sides of his bedroll in consternation. None of his other friends were immediately visible.

Four or five campfires, each surrounding by a dozen or so ragged former slaves, continued to blaze away undisturbed on the hillside. Every face was turned towards Aslan.

The paladin felt little like talking and even less like smiling. However, he did both in an attempt to placate his audience.

"Sorry," Aslan nodded at Elrohir, then made a weak stab at humor. "Was I snoring?"

"You were screaming," Argo noted quietly from his roost.

The paladin took several deep breaths as he tried to absorb this. "I'm fine now," he eventually mumbled as he walked over to the nearest fire and slowly eased his armored bulk down next to it.

"Aslan," he heard Cygnus say, "you've still got some time before your watch. Why not get out of that plate and see if you can get back to-"

Aslan cut the mage off with a shake of his head. "I'm fine," he repeated tersely, staring into the flames as if they were the most important thing in the world.

Everyone seemed to get the hint. No one else spoke to the paladin, although he could hear snatches of assorted conversations from the ex-slaves around him.

Most centered around how many people had died that day.

After a while Aslan could feel his face starting to grow uncomfortable from the heat of the fire. He blinked and looked around him.

Only about half the camp was visible. They had been travelling along the crest of a long, low hill. Argo and Elrohir had wanted to find more level ground before stopping for the night, but it wasn't an option. They were just moving too slowly.

So tonight the horde was camped on both sides of the hill. In theory, this wasn't a problem. Aslan could see the lights from the campfires on the other side of the ridge and knew they were close enough that if he yelled, they'd hear him. For that matter, they'd probably heard his screams earlier.

Aslan sighed, pulled off his left gauntlet, poured some water from his waterskin over his head and rubbed it all over his hair, his face and his beard with his left hand. It made him feel a little better, and he looked around again.

Low hills and mountains surrounded them on three sides. To the south, a black triangle rising high into the deepest blue of twilight's last gasp, was the silhouette of Mount Drachenkopf, largest mountain in The Pomarj. They were skirting by only about three miles north from its base.

For some reason, this seemed too close to the paladin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Aslan saw Elrohir sit down on his right. The paladin tightened his jaw, but said nothing.

After a few moments, Elrohir gestured towards the south. "They say that the Earth Dragon lives underneath that mountain."

Aslan shrugged. "Tojo claims it lives in a sacred valley in Nippon."

There was a brief silence.

"I guess when you're a god, you can live anywhere you want," Elrohir finally offered.

Aslan hunched forward as far as his armor would allow. It was completely against his conscious desire that the words came out of him.

"I feel cold inside."

The paladin picked up a piece of kindling and tossed it into the fire.

"Unclean... _diseased."_

Elrohir clenched his fists. "Aslan," he said quietly. "You can't keep this stewing inside you. Keeping secrets like this will-"

Aslan's head snapped around to glare at his party leader. "Keeping secrets will _what_, Elrohir?" he hissed softly. "Hurt me? Have you told Tojo yet how his daimyo betrayed the Chosen One? No? Is that keeping you up at night? Then don't tell me what to do!"

The paladin returned to his study of the flames.

Elrohir looked at his friend for a moment, then clenched his fists in frustration, stood up and walked off to sit with Argo.

"Wretched wasteland."

Aslan glanced over. Wescene had just arrived from over the ridge. The elf looked exceptionally dusty and sported several new scratches and bruises. She flopped down on the ground near the fire and dropped her bow and quiver next to her in disgust.

"What happened?" Elrohir asked.

Wescene grimaced as she carefully wet a cloth from her waterskin and began to clean herself off. "I tumbled down a rock face while chasing a hobgoblin."

"I thought elves were supposed to be graceful," Argo piped up. He said it casually and with an easy smile, but Wescene only scowled back.

"And I thought humans couldn't possibly be so depraved as to enslave their own kind and ally with monsters like hobgoblins!" she spat sarcastically. "See how much we can learn from each other?"

The ranger-priestess took a large swig, emptying her waterskin. Her face was already softening by the time she finished. "Sorry." She offered a brief but contrite expression to Bigfellow.

The big ranger shrugged. "I was about to say I deserved that, but I'm not proud. I'll take the apology."

The elf grunted. "Actually, I thought you were about to bring up the fact that Markessa was an elf. Didn't want you getting the moral high ground on me."

Argo smiled again. "You can have all the high ground you want, my dear. Just try to stay on top of it, okay?"

Wescene rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop her smile. It quickly vanished however, as she turned to address Elrohir. "How many did we lose today?"

"Two." The party leader was unable to look the elf in the eye. "One from the latest ambush, and one from the scrag that came out of that fishing hole."

Argo spoke up again. "How many of these stockade remnants do you think are tracking us?"

Wescene frowned as she concentrated. "About two dozen assorted goblinoids, I'd guess. Minus the three or four we've managed to take out."

"Who's leading them?" Elrohir wanted to know. "Blackthorn?"

She shook her head. "I've caught glimpses of a human, but I doubt it's Blackthorn. If he really is an ogre mage as you described, he and his werewolf cronies could decimate these people with a frontal assault." The elf's voice dropped lower. "Any survivors would scatter to the hills and be easy pickings. It's clear these attacks are aimed at the slaves and not us. They're trying to demoralize these people."

"If it hadn't been for the additional healing and firepower you and Monsrek have provided us with," Bigfellow added with uncharacteristic solemnity, "they'd have succeeded."

"Well, we're certainly not going to be able to lose our tormentors," Elrohir contributed, with a nod towards the former prisoners. "I wish we knew who that man is who's leading them. If we could-"

"Tancred. Estelrath Tancred."

All eyes turned to Cygnus.

"Who?" inquired Elrohir.

"The slave merchant you fought," replied the mage. Cygnus gave them a guilty smile while reaching into his backpack and pulling out the sheets of paper he'd found in Markessa's lab. "According to these, a slaver of that name is listed as arriving at the stockade the day before we did."

"What _is_ it with you and lists, Cygnus?"

All eyes turned again, this time to Aslan.

The magic-user flashed him that embarrassed smile again, along with a weak shrug. "Must be a wizard thing, I guess," he called out.

Despite himself, Aslan smiled. The paladin slowly scooted himself around the fire to join the others.

"I take it food is still our major concern?" he asked as he arrived.

Wescene nodded. "Even between our hunting and what Monsrek and Talass are able to create, it's not enough." The elf's tone was grim. "Water isn't so much a problem, but food- there's little in the way of forage, and these aren't great hunting grounds to begin with. What little prey a hundred noisy, stomping humans don't scare off, our attackers either do or catch themselves."

"It must still be better than what they got back at the stockade," Cygnus protested.

"Depends," said Aslan. "The slaves that were due to be shipped out were probably fed fairly well, to give them at least a semblance of good health."

"The rest of them may think they're eating more," added Wescene, "but they're active now. On the move." The elf's green eyes darted to the other campfires briefly before coming back to rest on her companions. "In a few days at this rate, they'll start to feel it. They won't be able to travel as far each day."

"_As far?_ We're not even making two leagues a day as it is!" Cygnus whispered harshly, looking around furtively.

"It's not a hopeless situation," Wescene said in an equally low tone. "We're not that far short of where we need to be." She sighed. "We'll just have to do better with our forays. We can-"

A commotion from over the hill cut her off. She and the others were instantly on their feet, but the sounds that reached their eyes were those of celebration, not alarm. The five looked at each other, but before they could speculate Caroline Bigfellow came running over the ridge at them.

_"Nesco!"_ she cried out. "Nesco's here!"

Alsan's eyes went wide. The paladin gulped and staggered back a few steps, trying to hide behind Elrohir, a boulder... _anything._

Not noticing him, the others crowded around Caroline. "How?" Cygnus wanted to know.

Mrs. Bigfellow smiled. "Sir Dorbin! He's dropping her off! He's going to stay until tomorrow morning, before he returns to the Brass Dragon."

Elrohir frowned. "But how was he able to find us?"

"Monsrek was in touch with him via _sending_," Caroline beamed. "He told Dorbin where we were- his _teleport_ was only about two miles off, and of course it was a simple matter for Nesco to find us from there!"

Behind them, Aslan squeezed his eyes tight while thinking of the rolled-up map of the area in his backpack that he'd picked up at Chendl. The one that Monsrek had been going over with him earlier that day. _The two of them- they set this whole thing up_, the paladin thought. _Sir Dorbin probably thinks he's doing us a great favor._

And the terrible thing was, Aslan realized that this _was_ the most logical course of action- an extra ranger might make all the difference. This was the best thing for everyone.

Except him.

His eyes still tightly closed, Aslan listened to his heart pound in his chest as he thought back four days. To the Room of Return inside the Valorous Temple in Chendl.

He'd only had a few moments alone with Nesco, and she'd been fast asleep at the time.

He'd just stood there and stared at her.

She looked so peaceful.

She looked so-

The paladin had backed away in terror and nearly bolted out of the room.

And now she was here.

Aslan could hear her now, greeting the others. He imagined them hugging her- whirling her around. Inexpressible joy at having her back. Having her _alive_.

The paladin thought furiously. He was sure Nesco had already inquired as to why she'd been left behind. The others hadn't known that Aslan had already decided not to return with Nesco when he'd teleported back to Chendl with her body. All he had told them was that he felt Cynewine would not be up to plunging back into action so soon after such a harrowing experience. And in truth, they had seemed to accept that. After all, it did make sense.

Only Elrohir knew Aslan's real reason.

The paladin tried to pray to Odin, but he couldn't. Now even his prayers were jamming in his throat. He was going to-

"Aslan?"

Even as he opened his eyes, he knew there were tears in them. It was too late now, though.

Nesco Cynewine stood about twenty feet away, looking at him. She was clad in yet another suit of chainmail. Sundancer hung at her side, her bow over her shoulder. She had on a nervous smile, but those green eyes were looking straight at him.

Those eyes.

He had no idea what kind of an expression was showing on his face. Rooted to the spot in panic, Aslan could only stare at those eyes. He knew. He could see her piercing gaze. There were no tears in Lady Cynewine's eyes. This was not the hesitant, almost timid ranger that had interacted so cautiously with them at first.

They were hunting eyes. The eyes Nesco used when tracking her enemies.

And it was at that moment when The Absolute Truth came crashing down upon Aslan.

_She knows!_ his mind screamed. _She knows! Of course- she was dead, and so was he! They must have "seen" each other, or however that works! He told her that I-_

"Nesco!" he said warmly, stepping forward and clasping her hands in his. Aslan was shaking so hard, he could hear his plate mail vibrating. "Thank Odin that you're back up to strength."

Pause.

"I don't know what I would have done if they hadn't been able to-"

The paladin choked up, but at least that part was real. God, that was so very true.

"You saved me, Aslan," Nesco said quietly, her face and her voice wildly out of sync, or at least it seemed to Aslan.

Now her eyes were starting to mist up. "I'll never be able to thank you enough."

Pause.  
_  
Aslan, you fool- say something! She's going to-_

"Lady Cynewine," he began.

She looked at him expectantly. His hands- one gauntleted, one not- were still clasping hers.

"I'm sure you know by now that I had thought you would not be able to rejoin us so quickly," the paladin lied as he had never lied before in his entire life. "Obviously, I was wrong. I can only beg you." His voice cracked. "Please forgive me."  
_  
Yes, Nesco. Please forgive me- for murdering your brother in cold blood._

He couldn't believe how deep her eyes had suddenly become.

Nesco couldn't believe how deep Aslan's eyes had suddenly become.

She stood there, trembling, her hands in his. She could see he was nervous- even more nervous than she had been expecting.

She tried to make sense of all this in the space of just a few seconds. Everyone had seemed so genuinely happy to see her that she had decided her earlier conclusion about being a burden to the party had been in error. Especially Talass- _she_ wouldn't lie about such a thing, would she? It seemed that everything was actually going to be all right after all.

So why was Aslan staring at her like that? It was making her more nervous with every moment, and she was always nervous enough around him.

And it was at that moment when The Absolute Truth came crashing down upon Nesco Cynewine.

_He knows!_ her mind screamed. _He knows how I really feel about him! Of course- he had to catch on sooner or later. I've been acting the perfect fool around him. And he-_

Nesco gasped.

_-and he doesn't feel the same way about me._

It was a long, slow fall as Nesco Cynewine's heart fell from her wounded chest and dashed to pieces on the rocky ground of The Pomarj.

"I'd better get caught up," she whispered, jerking like a zombie as she began to walk backwards away from the paladin. "I guess I've got a lot of work to do, starting tomorrow."

Aslan's head bobbed feebly. He desperately tried to say something to the ranger's back as she headed back up the slope towards the others.

Nothing came.

Elrohir slowly got to his feet.

He nodded silently as he relieved Monsrek. The cleric smiled wearily at him as he eased underneath his bedroll.

The hills were silent. For now.

The ranger looked downslope. Aslan was sleeping at the very edge of the encampment, by himself.

Elrohir frowned and walked up to the top of the ridge, where he stared down at the other half of the camp.

Nesco was sleeping all the way down at the other edge of the encampment, by herself.

_It's going to be a long trip_, he thought.


	113. More Problems

**15th Day of Reaping, 565 CY  
The Jewel River  
(the Ulek/Pomarj border)**

At the last moment Elrohir decided not to pray.

Everyone was about to began descending the final hill, and the sacrilegious thought had occurred to Elrohir that perhaps with a little less distance to cover between Oerth and heaven, the ranger might actually receive a sign of receipt if he sent a quick prayer up to the All-Father while he was still at the summit.

In all honesty, he didn't much see the point. It seemed to Elrohir that he and the others, for better and worse, had for the past two months been the architects of both their own fortunes and misfortunes.

On the positive side, they had made the grueling journey across the Pomarj.

Most of them.

The headcount this morning at breakfast had been ninety-eight. They had lost a total of twenty-four ex-slaves, mostly to hostile ambushes, before the attacks had petered off almost a month ago for unknown reasons.

Whether this was an acceptable loss ratio was irrelevant. It was what it was. As the leader, Elrohir had no choice but to accept it.

Elrohir looked behind him as the rag-tag mass of humans and demi-humans began walking down the hill. Some, eager in their knowledge that the worst of their travels were almost over, began stumbling in their downhill haste. Some checked themselves by grabbing a nearby tree, but a few took a tumble in the dirt and leaves. Their peers would help them to their feet, and the hike would continue with smiles on nearly every face.

Elrohir wasn't smiling.

He didn't know why. Part of him was indeed ecstatic that this grueling voyage, which had taxed his skills as a ranger to the limit, was indeed nearing its end. Once the former prisoners were delivered to the waiting dwarven contingent from Ulek at the banks of the Jewel River, Aslan would commence the _teleportation_ process that would return the party home over the course of several days.

On the negative side, sometimes Elrohir didn't think they had much of a party anymore.

The focal point of their current schism was of course, Aslan and Nesco. These two were so studious in avoiding each other that even the ex-slaves had noticed it, and their gossip and speculation did little to relieve matters. Worse, each absolutely rebuffed all efforts by anyone else to mediate a diplomatic solution. Aslan had taken to spending more and more time scouting ahead in one _polymorphed_ form or another, so that he rarely spoke with anyone anymore for any longer than it took to get or receive a status report on this matter or that.

Although the paladin had not been explicit, the few words he had muttered to the party leader the morning after Nesco's rejoining the team had indicated that Nesco had somehow learned the truth about her brother's fate. Or at least Aslan believed this to be the case. This was impossible for Elrohir to verify one way or the other, although to be fair no one had come flat out and asked Nesco. Instead, Elrohir had tried to draw the subject out in casual conversation but Lady Cynewine, perhaps aware of Aslan's close friendship with Elrohir, would not respond to a personal inquiry of any nature.

The ranger had felt that Nesco might perhaps open up to Argo or Caroline due to their common deity-worship. Both Bigfellows had refused to do so however, stating that it was none of their business, and all of Elrohir's entreaties about party unity fell on deaf ears.

Worst of all, his own wife Talass refused to use her divine powers to ascertain the truth of the matter, saying the distrust created by Nesco's realizing she had been the target of covert divinations would create a much worse problem than any which might be solved by the use of such power.

Elrohir sighed as he continued the downhill trek. His ranger instincts kept a lookout for trouble while the party leader's conscious mind continued to dwell on their problems.

The Aslan/Nesco situation had somehow spawned other discomforts. While the others tended to keep their difference, Cygnus had continued to spend more time with Nesco- or at least had tried to. Cynewine had not seemed very comfortable with this. Elrohir still wasn't sure exactly how a fistfight had started between Cygnus and Zantac on this matter, but at least neither had thought to resort to spell-slinging. The two wizards' friendship seemed to have quickly mended, but Elrohir knew enough from bitter experience not to take anything for granted.

Speaking of taking things for granted, Elrohir took some comfort in that at least Tojo seemed his old, unperturbed self. Although she had not spoken to the samurai as far as Elrohir knew, Tojo was the one party member Nesco still seemed to be at ease around.

_At least that's something_, Elrohir thought to himself and tried to force 100 of his attention back to the task at hand.

Argo, Caroline, Cygnus, Zantac and Talass were all more-or-less walking abreast with the party leader.

Like Elrohir however, they alternated between a watchful awareness of their surroundings and a semi-detached state.

Argo Bigfellow Junior was in a considerably brighter mood than his fellow ranger.

Although he was well aware of the group's current interpersonal woes, Argo felt assured that they would work out one way or another, so there was little to be gained by worrying about them. He had discussed with Elrohir about whether or not they would all be volunteering for the final mission- the one to Suderham. Bigfellow was pleased that Elrohir had decided to table this notion until after they had all regrouped at the Brass Dragon.  
At this point, he himself had no clue as to whether or not he would go.

The big ranger's left arm, currently resting comfortably on his wife's shoulders, briefly squeezed, pulling Caroline in closer to him. She looked up at him and smiled. Argo bent down and their lips met without either of them breaking stride.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Argo's smile took on a bemused air as Caroline returned her examinations to the wooded hills around them. His wife had been right all along to force his hand in rejoining the expedition. That itself had not surprised Bigfellow- he always was of the mind that Caroline was wiser than he was- but he did admit to being a little taken aback at how well she herself had adapted to being back in the field. Although she had not seen actual combat, Caroline had seemed as confident and competent as ever, and her return was a welcome addition.

Especially for her husband. The two had wasted little time in resuming the activities they had been involved in back at the Brass Dragon, and in fact had been requested to move their pup tent further out towards the perimeter of their nightly campsite- due to the noise involved.

Had Argo been possessed of Nodyath's _helm of telepathy_ and the daring to use it, he would have discovered that his wife's thoughts pretty much mirrored his own. Despite the tension surrounding some of their current members, Mrs. Bigfellow felt more at ease personally than she had for many weeks.

Ever since she had left the Brass Dragon, Caroline's nightmares had completely ceased. She mostly credited prayer to Zeus for this, but also considered the possibility that there was some fell influence lingering over their home. She'd have to ask Talass to look into that when they returned...

Cygnus' hands involuntarily clenched into fists as he caught sight of the Bigfellows' buss out of the corner of his eye.

The tall wizard wasn't sure why the sight of someone kissing set his teeth on edge, but he-

_No_, he admitted. That was a total lie- he knew _exactly_ why it bothered him.

His intentions towards Nesco had been strictly honorable (or so he had told himself), and to that end his conversations with her had been devoid of any personal content. Perhaps, he mused, that had been the problem all along. Lady Cynewine must have eventually begun to wonder why Cygnus was spending an inordinate amount of time talking to her, and since he had said or done nothing to dispel that confusion, his presence had eventually become an irritant.

Cygnus didn't know what the hell he was doing. He knew he wasn't in love with Nesco, or anything like that. Or at least, he was pretty sure he wasn't. It was just that- it was just that she was simultaneously a reminder of how utterly empty his life was, and a possible cure for the same.

And yet, here he was- still with these people. Still turning his back on the chance to cut and run. Still in the Adventurer's Game.

A game that, as Flond liked to say, always ended in death.

Zantac frowned as he saw Cygnus's countenance darken.

The Willip wizard felt a pang of sorrow for his arcane peer. He knew things were rough for Cygnus, and could even guess at why. But he considered Nesco a friend as well, and she seemed to be hurting even worse than Cygnus, although the reason for that Zantac wasn't sure of.

Zantac himself had found a distraction only a week or so into their journey. Her name was Shyla. She was one of the former slaves; a few years younger than him and- and, well, many of the personal details of her life had kind of passed by Zantac in a blur. To be fair, it was probably reciprocal (or at least he hoped it was). They were two people desperate for companionship and Zantac _(an actual wizard!)_ had undoubtedly seemed far more interesting and desirable to Shyla than her fellow malnourished and unkempt former cellmates.

They'd spent a few nights together underneath Zantac's _shelterdome_.

Shyla had (uncharacteristically) not been on Zantac's mind when the mage spotted Nesco walk away from Cygnus after another aborted conversation one morning soon after.

"Let Nesco be, Ciggy. She's hurting."

Zantac had tried to be gentle in his dissuasion, but the Aardian mage's fuse had been shorter than he was expecting.

"Don't tell me what to do, you ox!" Cygnus had snapped at him. "Why don't you crawl back under a rock with your tart?"

That had hurt. In fact, it had hurt so much that Zantac snapped right back without thinking.

_"At least I have a woman!"_ he had yelled.

"Are you sure?" was the response. "Did you cast _detect magic_ on her yet? We all know you're a favorite among the doppelganger cr-"

And that was about as far as Cygnus had gotten before Zantac's fist had slammed full-force into his jaw.

Cygnus had gone down, but he (unlike Zantac) currently had his quarterstaff in hand. Even before Cygnus hit, his staff had swung around and took Zantac out at the knees. Both magic-users had rolled around on the rocky ground, wrestling. Cygnus landed one good punch that had started the count on Zantac's nose before the others pulled them apart.

Their rancor hadn't lasted long, though. By that evening, they were back to insulting each other in the traditional fashion. It just hadn't been worth it.

Sadly, the fight had spelled the end of Zantac's relationship with Shyla, though. The young woman became terrified that Cygnus was angry with _her_ now, and was convinced that he was going to turn her into a frog unless she backed off from Zantac, so she did so.

"Thanks a lot, Stickpin," Zantac had muttered at his companion that night at dinner.

Cygnus shrugged. "If it would make you feel better, I _can_ actually turn her into a frog, you know."

Zantac had laughed so hard, his nose had started bleeding again. Cygnus chuckled, then winced at the large bruise on his chin; purple turning to yellow.

Neither Talass nor Aslan would heal them, the former preaching that perhaps this would teach them to behave from now on.

"Don't count on it," Zantac had grinned at her.

"Just another one of our shining moments, Talass," Cygnus had added with an identical smile. "Besides, Monsrek already said he'll do it."

Talass had growled in frustration and stomped off...

Despite the many weeks that had elapsed since then, Talass' scowl deepened as that memory inexplicably flashed back into her mind. The priestess tried to shake it off, once again forcing herself to look around and make sure they weren't about to lose any of their charges right before the end of their long trip.

Talass was restless. Only nestled in her husband's arms at night had she known any real peace, and even then it was intermittent. Too many ideas and images were clamoring ceaselessly for attention in her mind- and that was not usual for her.

She'd spent more time than anyone else talking with Monsrek, and learning a few tidbits of what was going on back home via the Trithereon cleric's intermittent _sendings_ to Sir Dorbin.

For one, it was heartening to hear that Baron Chartrain of Willip, reportedly furious over the disappearance and presumed death of Baron Chauv, had apparently made the destruction of the Emerald Serpent a top priority. Several members of the Sir Dorbin party had allied with the churches of Heironeous and St. Cuthbert in an attempt to capture Nodyath. They'd actually manage to scry on him and _teleport_ to his location several times, but he'd always managed to escape thus far.

Also, Flond had reported that the Wizard's Guild of Willip was now allied with, of all people, Wainold the druid and his cohorts in a full-scale attempt to either capture or kill Chic. Unfortunately, those efforts had not yet born fruit either.

A few members of Dorbin's group remained behind at the Brass Dragon, where they reported all was quiet. Dorbin had also directed at least one of their party to stay at the Castle Chauv at all times now. The knight believed that the Lady Chauv might be the Serpent's next target.

Yet as engrossing as all this news was, it was other things that kept intruding onto Talass' serenity.

A sudden image of a volcano, stolen from a dream.

And a nameless, formless dread that had jerked her awake one night. Elrohir hadn't awoken, and Talass saw no point in doing so, so she had just snuggled back up against her husband, thinking only that some task, unclear but _very, very_ important, had lain uncompleted for a long time. Years possibly.

And their time to correct it was rapidly running out.

"What's the name of this dwarf we're supposed to speak with when we meet up with these people?" Talass asked her husband as they walked, in an attempt to clear her head.

Elrohir looked at her and shrugged. "Thunderaxe. Aslan's probably with him right now, waiting for us. We should link up in about twenty minutes at this pace."

The priestess of Forseti nodded and fell back into silence...

Far in the rear, Nesco Cynewine kept a watchful eye.

A multitude of feelings were crashing through the ranger like ocean waves slamming into a rocky surf.

Nesco was glad that their long and dangerous trek was at last over. In an effort to avoid the others; she'd pushed herself on her hunting and scouting forays almost to exhaustion, and had insisted on performing them alone.

Alone.

Initially of course, only Aslan had been the source of her discomfort, and he had quickly begun avoiding her just as readily as she had him. But it soon became apparent that the others were uncomfortable and nervous around Nesco, as well. They never said anything obvious, but that just made it all the worse.

Nesco didn't know if everyone knew about Aslan's rejection of her, but it didn't matter anymore. After two months, she just wanted to go home.

She didn't hate these people. Far from it. In fact, she still cared for them in a way beyond anyone else she had ever known, or likely ever would. They had literally brought her back from the dead. They had been through unimaginable agonies together and somehow... _somehow_, they'd made it through every time.

Victorious, but not unscarred.

Too many scars for Nesco. Fresh scars that still hurt. Still ached with every thought of _him_. Every memory that wouldn't go away...

Nesco Cynewine took a deep breath and tried to focus 100 of her attention back to the task at hand.

Everything else could wait. Once they returned to Chendl, if the others decided to head out to Suderham, she'd wish them luck and let them go. If they requested a representative from the Crown to accompany them, she'd shove her brother Joseph into their arms.

Nesco had decided.

It was time to move on. It was time to say good-bye.

_"There they are!"_

An unknown ex-slave had been the first to shout out in joy at the sight below.

The tree line began about a hundred feet up the grassy slope of the hill. Once the party dropped below that line, the scene was clear below them.

The sun, just starting to set amongst gathering clouds, shone down on a temporary hamlet of huts and tents that had been erected on both sides of the Jewel River. The clear but fast-moving water, about fifty feet wide here, curved in a gentle arc from southwest to northwest. There were about a hundred individuals visible- more than Elrohir had been expecting. About half were dwarves; the rest humans or halflings.

On the far bank, three large wagons sat. About a dozen horses stood grazing contently nearby. A number of flags flew from posts sunk into the ground. Some were unfamiliar- the personal emblems of dwarven clans, Elrohir assumed. The rest all bore the insignia of the Principality of Ulek- a crimson, double-bladed dwarven battleaxe.

A large raft, clearly built onsite, was in the process of leaving the far bank and heading towards the east. Two humans steered it with long poles.

On the near side, not far from the bottom of the hill, Elrohir spotted Aslan talking to a dwarf that he assumed was Thunderaxe. Both individuals peered up at him. 

Most of the former slaves rushed forward, and the party made no move to stop them. Some of them cried out thanks to Elrohir and others as they passed, but most were too intent on resting and gorging themselves on the mountains of food that they assumed were waiting for them.

Elrohir and the others were about halfway down when they noticed the other three.

Even from here, their standoffish posture and different garb marked them as apart. Two small figures clad in dark green cloaks, and a plate mail-clad warrior in a red cloak and wielding a spear.

Elrohir blinked in surprise. He turned to the others beside him, but they were already making the connection as well.

"Kingus' friends." Caroline was the first to state it. "Saxmund, Garoidil and Aelfbi!"

Everyone was milling around. The Ulekians certainly seemed glad to see them, although it was evident this was mostly due to the fact that their week-long stay here by the Pomarj border was coming to an end. It was decided that the ex-prisoners would camp here tonight, and then they would all pull out tomorrow.

"We trailed you to Chendl," Saxmund was saying in her reserved, reedy voice, "but we were several weeks too late. We learned where you were due to meet up with the Ulekians, and started heading down south. We had a few problems en route, but we made it. They've been very gracious," she added, indicating the dwarves and their allies.

"Why have you been seeking us?" Elrohir asked the obvious.

"That High Priest- Lancoastes," Garoidil added, his expression of distaste palpable, "said he needs to _adjust_ the spell he's using to send Dorbin and his allies back to Aarde, in order to utilize it for us." He scowled. "He said it might take weeks, if not more, and even then, it won't return us to our home time."

Saxmund bit her lip. "Kingus seemed to think that the steelspheres of the Mary Celestial were two-way devices. He thought that it might be possible to fly one back into the astral plane, and from there back to Rolex. You people know more about our home than anyone else," Saxmund said quietly. "We thought perhaps you could aid us somehow."

Elrohir and Argo exchanged glances. 

Meanwhile, Cygnus and Zantac were conversing again.

"I'll be glad when this is over," Cygnus said wistfully to his fellow mage. "I know there's going to be another contentious meeting about this Suderham business, but I don't know. I miss my son more every day, and Thorin needs me to-

Zantac abruptly nudged Cygnus and was now peering over the taller wizard's shoulder with his eyes.

"What?"

Cygnus turned to see Thunderaxe staring at him. The dwarf's expression was clearly fluctuating between a deep-seated tendency to mind his own business, and discovering whether some kind of insult to dwarven honor was at work here.

Cygnus gave him a tight smile.

"Your first name- it's Thorin, isn't it?"

"My son's name," was the curt reply. "Mine is Gundrum. Am I right in thinking you've given your son a dwarven name?"

The tall mage nodded silently.

Another silent debate was quickly resolved. "May I ask why?"

"My late wife's family had a dwarven governor named Thorin in their house for many generations," Cygnus explained. "She was always very fond of him, and had always said if she were ever to have a son, he'd be named Thorin."

Thunderaxe considered for a moment, his hands fingering one of the axes at his belt, and then nodded. "It's one of the finest names a dwarf can bestow on their offspring. It bespeaks great honor- and great expectations as well." He eyed the human again. "Your son- are you training him as a warrior?"

Cygnus looked the dwarf straight in the eye. "A wizard- as I am."

Gundrum returned Cygnus' tight smile. "Our skalds say that wizards oft get involved in strange adventures- and wind up in desperate dangers on worlds far from home."

Cygnus' eyebrows raised, but he kept his gaze steady. "It does happen," he said simply.

Thunderaxe's face grew dour again. "I shall instruct my son to avoid all such matters."

Zantac watched as the dwarven commander spun on his heels and walked off. The Willip wizard smiled, shook his head and glanced over to Cygnus.

"You've got a son with a dwarven name living with elves," he quipped. "Poor kid's going to grow up as crazy as you…"

"Talass?"

The cleric turned around. The half-elven priest, Aelfbi Gemblossom, was standing behind her, a worried look on his face that clearly didn't belong there.

"Yes?" Talass asked, after the silence stretched out longer than she thought it should have.

Aelfbi leaned in close to her, his voice almost a whisper. "My good lady, there is someone here who wishes to speak to you privately."

The priestess pressed her lips together tightly.

"Let me guess- the mystery woman who was with you at the Brass Dragon, perhaps?"

Flustered, Gemblossom stared down at the ground. "Indeed so. I would go so far as to say that this is one of the primary reasons we have sought you out."

That peaked Talass' curiosity, but there was still too much about this that set wrong with her. "Aelfbi," she said, speaking as peer-to-peer, "Forgive my presumption. I know little of you, and even less of the goddess you serve. Yet I must say this seems most secretive, and I find that not to my liking. Why does this person not reveal herself?"

The half-elf's reply seemed to contain a confidence that was as much wished-for as actual. "You will know that when you see her, my lady. Talass," he paused, "the opportunity for true redemption of a soul exists here. For that, I have risked much, and have even incurred the severe displeasure of my companions. It was only at my urging that Saxmund agreed to take her along with us."

Talass folded her arms across her chest. "I am not in the habit of keeping secrets, Aelfbi. I will speak with this person if you wish, but I will reveal her to the others in an instant if I so choose. Does she understand that?"

The half-elf paused, and then said simply, "I will ask her. Please wait here."

He walked off, towards the base of the hill but several hundred yards north of where the party had descended. For some reason, the trees at this point extended down to the hill base. She saw him stop there and stand still. After a few moments, he turned and slowly came back.

"She is agreeable, my lady," Aelfbi reported, leaning in close to her again. His green eyes darted around, seeking eavesdroppers.

"Go in with an open mind, and an open heart, Talass. That is all I ask…"

Talass was only about fifteen feet from the trees when she saw her.

Set back a few feet up the hill, a large boulder perhaps five feet high was implanted in the earth securely. Atop it sat a mound that Talass had at first taken for a smaller boulder.

This person seemed not inclined to hide not only her features, but even the very fact that she was a humanoid. It took Talass another few seconds that the woman was seated on top of the boulder with her knees drawn up to the chest. The gray cloak this person wore was clearly oversized for her, and draped over the rock's surface. The small rock on top- the hooded face- slowly rose to regard the cleric.

Talass was suddenly not so confident this was a good idea. If this person attacked her, the others might not even her screams from this distance- if she was able to get off a scream at all.

Slowly, deliberately, Talass took her holy symbol of Forseti in her hand. "Forgive my caution," she called out, "but your insistence on meeting like this demands I avail myself of whatever security I can."

For a moment, there was no response. Then, the hood slowly nodded.

Talass prayed, and let the power flow.

Nothing. No evil auras.

She relaxed. Partially.

"Well, I am here," she called out again. "Show yourself!"

Talass knew even before.

The pale white arms of the stranger bore no identifying marks or scars that Talass could see as they slowly emerged from the depths of the cloak to move up to her head.

But even before the hood fell away, Talass knew. Like a stale story told by a poor bard, the ending was obvious.

She stared into eyes as pale blue as her own, and a horrible realization came upon Talass.

Aelfbi was either speaking naively what he believed to be the truth, he was a duped pawn, or he had acted with true malicious intent.

Someone had just been betrayed, and Talass hoped with all her heart that it wasn't her.

"Hello, Talass," Talat said, smiling. "No hug for your little sister?"


	114. Talat

**15th Day of Reaping, 565 CY  
The Jewel River  
(the Ulek/Pomarj border)**

Talass spun around, her eyes searching.

"He's not here, dear sister."

The cleric turned back to her sibling. A frown reasserted itself on her face. "And exactly why should I believe you, _dear sister?"_ Talass asked, the address coated with her legendary frostiness.

Talat sighed wearily and ran one hand through her tangled black hair. She didn't look at Talass when she replied, but her voice had lost all of its previous attitude.

"Because if he was, you wouldn't be his first choice of target."

Talass raised a questioning eyebrow.

"I've left him."

Talass raised her other eyebrow.

_Wish I'd thought to detect for lies before this started_, she thought. "Why?"

Talat twisted her hands together nervously. "A number of reasons," she said at length. "It's not easy to explain."

"Try. Try hard."

Her younger sister's eyes darted around nervously. "I don't need to tell you Nodyath is not a very kind man. Where he came from... he needed that cruelty, that strength, to survive. I think he just... he's been the way he is for so long, he just can't change. The way he was never bothered me- in fact, it attracted me. Nitch was much the same way- a living, masculine embodiment of the teachings of Hextor."

That name set a sneer to Talass' lips before she even realized it. "And did the Scourge of Battle approve of your leaving Nodyath?"

Talat paused. Her eyes came back up to meet those of her older sister.

"I wouldn't know, Talass," she replied softly. "I've left him, too."

Talass sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. 

"Everything changed when it happened." Talat could only manage a whisper now. "I'd always been taught that it wouldn't, but it did. It- it wasn't just about me anymore."

Talass tilted her head. "I don't understand. When _what_ happened?"

Talat scooted forward, slid down off the boulder and stood facing her sister.

And she opened her cloak wide.

Talass gasped, but quickly regained her composure.

Of course. It made sense.

It was the only thing that could make sense.

She looked at the bulge showing underneath the loose brown tunic, and then up again at Talat's face.

And Talass saw something there that she hadn't seen through the bars of a Willip jail cell.

She saw the ghost of her little sister. Her _real_ little sister. The one she'd lost all those years ago.

Aelfbi had been right. It wasn't redemption- yet. But Talass could see its shadow.

Now it was Talass who struggled to keep her voice above a whisper. "Due when?"

"The end of the year. Late Sunsebb, most likely."

"The father- Nodyath?"

Talat nodded.

Talass exhaled, trying to take this all in. Then another thought struck her.

"Does he know?"

"Oh, yes." Talat smiled sadly. "He was so happy- he's always wanted children of his own, you know. This was just before he delivered Tadoa to the Emerald Serpent. I told him- he was ecstatic..."

Talat's voice trailed off. She leaned back against the boulder and wiped her eyes.

"This child is all I have left, Talass. I can't stay in Furyondy- I'm a fugitive there now. I have no friends- Saxmund blames me for Kingus' death, and I can't in all honesty deny it- I didn't leave Nodyath when he told me that he'd sold Kingus to the Serpent. I'm surprised that Saxmund hasn't murdered me in my sleep- I'm sure she's capable of it, and only Aelfbi has been holding her back. I've left the priesthood of the Scourge, but I can't go back to the Justice Bringer. My soul is tarnished- I've prayed for guidance, but there's no answer."

Talat looked over again at Talass. "My child is innocent. It shouldn't have to die because of my sins. Please, sister... there's no one else. _Please help me!"_

She cradled her face in her hands and dissolved into tears, unable to continue.

Talass had absolutely no idea what to do, and that was a rarity for her.

She did feel sympathy for her sister, but she could also feel the anger building within her. Through her inaction, Talat had caused her and her friends incalculable grief and sorrow.

She slowly walked up to Talat's right and then turned around so that they were side-by-side, leaning up against the rock. Both women stared out at the dwarven camp beyond. Several torches, perhaps _continual flames_, were beginning to appear. As of yet, no one seemed to have noticed Talass' absence, or perhaps Aelfbi was covering for her.

Talass kept her voice cold. "You wear the clothes you've sewn, sister."

Talat tried to reply through her tears. "My child... innocent..."

_"Tadoa was innocent!"_ The words exploded out of the priestess as she whirled around, grabbing her younger sibling by the shoulders. _"Thorin was innocent!_ Who aided them? You care only for your own child? What about Cygnus? Do you have _any_ idea what you put him through- what you put _all_ of us through?" Talass shot cold fire at Talat with her eyes. "And what if Nodyath had kidnapped Barahir? Would you still be begging for my help now? I'd tear you to pieces with my bare hands!"

Talat seemed to shrink inside her huge cloak. She turned around and sprawled out on the rock's surface. Her hands, clenched into fists, pounded away uselessly at the unyielding rock.

_"I'm sorry!"_ she screamed. _"I didn't want this to happen- I just wanted to be with Nodyath! I know what I did was wrong! I know!"_

Literally roaring with rage, Talass grabbed Talat by the shoulders, lifted her up and spun her around.

"I don't care if you know! You'll listen to it anyway! You'll hear it directly from those you've wronged! And you _will_ pay for what you've done, Talat- you will pay according to the will of Forseti and the law of the land!"

"Save my child, Talass," Talat interjected. Her voice was suddenly calm; her face wide-eyed and tear-tracked but otherwise devoid of expression. "I'll happily die for my crimes- I'll let my soul go the Hell that I know awaits it. Just let my child be born safely first and given a chance at life- a life free of cruelty."

Talass glared at her sister for a moment, then crossed her arms across her chest and stared back out at towards the river again. Slowly, Talat followed suit.

After a minute or so of silence, Talass spoke. Her voice was hard, but quiet.

"I will go ahead and explain the situation to the others. I will make them promise not to hurt or arrest you, but I will not keep this secret from them."

Talat shook her head. "No."

The cleric gritted her teeth. "This is not open to debate. You _will_ meet with them, willingly or otherwise."

"They'll kill me," Talat said simply.

Talass rolled her eyes. "Have you gone deaf, sister? Did I not just say I would extract a promise from-"

"No," Talat repeated, shaking her head again. "Not your husband or your allies, Talass. I'm talking about the others."

"Who?" Talass asked, puzzled.

"Monsrek- the priest of the Summoner. He is not bound to you. If he does not slay me himself, he will contact his lord via _sending_- that abominable Sir Dorbin. That knight will _teleport_ here, he will make a grandious speech about how it is his sworn and sacred duty to prevent the propogation of rogue Talents- and he will run me through with that burning sword of his."

"That is-" Talass began and stopped.

She realized with a start that she couldn't completely discount the possibility- even if it was a very small one- that Dorbin might not just do exactly that if he learned of Talat's location. Both he and Aslan had confirmed that the Talent could be passed along from parent to child.

And on this one point, Sir Dorbin had shown a passion that- for all his generally kind and gentle nature- bordered on the fanatical.

Talass shook her head in irritation, still not looking at her sister. "Then what would you have me do?"

"Come home with me," Talat answered quietly.

Talass blinked. "Home?"

"To Rhizia."

The priestess of Forseti turned and gaped at Talat, but the former priestess spoke first.

"Father will forgive me if you speak up on my behalf. He may be harsh, but he is fair. He will not turn me out to die if you can convince him I have repented."

Talass' eyes narrowed. "And have you?"

Some of the cockiness returned to her younger sibling's voice. "You examined me yourself. Do you doubt Forseti's power?"

Cold anger seeped into Talass' response. "All I know is that you have turned off the path of evil. That is a long way from true repentence. Even a wicked mother may love her child. What have you done to atone for your sins?"

There was a short pause, and then the same frigidity came back at her. "My, my. You do sound just like Father, don't you?"

"I left home for the same reason you did, sister- for the love of a man. That was a betrayal of our father's dream- no better than yours. The only difference is that I did not abandon the path of the Justice Bringer as well. When I feel the day has come, then Elrohir and I will return home to live out our remaining days- if our people will have us. But that day is a long way off. Far too many commitments keep me here now with my family and friends. If you wish to return home, then do so. But know this- if you have not atoned in your heart- Father will know. Forseti will tell him."

Talat stared down at the ground for a long time. Talass kept her silence until finally, a soft whisper came to her ears.

"I wish I could say I have, sister. If the worship of Hextor gave me one things all these years, it was confidence. I could face anything. Now, all I have is my child- and my fears."

_Such is the legacy of the Scourge_, thought Talass to herself, but she kept that thought private. "Go far away, Talat," she said softly. "You said yourself Nodyath does not know where you are. Go someplace peaceful and live out your days quietly- you and your child."

Talat shook her head again. "He will find me, Talass. He wants this child as much as I do. He will find me, and turn me over to the Emerald Serpent-"

Her voice choked.

"-and they will rip my child from my womb. Use foul magic to keep it alive- and turn it into... something other than it would be."

She fell silent again. Talass cast a sideways glance at her little sister, and then looked forward again.

Out on the field, Aslan and Tojo were heading towards her. Aelfbi was with them.

"Go, Talat," Talass suddenly said. "I will not betray you if you leave now. Link up later with Saxmund and the others if you wish, or make your way alone. This is all I can give you right now."

Talat seemed about to object, but then she saw what Talass saw. She gathered up her cloak around her again and began to climb up the slope.

"I will pray for you, my sister," Talass called out after her.

Talat turned around.

"My child _will_ survive, Talass. I swear it."

Now it was Talat's eyes that narrowed underneath her hood.

"I hope that you will be one of those that I thank for that."

She turned back around and quickly disappeared among the trees.

Talass ignored Aslan's questions, brushing right by the paladin without saying a word.

Aslan stared after her for a moment, then looked over to Tojo.

The samurai raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

Aelfbi was already following Talass back to camp. Aslan shot one more glance at the forested slope, then frowned and headed back as well, Tojo beside him.

Fourteen people sat in a large circle illimunated by torches.

Elrohir still couldn't believe it. "You're serious, Talass? You'd move to stop us if we tried to find her?"

Talass nodded slowly, her expression serious and sad at the same time. "That was all I promised her- but I will keep that promise."

Wescene leaned over to whisper into Argo's left ear. "A large cloak like that- it'd be hard to keep off the ground. I'm sure we could track her." The elf's green eyes looked at her fellow ranger for confirmation.

Argo thought for a moment, and then whispered back.

"If she's no longer a priestess, I don't think she's any danger to us anymore. Personally, I'm a big fan of redemption. I'm going to let Elrohir and Talass thrash this one out betwen them."

Bigfellow noticed others eyeing them at that point, so he spoke up loudly on the first thing that came to mind.

"So, Aslan," he said with an evil grin, "Nodyath is due to be a father. Now you _are_ his counterpart- is there something you should be telling us? What's her name? Does she have a sister?"

Caroline playfully punched her husband's shoulder amidst a number of chuckles. Aslan however, merely glared back at his nemesis.

"I don't create life, Argo. I only take it away."

The words had spilled out of the paladin's mouth before he could stop them. To cover his embarrassment, he quickly rose to his feet.

"I'm scheduled for first watch," he mumbled, and strode off as quickly as his plate mail would allow.

Nesco's face was only one of many that registered confusion at that remark. "What's he talking about?" she asked Elrohir.

But Elrohir, the only one present who actually _did_ understand what Aslan was talking about, didn't reply. He was too busy staring back at Nesco.

_She doesn't know_, he thought. _Aslan was wrong. She doesn't know!_

He tried to think up a cover line, but Nesco was by now accustomed to people gawking at her without speaking. "Never mind," she snapped, then got up and left the circle, walking over to her bedroll.

Eleven people watched her walk off, and then turned back to Elrohir.

The party leader turned his face upwards towards the night sky. "Why is it whenever things can't possibly get any worse, they always do?" he asked aloud to no one in particular.

Saxmund looked troubled. "Kingus asked me that very same question," she said, her voice trembling. "That was right before he left us in Willip- and never came back."


	115. A Paladin In Pain

**21st Day of Reaping, 565 CY  
The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

_The Heart of Home._

Although he technically no longer lived at the inn itself, Argo Bigfellow still considered the Tall Tales Room at the Brass Dragon to be the place he felt most comfortable in. Everyone he knew here seemed to own a piece of it, and every trophy held a story all its own.

Thus, the big ranger felt a twinge of unease this warm morning as he sipped a cup of blackberry wine from his padded chair and watched as a lamia tail was strung over two pegs that had been pounded into a wall.

This wasn't really their kill. Back in Fireseek, Elrohir and Tojo had driven the monster out of the dragon's lair in the Earldom of Farlyow, but only recently had the party of Sir Dorbin slain the beast after encountering it to the north, in the Barony of Chauv. The missing tip of its tail had been proof enough that this was the same lamia, but none of Elrohir's party had been present for the creature's demise. They didn't even have the end section severed by Tojo's katana- no one at that time had been thinking of saving possible future mementos- only their own survival.

Was this all simply a magnaminous gesture on Sir Dorbin's part, or was the knight staking some kind of subtle claim here?

Still, Elrohir had graciously accepted the trophy, and Bigfellow had little interest in second-guessing his leader's decision, especially when it didn't directly involve him.

Argo caught his fellow ranger's eye.

"You had said _certain portions_ of her were quite attractive, Elrohir. We should have had her front end mounted up there like a deer. We could- _OW!"_

Argo winced and rubbed the top of his head. With impeccable timing, Caroline had entered the room just in time to catch her husband's latest quip, and had brought her fist down on his noggin as she walked behind his chair. Hard enough for him to notice.

Bigfellow scowled in mock irritation at his wife as she came around. "You know, I'm going to start wearing my armor and helm full-time again at this rate!"

Caroline plopped down into his lap. "It always pays to be prepared," she said with a mischievous smile...

Elrohir sighed in exasperation. He really wanted to get this meeting underway.

Argo and Caroline had always been a couple apt to display their affections in public, but this seemed to have ramped up even further recently. This was starting to annoy Elrohir, although he had yet to say anything to Argo. For one, Elrohir had no practical reason to bring up the matter.

For another, he couldn't be sure that there wasn't any jealousy involved on his part. His own wife had been morose and withdrawn since that fateful encounter with her sister. Elrohir hadn't liked Talat from the moment he had found out about her existence, and these latest revelations had dropped his opinion of her to about the level of the lamia whose tail now graced this room. She'd certainly had about the same effect on his mental state.

Cygnus and Zantac, satisfied with the tail's placement, went over to one of the two couches and sat down. Cygnus stared down at his knees, but Zantac was clearly watching the Bigfellow burlesque show out of the corner of his eye.

Tojo stood in the far corner of the room as he always did. Elrohir was pretty sure that the samurai's eyes had flickered over to catch Argo and Caroline's embrace, but had just as quickly flitted off to meet the dead gaze of Sandcats.

Although their latest mission had been completed successfully, Tojo had made no mention of leaving to seek the Pearls of Hamakahara, despite everyone's insistence that all he had to do was say the word, and the party would accompany him without any qualms. Apparently, the Yanigasawa samurai intended to see the entire slaver matter through to the end.

_The end._ Elrohir glanced over at Talass.

The cleric sat in the other chair, her hands clutching the bearded face that was her holy symbol. She sat hunched forward slightly; her expression distant and her gaze dull. Elrohir knew his wife wasn't seeing anything in the Tall Tales Room.

She was looking at a volcano.

_One of us won't be coming back._

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Aslan had been less cheerful than Talass, or even his own recent self, these past few days. Elrohir had relayed his recent observation about Nesco to the paladin and while Aslan had appeared to accept the veracity of it, his disposition had not improved.

"It's only a matter of time before she finds out anyway, Elrohir," he had muttered.

Nesco's departure from the party had been an uncomfortable and awkward affair for all involved. Before returning the others to the Brass Dragon, Aslan had teleported the two of them to Chendl first, as per her explanation that she might be needed there at any time.

Cynewine's good-byes this time had been short and business-like. Nesco had implied that she would see them all again when they returned to Chendl, but her words had a vague, distant mien to them that everyone found unsettling.

Nesco had said farewell and left Aslan less than a minute after their arrival in the chapel.

He'd stared down at his hand for what seemed like ages after she had left.

Aslan hadn't really expected anything other than a handshake given the circumstances, but he knew everything was still wrong.

He was standing in one of the holiest places in the Flanaess, and he still felt unclean.

The door opened part-way and Fee Hal's youthful face appeared in the space.

It was met with several puzzled frowns. While the Sir Dorbin party had been given leave to use the Tall Tales Room in the the Elrohir party's absence, the knight's team made a point of scrupulously leaving their hosts alone when the latter were ensconced within. Elrohir couldn't imagine anything less than an emergency that would warrant an interruption.

The squire _did_ look perturbed. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the common room and then back at the others.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Fee Hal said, the words pouring out in a rush, "but Sir Dorbin thinks you should know that-"

Aslan abruptly appeared in the doorway as he opened it wide. Without a word or glance, the paladin brushed past the youth and slammed the door shut in his face.

By the time Aslan had seated himself on the second couch, his companions' expressions of puzzlement had moved through concern and in some cases were heading towards alarm.

The paladin's clothing looked wrinkled and slept in. His hair had come loose from its ponytail, and it seemed as if he hadn't given it a second thought. Aslan's face was flushed. His lidded eyes regarded nothing but the wooden floorboards beneath him.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "Lest get this started."

_Lest?_

Elrohir stared at his friend. When he was depressed, as he had been recently, Aslan was known to mutter. Sometimes even mumble.

He never slurred his words. Never.

It was only the incongruity of what they were looking at that held back the obvious conclusion from everyone's mind for those first few seconds.

It was Talass, currently seated closest to Aslan, who voiced it first. She leaned over to peer at the paladin, who slowly lifted his gaze up to meet hers.

"Aslan," the cleric breathed, unable to keep the wonder out of her voice, "are you... _drunk?"_

The paladin scowled at her. He seemed to test his tongue before replying, but his inexperience with inebriation betrayed him.

"Iz that your faith telling you that, Talass?"

"That's _my nose_ telling me that!" she replied, waving her hand in front of her face. "What has gotten into you?"

Aslan glared at the priestess. "I wonder," he said softly, "do I ever sound that stiff-assed to everyone else?"

Wounded, Talass shot cold blue fury from her eyes at Aslan, but the paladin had already looked away, and was now addressing the room in general. "I couldn't sleep last night after my last _teleport_. I thought drink might in this in- in this case help me mindrest. It didn't. Mitstake on my part- I won't do it again, now _can we get the damn meeting started?"_

"All right then," stated Elrohir loudly after a short pause. "If you consider yourself in a condition to participate Aslan, I'll take you at your word." The ranger's gaze swept across the room, trying to gather everyone's attention away from Aslan.

"As best we can determine," the party leader began, "the entire slaver operation is directed from the city of Suderham. This group that Markessa referred to as _The Nine_ appear to be the ultimate ringleaders. We need to find and eliminate this group, hopefully without bringing the entire city down on our heads- again," he added with a sour grin.

"Our plan at present is the same as has gone before. We'll _teleport_ to Chendl, inform the king and receive our authorization, pick up Nesco if she's willing," the ranger continued, somewhat rushing that last part, "and then head back to the general area of the stockade. The map Cygnus has indicates the general location of a concealed entrance to a long underground passage that should take us to the outskirts of Suderham."

Elrohir fastened his gaze on Cygnus.

"Who is going, and who isn't?"

The Aardian wizard glanced back down at his hands, apparently surprised to find them restlessly squeezing each other. After a short pause, he looked back up at his long-time friend.

"I'm going." It was little more than a sigh.

Zantac silently squeezed his fellow mage's left shoulder and looked up at Elrohir with a weak smile. "You can never have too many wizards." He jerked a thumb over towards the Bigfellows. "Besides, now that Argo has officially laid claim to Icar's ring, I need some new trinkets to replace it."

That drew Elrohir's attention over to Argo and Caroline. The former nodded at his wife, who got off his lap and stood silently by.

Argo's auburn eyes met and held Elrohir's deep blue ones.

"I'm going. Caroline isn't."

This drew a few puzzled looks. Considering she had raised no complaints whatsoever about rejoining the party for their entire two-month trek, most of those gathered had assumed Caroline would be accompanying them to Suderham. Also, unlike previous times Mrs. Bigfellow did not seem at all distraught about remaining behind. In fact, a small smile played about the young woman's lips, dimmed only when she glanced over at Aslan.

Elrohir looked over to the far corner of the room.

Yanigasawa Tojo remained impassive. "We finish task, Errohir-san."

The ranger smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, then turned his gaze over to his wife.

Talass met his gaze head-on, then turned to regard the others.

"You all know this is it. This is the mission that one of us won't return from."

Silence filled the Tall Tales Room, broken only by the odd cough or throat-clearing.

Talass closed her eyes, fingering her holy symbol again. "Bless us, my Lord. Do not let your faithful perish as we do your bidding."

Elrohir took a deep breath. Her couldn't put this off any longer.

"Aslan?"

The paladin, who had for the most part resumed his close examination of the floor, glanced back up at the sound of his name.

Elrohir didn't like the look in his eyes.

"Why ask, Elrohir? Of course I'm going! How the hell are you going to get there otherwise? No-" and here he held up a somewhat unsteady hand, "I'd go anyway. Why not? It's the right thing to do, isn't it? Doing good deeds- serving the cause of justice- virtue izzit's own reward, and all that?"

Elrohir bit his lip, but Argo spoke up at that point anyway with his characteristic bluntness.

"Why are you hurting, Aslan?"

The paladin stood up, a little unsteady, and eyed the big ranger. He was breathing heavily, but said nothing.

Elrohir tried to catch Argo's eye with a warning glance, but Bigfellow either didn't see it, or ignored it.

"Aslan," he asked quietly. "Does this have anything to do with Nesco?"

Aslan sucked in his breath, wincing as if a sharp pain had hit him in his stomach.

"Why do you ask that?" he snarled. "Why are you _always trying to goad me?_ No, it has nothing to do with Ne- her. My problems are my own. Mine to worry about and mine to solve- on my own!"

He suddenly whirled around to face Tojo.

"You understand that, Tojo! Better than anyone!"

A terrible expression of unease spread across the samurai's face. Tojo's eyes dropped to the floor before he managed to raise them with a mighty effort back to the general vicinity of Aslan's wild-eyed gaze.

"You... herp me, Asran-san... even though I fight you. We wood do same for you."

"I'm fine!" Aslan cried. He spun around again, apparently intending to say something further to Elrohir, but the spin sent him off-balance and he toppled over. Talass was the first to reach him, but he swatted her hand away.

"Stop telling me how I should feel!" The paladin clumsily rose back to his feet and headed for the door. "Don't you think I'd know if something was wrong?"

He turned around and leaned up against it. 

_"Don't you think I'd know that?"_ he screamed.

From outside there were running footsteps and then suddenly the door was shoved inwards. Aslan, who had turned around at the sound, was knocked backwards and landed back down on the floor.

Sir Dorbin stood in the doorway, his eyes wide with concern. He glanced down at Aslan, and then at the others with a questioning look. Before anyone could think of what to say to the knight, Aslan grabbed his head and let out a wail that froze everyone's heart.

And vanished.

Elrohir idly scratched Dudraug's head as he stood outside the Brass Dragon.

For what seemed like the thousandth time, the ranger glanced around. He was standing about halfway between the inn and Aslan's cabin. At his insistence, Cygnus had used a _knock_ spell to open the cabin door, and had then left it ajar. Elrohir figured Aslan might react poorly if he teleported back to his house to find someone inside, but at least this way he couldn't close the door without the others knowing he had returned.

Elrohir glanced upwards. The stars had not changed, either.

_It has to have been at least twelve hours_, the party leader thought. _Where did he go? Did something happen to him?_

The cooshee, sensing his master's distress, nuzzled his hand more forcefully. Elrohir's hand responded instinctively, but the rest of him was still held in a torrent of worry and frustration.

_About time for Nodyath to show up, isn't it?_

Elrohir frowned and tried to shake his head clear of bitter thoughts. He couldn't deny that he was angry at Aslan, but he also knew the pain that seemed to be eating his friend alive from within.

_I suppose I should be coming up with a miracle about now._

He turned his head at Grock's bark. The tan wardog rushed up, sniffed at Dudraug, barked again and took off, the elven hound at his heels. Strolling up behind was Argo Bigfellow Junior. The two rangers stood and watched the canine shapes quickly vanish in the darkness.

Argo spoke first. "Do you think some... entity with the Talent might have sensed Aslan's _teleport?"_

Elrohir grimaced. That was a nice way of asking if some psionic horror hadn't zeroed in on the paladin. It hadn't happened in years, but Aslan was always concerned about the possibility. He shrugged. "Aslan's no fool. Even in the state he was in, he'd retreat if faced with something he couldn't take on by himself."

"If he could," Bigfellow added, apparently determined to play the role of pessimist. He inclined his head to catch the fading sounds of his wardog. "Aslan functions mostly on guilt," he said. "You suppose he blames himself for Nesco's death?"

He turned just enough to catch his fellow ranger's eye. Elrohir smiled grimly. "For all that time you lived in a swamp Bigfellow, you're a lousy fisherman. You know I wouldn't betray a confidence."

Argo raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure that's true, Elrohir, but that fact doesn't seem to be doing Aslan any good right now, is it?"

The party leader shook his head. "You're sounding like my wife now."

"Bite your tongue."

They stared into the blackness a little while longer. "Caroline turn in?" asked Elrohir eventually.

Argo nodded, frowning. "She threw up shortly after that scene this morning, and she hasn't been feeling very well since. Nerves, I suppose. You think you could have Talass check her out tomorrow morning, though?"

"Oh, so now she's useful, eh?"

Argo returned Elrohir's tired smile. "Of course. Where would we be without our better halves?"

Elrohir was about to reply when he saw a figure heading towards them from around the far side of the inn.

He blinked. It was a horse. An unattended horse. A moment's further examination revealed it to be _his_ horse.

He and Argo exchanged glances and walked up to meet the mare.

"What is it, White Lightning? Have your nightmares returned?" Elrohir asked as they drew up, his hand reaching out to pat the horse's neck.

The steed shook her head and then lowered it slightly. She was unable to actually whisper, but she kept her husky voice as low as she could.

"Aslan. He's come back."

She indicated the stables with a turn of her head. Elrohir turned back to Argo.

"Get the others, but tell them to keep it quiet."

Bigfellow nodded and headed off as Elrohir followed White Lightning back to the stables.

Perlial was lying down in her stall, the mare's legs bent underneath her. Huddled up against the steed's gray side, mostly covered by a blanket, was Aslan.

He appeared to be asleep.

Elrohir slowly walked towards him. Perlial's large brown eyes followed the ranger as he slowly bent down next to the paladin. Fortunately, Aslan's intermittent snores made low-pitched conversation a little safer.

"When?" the ranger asked.

"Perhaps twenty minutes? I am not sure," Perlial replied. "He looked so terrible. He said nothing, just slowly sank down on the hay. I thought perhaps I could help him rest. I was not sure what to do, but I decided to wait until he fell asleep before sending White Lightning out to tell you."

"You did fine Perlial, just fine," Elrohir said soothingly. "Both of you," he added, smiling at his own steed. Both horses' eyes radiated some relief.

Elrohir studied the sleeping paladin for a moment. He didn't really see any point in waking him. If this was where he felt comfortable, he'd let him stay here tonight. There were only a few guests staying overnight in the Brass Dragon's common room, and none of them were due to leave before morning.

He was about to stand up when he noticed the blanket.

"Did he have that with him when he came back?"

Both horses nodded.

Elrohir frowned. It was a high-quality down blanket; a two-toned blue with a ruffled frill. He was pretty sure he had never seen it before in Aslan's cabin.

A disturbing thought was trying to intrude on his consciousness, and Perlial's next question did nothing to dispel it.

"Elrohir," she asked plaintively. "Do you think Aslan is going to fall again?"

He sighed, unsure of what comfort he could offer. "Not if I can help it," he said eventually.

The ranger turned around to see the others standing just outside, standing quietly. "Let him rest," he ordered, getting back up and walking over to them. "If he came back, he obviously doesn't intend to hide. A good night's sleep may help sober him up. Half of this is due to drink, I'm sure."

Slowly they dispersed, casting frequent glances behind them at the huddled figure in the stall. Elrohir was the last to leave.

"I'm a selfish man, Aslan," he whispered to his slumbering friend. "The last time you fell, it was for your own soul that I encouraged you to atone. But for all the terrible times I thought they were then, they were nothing compared to now."

He bit his lip.

"I can't let you do it now, my friend. We need you. _I_ need you. I need Aslan the Paladin as the backbone of this team as he's always been."

Elrohir really didn't want to say it.

"I hope you need him, too."

He walked off, heading around to the front side of the inn.

Aslan slept on. Occasionally he would shiver under his blanket, and pull it up closer to his face, as if there were something comforting about it.


	116. Reconciliation

Well, here we are, my faithful readers. At an end, of sorts.

_To be sure, not THE end, of course. We're only about 1/3 of the way through the story (or 1/6, since "Campaign" is a two-part epic. The second part though, features a mostly new cast)._

_However, what you are looking at is the last chapter I have currently written, and this was posted many months ago at the Wizards of the Coast website. We have now caught up and unfortunately; I do not have the time or ability to keep churning out the chapters as once I did._

_So is this is? A cruel and unforeseen premature demise for this story? Well, not quite._

_First off, rest assured that I shall do my utmost to keep writing. It may be two months or so until I can do so, and even then, it may only be one chapter every few weeks Still, I promise you I will NOT abandon this story._

_Second, you can reread the saga over at the Wizards site. (Email me. I'll send you the link.) There, you can see the double-spacing where I intended to put breaks inside of the chapters. Fanfiction does not allow me to do that, and it frankly pisses me off. Also at the other site, you can read what an entirely different crop of people have written about this story._

_Third, if you do read the story over there, you will eventually come across the portion where I talk about the "Lost Chapter." I'll save you time and mention it now._

_Set a little over a year before this story begins,"H is for Hyzenthlay" is the actual scene that contains the death of Cygnus' wife and the birth of his son. I wrote it long ago, and it was originally intended to be inserted as part of a Cygnus flashback. _

_On further reflection I decided this chapter was not really needed in the story, and so I have never posted it on either website, and have no plans to do so. However, you have but to ask. I will email it to anyone who requests it. Be forewarned- there is some rather gory violence in it, yet if what you have read thus far does not bother you, this will not either._

_It's a sheer coincidence, but I'm glad this tale goes on its brief hiatus where it does. It's an unabashedly happy chapter, and God knows Our Heroes ™ deserve a little joy in their lives (however brief it may be). It's also at a convenient break-point, where they are just about ready to take on their latest and greatest mission- the one Talass is convinced that one of them will not return from._

_Once again, I thank all of you who have taken the time to read this little tale, and thanks even more to those who have responded to it. I will also point out at the Wizards website, you can read other stories I have written. None of them are D&D tales per se, although "A Good Prestige Class" does deal with a group of teens who play the game. Let me know what you think._

_All of you, take care. I'll be back as soon as I can. And now, back to the story…_

**27th Day of Reaping, 565 CY  
The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy **

Nesco Cynewine couldn't stop pacing.

The narrow confines of the "ready room" seemed to encourage it, and her nervousness made any other activity impossible.

The ranger knew that, just out of earshot, those people who had brought her so much happiness and so much pain were currently once again assembled before His Pious Majesty King Belvor IV.

She could imagine Tojo's imperturbableness, Cygnus' morose acceptance, Zantac's nervousness, Talass' steadfast faith, Argo's easy grin, Aslan's-

Nesco abruptly closed her eyes, stopped pacing and tried to grind her knuckles into the grain of the long wooden table.

_Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why can't I just let go?_

She resumed her pacing.

Nesco had been home nearly two weeks now, but was still just as distracted as the day she'd arrived back. There were no other immediate assaignments for her, although a Vesve patrol was due back in the capital tomorrow, and she hoped with all her heart that she'd be part of it when it headed back out.

She couldn't relax anymore. She wasn't eating or sleeping well, and her family was getting on her nerves even more than usual. Nesco knew this was due at least in part to her current miasma, but she still couldn't help herself. She'd even gone off at one of the family maids when the servant told her she'd mislaid one of Nesco's blankets and couldn't find it.

Of course, she'd apologized later to the poor girl, but that blow-up wasn't characteristic behaviour for Nesco, and she hated herself for it.

Nesco hated herself for a lot of things these days.

She didn't even want to be here, but Comitello told her that her presence had been requested by the Royal Court. Nesco's plan to substitute her brother Joseph for herself on the party's upcoming mission had spluttered when she discovered on her return that Joseph and his fellow officer candidates were currently on an exchange mission to Veluna City, and were not expected back for several weeks.

She prayed to Zeus that King Belvor wouldn't force her onto the party. She'd begged Comitello to discreetly make it known to the Royal Court that Lady Cynewine was ready to resume direct service to her liege. Now there was nothing to do but wait- and pace.

Suddenly, the distinctive sounds of people clad in plate armor could be heard in the corridor outside, getting closer. The audience in the throne room was over.

Nesco took a deep breath and positioned herself on the opposite side of the table from the door. She gathered together every shred of her shattered nerves and faced the door squarely.

It opened. Aslan came in.

Nesco flinched, but held her position. She'd hoped that someone else- _anyone_ else- would have entered first; given her that extra split-second to regain her composure. However, not only had Aslan entered first, he was the _only_ one coming in. Nesco caught a brief glimpse of the others outside in the hallway, but they were lost to sight as the paladin slowly closed the door behind him.

Aslan, as usual, looked resplendent. That was no surprise- he always seemed to take care in his appearance. Even out in the field, he might look _dirty_, but never _filthy_. It was a subtle distinction, but one not lost on Nesco.

The paladin's expression though- it was troubled, despite his obvious attempt to hide it. His eyes bounced off the ranger's face for a moment but with an effort that reminded Nesco of Tojo, he pulled them up and addressed her directly.

"Lady Cynewine. An honor to meet you again." He bowed low, but Nesco had caught the trembling in his voice.

She just stood there.

Aslan cleared his throat. "Lady Cynewine, I must speak with you privately for a moment. Please forgive my impertinence."

_Oh my God_, Nesco thought suddenly. _He feels guilty that he doesn't love me, and he wants to get it off his chest!_

Her blood ran cold. She wasn't going to be able to take this. She didn't _want_ to listen to this. It might make Aslan feel better, but it would tear Nesco's heart to pieces again.

No. She couldn't let this continue. She had to stop it. Now.

Nesco raised her hand. "Aslan, please-"

"Lady Cynewine." The paladin was plowing on, heedless. He was no longer looking directly at her. "After you had been," and here he made a gesture with his hand that Nesco had no problem understanding, "we encountered the misbeggoten experiments of Markessa- the cavelings- while we were freeing the prisoners. I had entered their lair to determine if they might present us with an obstacle to our leaving the stockade with our charges..."

Aslan stopped to catch his breath. He never noticed Nesco staring at him.

_What is he talking about?_

Aslan half-sat, half-collapsed into a chair that groaned under his armored weight. His gauntleted hands clenched into fists as his voice fell into a indistinct murmur.

Nesco walked a few steps around the table towards him. "I'm sorry, Aslan- I didn't catch that. What did you say?"

The paladin looked up at Nesco. His light blue eyes were watering.

"Your brother, Nesco. Sir Miles. I saw him. He had been- turned into a caveling. His surgery scars had healed- there was nothing I could do. _I couldn't heal him!_

Slowly, Nesco took the seat next to Aslan. "Go on," she said softly. The ranger's heart was pounding in her chest, but she never thought it would be for this reason.

It seemed like an eternity before Aslan finally spoke again.

"I... granted him a release from that mockery of life. Forgive me... Nesco- _please forgive me!"_

Aslan's head sank down upon the table as if the weight of his helm had pulled it there. Small sobs racked his frame. The paladin might have been trying to say something else, but if so Nesco couldn't understand it through his tears.

_That's it- that's what he's been carrying inside himself for the last two months! That's why he didn't bring me back from Chendl! It all makes sense now! Aslan, oh Aslan..._

And the incredible irony came upon Nesco Cynewine that it was now she who was the sole bearer of a terrible secret.

For now though, her heart was clear. For the first time in months, she wasn't ashamed of what she felt.

Nesco took Aslan's right hand in both of hers. Somewhat surprised, he looked up at her again.

"Thank you, Aslan," Nesco whispered. "I knew Miles, and I know I can thank you for him. He would not want to have continued on like that. I thank you from him, I thank you for my family-"

She raised his gauntlet and planted a small kiss upon it.

"And I thank you for myself. And I apologize if I have in any way added to your burden."

He stared at her in wonderment. Nesco felt her face going red. She needed to skirt around this right now. It wasn't the time. "I fell in battle, requiring you to leave the others-"

Aslan wiped his eyes and waved his hand dismissingly. "You saved Talass' life, Nesco. You are our equal in every way, and I am- am very proud to have you stand with us."

He looked off. "These past few days have been difficult for me, Nesco. I almost- went down a path I shouldn't have, in an attempt to shield myself from pain, when I should have been honest with you all along. You deserve honesty- and much more." The paladin took a deep breath. "Fortunately, I finally listened to some good advice."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Aslan gave her a tight smile. "I'm trying to develop a little more horse sense. You'd be surprised at how blind we paladins can be sometimes."

"You knew that first night that I knew nothing about paladins." She gave him a wry look. "I feel no more knowledgeable today than I did then."

"You and me both, Lady Cynewine," he responded shakily, and they both laughed nervously. Aslan slowly began to rise, but used one hand to lean on the table for balance. His breathing was still labored.

Nesco looked at him curiously. Aslan was still holding something back.

Cynewine gulped. _This isn't over yet. Does he-_

But at that point Aslan straightened up fully. "Lady Cynewine," he proclaimed as formally as possible. "I have two extremely important questions I would ask you, but may I bring the others in first?"

Mystified, Nesco could only stand herself while nodding dumbly. Aslan walked over to the door and opened it.

Slowly, almost sheepishly, the other six (Nesco noted Caroline Bigfellow's absence) filed in. They stole as many quick glances at Aslan as they did at Nesco, and reminded the ranger more of nervous children than of anything else.

Eventually, after several aborted starts, Aslan began speaking again.

"As you no doubt know, we are to set out on what we hope will be our final mission. Our aim is to bring down _The Nine_ of The Pomarj. As you also know I am sure, we require a representative of the Crown with us in order to secure the backing of the Noble Council for this effort. His Majesty has informed us that we must ask you ourselves if we wish you to be that representative, and that you are, as always, free to refuse."

Aslan hesitated.

"I could certainly understand if that would be your choice," the paladin continued. His voice dropped, and only by sheer effort did he keep his gaze from following. "However," he added, his rich voice returning to its former timbre, "I could not live with myself if I did not ask you."

A quick smile. "And I daresay my companions would not wish to live with me as well, if I did not."

It was a weak jest at best, but the others gave smiles of support. Nesco knew there was more going on here than met the eye, but she also knew an opportunity when she saw one.

She knew what it meant, though. It meant keeping her secret. Revealing such a thing anytime during the course of this mission could lead to distractions that could easily prove fatal, not only to Nesco or Aslan, but to any of them. It meant she would have to be in close proximity to Aslan, with all the heartache that entailed. It meant-

"I would be honored," Nesco said, not quite able to keep the trembling out of her voice, "to stand with you one more time."

She looked at those faces.

The smiles. On all of them. Even (for only a moment, but she was sure) Tojo had smiled. That wonderful feeling began to warm Nesco's chest again.

But now they were all looking nervously at each other again.

_What's going on?_, Nesco wondered.

Again, more hemming and hawing. Eventually, all eyes turned to their leader. Elrohir, blushing furiously, stepped forward while the others cleared a space around him.

"Lady Cynewine," he began (eventually), "you- you have been with us since the beginning of our service to our king. You've been steadfast, clever, resourceful, brave, skillfull..." he shrugged. "I could go on, but-"

"Please do," Nesco interjected, which generated some more laughs.

After another seemingly interminable pause, Elrohir continued, but it was almost as if he were a different person now. His gaze was steady upon Nesco, and his voice controlled.

"But more than any of that, you've been a true friend to us, Nesco Cynewine. For one reason or another, all of us are outsiders to where we once called home. Never at ease completely with others, we cling to ourselves tightly. That reveals many fears..."

Elrohir paused. "Many weaknesses."

Nesco just stared at him.

The ranger cleared his throat and continued. He looked right into Nesco's eyes and smiled, taking her hands in his.

"We are all in unanimous agreement on this, Nesco Cynewine. When this mission is over, we would very much like... to have you be one of us... always."

Nesco gaped. She gawked. She nearly gasped. Her knees grew weak. _Never_ had she thought-

But Elrohir, whether he noticed any of this or not, continued.

"The accomodations may be a bit crowded at first, but we would all be very, _very_ happy if you would come back with us to the Brass Dragon... to live with us."

Losing his nerve again, he gestured helplessly with his hands. "After all, you _are_ one of us. If you-"

Elrohir's speech was choked off as Nesco, surprising herself more than she ever thought possible, hurled herself into Elrohir's arms and hugged him fiercely. Exclamations flew from her throat on her own accord, but she couldn't even tell what they were.

Argo shrugged.

"We understand. Take your time, Nesco. Think it over. No need to let us know just yet. We understand. Calm deliberation; that's the key-"

With tears of joy clouding her vision, Nesco shouted, "Shut up, Argo!" and wrapped her hands around the big ranger's neck in a playful chokehold, which nevertheless caused Bigfellow's eyes to bulge out slightly.

Aslan nodded, apparently satisfied. "She'll fit right in."

It took perhaps five minutes for the celebration to die down to where all the participants were once again thinking clearly. For Nesco, she knew this would put her on a path from which there was no turning back.

_I'll have to tell Aslan_, she knew. _Sooner or later, I'll tell him how I feel._

"Well then," Elrohir managed, "that's settled. But we have serious business to attend to first."

He looked at the others. Suddenly pensive, the happiness flowed from his face.

Just when he didn't want them to, words failed the team leader again, and the others could see it.

Elrohir looked at them all. His wife- his friends, old and new. He could also see the faces of those who weren't here- those who were depending on them to come back. Wives. Children.

Elrohir sighed, stopped trying to find heroic words and just used the words he had.

"These Slavelords of Suderham. They've brought a lot of misery to untold hundred, if not thousands of people." He swallowed hard. "Families torn asunder. Loved ones, lost forever."

He saw the somberness of his face reflected in those of his companions.

"They don't know it, but their reign is about to end."

And without thinking, Elrohir drew Gokasillion from its sheath and held the longsword aloft, letting its pure white glow bathe eight upturned faces.

_"Are you with me?"_ he cried.

_"YES!"_ they all shouted loudly, if not quite in unison.

He'd thought that would be it.

Elrohir never expected Gokasillion to speak, aloud or otherwise. The Wyrmslayer was notoriously laconic.

But that resonant voice flooded suddenly and unexpectedly flooded through the ranger's mind. It added to Elrohir's exhilaration at the same time it terrified him.

_Come, Elrohir of Aarde. The Earth Dragon awaits!_


	117. Gnollledge

**12th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj **

Three rangers, each bent down on one knee, silently examined the damp stone floor beneath them.

One gently traced a finger along the floor, as if following the irregularities in the limestone surface, then looked across at his two fellow rangers.

"Any thoughts?"

Argo bit his lip. "I know Talass said that Caroline was all right, but I wonder if she might have missed something."

"You know we're missing the King's Festival back in Furyondy," Nesco added with a wry look.

Elrohir stared at them.

"Those aren't the type of thoughts I was looking for, people."

His two peers looked at each other and their repressed chuckles soon leaked out. Argo looked up over his shoulder.

"You were right, Aslan. She does fit right in."

"Glad to hear it," the paladin replied through a polite and not entirely genuine smile.

Noticing her team leader's slow boil commencing, Nesco decided to get back on track. "I can't tell for sure either, Elrohir. This passage has seen some use, but I couldn't hazard a guess as to how recently, how often or by whom."

With a grunt of exertion, Argo got back to his feet and slowly started walking on ahead.

"Cygnus, bring the light over here, will you?"

The tall mage headed over to catch up to Bigfellow. The _continual light_ that emanated from the pebble jammed into the tiny wooden box strung on a chain around Cygnus' neck bounced wildly with his stride. Alternating light and shadows washed over the party until the wizard stopped, his impromptu necklace quickly coming to rest.

The ceiling of the cavern was substantially lower at where Argo and Cygnus now stood, dipping from a roughly constant height of fifteen feet to just under seven. The big ranger peered upwards at the foot-wide section of rock just above his head for a few seconds and then grunted again, this time with satisfaction.

"Soot deposits." Argo tapped a dark patch on the ceiling with one hand. "A number of torches have passed this way. I'm guessing this is the slaver route, all right."

Elrohir nodded in agreement. "Good work, Argo. All right, everyone. Back in-"

"-back in formation; yeah, I know," groused Zantac, the most frequent critic of Elrohir's insistence on adhering to pre-arranged marching orders. He fell back in place however, and soon all eight individuals were again winding their way through the underground passageways.

Despite their slow pace, Aslan couldn't help but wince inwardly at the noise they were making. Even when no one was speaking, the clanking of plate mail, the rustling and bouncing of various sundry items against backpacks and bedrolls and of course, their own footfalls, seemed to almost visibly fan out in front of the party, echoing endlessly along the twisting and turning passageway. The paladin caught Elrohir's eye, and the nonverbal cue he received from his friend's face was enough to tell him that the party leader was all too aware of the racket they were making, but their options were limited. Talass' prayers of _silence_ wouldn't last nearly as long as the journey they were making. Besides, their experiences with magical _silence_ back at the slavers' stockade had left most of the party with little appetite for having to endure such a situation again, except for the briefest period.

"So what was the price, Aslan?"

The paladin looked over. Walking next to Elrohir in front, Argo Bigfellow Junior was staring back at him.

"What price?" Aslan replied, forestalling the inevitable for just a few seconds.

Argo shrugged they continued to walk. "Those silver arrows and daggers we received last time. The potions of _invisibility_ we're carrying this time. The training we've received. We didn't pay a common for any of that, Aslan. We got them only after you had that private little chat with His Royal Majesty. So once again I ask you- what was the price?"

Aslan gazed back at the big ranger, trying to decide if Argo's tone carried genuine concern along with the relentless lack-of-tact prying that it always did. "Future service, Argo," he eventually sighed. "To be revealed to me at such time as it is requested."

"Requested?" Argo asked, his voice rising slightly along with one eyebrow.

"A kingly request," Zantac put in from his current position behind Talass.

Elrohir's wife nodded soberly. "Difficult to ignore."

Their voices died off again. Only their footsteps, metallic clanking and an occasional cough remained.

Elrohir abruptly stopped, his right arm shooting out to stop Argo. The ranger gestured ahead about twenty feet, where the passageway opened up into a larger area just at the peripheral of their _continual light_.

"There's someone in there," Elrohir murmured.

"Which means," Nesco added from the rear as she began to pulled an arrow from her quiver and prepared to notch it, "that they already know that-"

Accompanied by sudden loud yaps and growls, two animals suddenly charged into the light.

In his youth, back in Samseed Wood, one of Elrohir's tutors had been an old human named Iloon. While in theory a retired ranger, Iloon had been first and foremost a scholar, and had provided the young Elrohir with his only real knowledge of "book learning."

While discussing gnolls one day, Iloon had described them as having heads akin to hyenas. When that provoked only a puzzled look from the young Elrohir, Iloon had smiled smugly and then proceeded to give a description of these animals. They were carnivores of the southern grasslands, he had said, averaging perhaps three feet in height at the shoulder; and weighing in at 100-150 pounds, They had light fur with numerous brown spots, and married a doglike face and body with catlike grace.

Iloon had dismissed these creatures as a serious threat. "Unlike their gnoll relations," he had concluded knowingly, "hyenas are scavengers of carrion only. They'll always back down from a strong show of force, my boy. Always."

As the two hyenas, tails held straight out behind them, ignored all the drawn weapons and exclamations of surprise before them and leapt to the attack, Elrohir reminded himself to give Iloon a good swift kick in the balls if he ever saw him again.

Notwithstanding the fact that these beasts were a good foot taller than and probably half again as heavy as he'd been told, they seemed more akin to enraged mountain lions than cowardly scavengers.

_Didn't see it coming again_, Elrohir thought ruefully to himself before letting the feel of Gokasillion in his hand take his mind into battle-thought, where instinct served best and conscious deliberation was only a hindrance. He interposed his shield between himself and the hyena's fangs with little problem, but the passageway they were in was a little narrow for Elrohir's liking. His riposte failed to score a clean hit, and the beast actually caught Gokasillion's blade in its mouth and was now worrying it furiously, trying in vain to bite through this irritating object.

Argo was likewise keeping Harve between him and his foe, looking for his opening. The hyena called forth an odd cry, sounding nothing so much like a manic laugh.

"Glad one of us thinks this is funny," Bigfellow put forth. His tone was as casual as he could make it, but the ranger's face showed his concentration from fighting an unfamiliar foe.

"You ever think about getting a shield?" came a rather angry voice from Argo's blade as it barely parried another lunge from the carnivore. "This is demeaning!"

Bigfellow spared a quick grin. "De meaning of what?"

"Ye gods; your puns! Anyone want a powerful weapon who can actually appreciate it?"

Aslan was in no mood for this. "Elrohir! Argo! We're all useless back here! The corridor's too narrow! Push them back into the cavern!"

"I'm trying!" the group leader shouted back.

"I can _polymorph_ if you-"

"Save it!" Argo shot back, all traces of levity now gone from voice as well. "If we need your Talent for these things, we won't stand a chance further on!"

Talass, standing behind Bigfellow, gripped her warhammer tightly in frustration. "What makes you think there'll be-"

No one actually saw the crossbow bolt come shooting out of the cavern ahead save Elrohir. Although he saw it too late to do anything or even cry out a warning, the missile thankfully sped by inches from his head, shattering into the stone wall beside him.

Elrohir never really thought about the minutia of what he was doing, but the ranger was suddenly crouching low and letting Gokasillion drop to the floor. 

"Someone get that!"

Holding his metal shield directly in front of his face with both hands, Elrohir dug in his heels and then thrust forward. The hyena, scrabbling frantically to get past the ranger's defenses, was literally lifted off of its feet as it clung to the shield with all four limbs. It howled with frustration as it was carried backwards against its will.

Aslan, Cygnus and Nesco followed up the line. Cygnus, the only one of the three currently with a free hand, snatched up Elrohir's weapon as he passed.

Elrohir stopped at the cavern's edge. He suddenly realized that he was now at the very forward limit of Gokasillion's radiance, which meant he was a nice fat, helpless target to whoever might be in that cavern.

And whoever they were, they clearly needed no light to see.

"Laugh that off," Argo muttered as Harve's red radiance mixed with the dark red liquid covering his hyena's body. The blade was apparently stuck deep in a bone, since Bigfellow had to literally push the animal's corpse off his sword with his boot. "Hang on, Elrohir- we're coming!" he shouted. Talass, Zantac and Tojo were already coming around Bigfellow on his left.

Elrohir registered none of this. Grappling with the hyena on his shield, which was very soon going to force him flat on his back at this rate, took all of his attention.

Except the very small part that heard the crossbow being cocked.

Yelling in pain from the effort, the ranger turned his shield at what he hoped was the right time and the right angle. It was, and he was rewarded with the _thwump_ of a crossbow bolt striking his unwanted passenger squarely in the back. It yipped and fell down to the floor, wounded but still very much alive.

Angry shouts came now from within the cavern. Elrohir couldn't understand them- but he'd heard the tongue many times before.

"Gnolls!"

"With crossbows?" Aslan queried as he came up alongside his friend. Another bolt greeted the paladin's arrival, but it bounced off his plate mail. Talass and Cygnus were the next to arrive, but as the latter handed off Elrohir's sword back to him, yet another bolt came flying, and the mage cried out in pain and grabbed his left hand with his right, letting his quarterstaff fall to the floor. Talass quickly grabbed the wizard's bleeding hand, ignoring her companion's simultaneous protesting and groaning.

"Talass-"

"Just shut up and don't get hit again," was the cleric's curt reply as she healed Cygnus and then turned her attention forward again.

Now enjoying the benefits of Cygnus' _continual light_ again, Elrohir looked into the cavern.

There still wasn't enough light to illuminate the entire chamber, but he could see eight large stalagmites rising up out of the floor, arranged in two convenient rows. A crossbow-wielding gnoll was behind each one, taking care to stay out of sight as much as possible. As he watched, one popped its furry head out and squeezed off another shot. Zantac did a little yelping of his own, but the bolt missed the Willip wizard, if only barely.

"Never seen gnolls with crossbows before," Argo offered as he brought up the rear.

"Never seen them staggering their fire before either, even with bows," Elrohir added grimly as he watched Nesco's arrow bounce off a stalagmite. The gnoll behind it sneered and fired off a bolt that Elrohir realized too late was aimed at Aslan.

"Aslan! Look-" 

But the paladin had been engaged in finishing off the hyena that had just gotten back on its feet and was preparing to attack again. In that second, the bolt found a weak spot in the plate mail joint protecting Aslan's right knee. The paladin cried out in pain and staggered, falling back roughly against Talass.

"Move in! Spread out!"

The party tried to comply with Elrohir's command, but more bolts came speeding their way. There was a lot of yelling- Elrohir wasn't sure who had been hit and who was just scared. He himself flinched as a bolt ricocheted off his plate mail, hard enough that he knew it would leave a bruise. The ranger could hear Cygnus' voice ringing out now, but he couldn't understand the words.

As a massive white _web_ appeared out of nothingness, anchoring itself securely to the stalagmites, Elrohir realized belatedly it had been an incantation. He considered briefly admonishing the tall wizard for using a valuable spell so early in their voyage, then considered that they'd probably saved more than that in Aslan's Talent and Talass' prayers not used.

"Thanks, Cygnus," he said, offering a tired smile and receiving one in return.

All the gnolls appeared to have been caught in the sticky strands. The party moved slowly into the cavern, which looked to be a rough square about forty feet to a side. Little else was visible aside from the gnolls' personal effects, piled against the far wall. There was one other opening in the cavern, on the right wall relative to where they had entered.

Elrohir sighed and assessed the situation. The gnolls were struggling against the _web_ that held them fast. They might break free or they might not, but Elrohir knew the spell had a limited duration. He knew what had to be done.

Not looking Aslan in the face, as he was aware the paladin detested these situations, Elrohir announced. "One for each of us, people. Take them out. Do it quickly," he added, looking specifically at Argo, who raised an eyebrow back at his fellow ranger but said nothing.

Elrohir kept his gaze focused on "his" gnoll as he approached. The creature clearly knew what was going to happen, and its rage at being imprisoned was just now beginning to give way to fear. Elrohir wasn't going to hesitate. He knew that- he'd been fighting these battles for too long, and he certainly knew what this creature would do to him if their roles had been reversed.

Elrohir actually checked his swing.

Tojo's gnoll, at the end of the column, was to his right, but he hadn't really been paying attention to it. He saw now that it did not wear the filthy leather armor of its fellows, or that a quarterstaff of its own was leaning up against the stone pillar next to it. These were details that could be explored in detail after their grisly deeds were done.

Until the gnoll suddenly exploded into action.

Ignoring the _web_ as if it didn't exist, the gnoll dropped its crossbow, snatched up its staff and swung at Tojo. To his credit, the samurai, who never took anything for granted, was ready and the two were quickly trading blows.

"Damn it!" Elrohir yelled. He hated surprises. He rammed Gokasillion through the gnoll in front of him with more force than he really needed to. The others, taking their cue from their leader and now wary of any more sneak attacks, likewise killed their gnolls.

The gnoll was a good fighter; better than any Elrohir had seen. The staff was a barely visible brown blur as it swept up and around, nearly sweeping Tojo off his feet several times. The samurai's face was a study in neutrality as he countered each move. His own attacks were limited, but Elrohir knew they were mere probes at this point.

At some point only he knew, Tojo decided. With a fierce battle cry, the samurai swung his katana, and the two halves of the gnoll's staff clattered to the stone floor. The creature's face registered shock- which remained there even as its head was cloven from its body and rolled away, coming to rest against one section of its former weapon. Tojo's katana was already back in its sheath by then.

Elrohir was about to ask someone to detect for magical auras on this gnoll, but he heard his wife's voice him, already in prayer.

It was then that Elrohir noticed that the gnoll was wearing silver bracers on its arms. What he assumed were arcane designs were etched into them.

_Too bad the gnoll wasn't a samurai._ The odd thought entered and exited Elrohir's head as he turned his attention towards Talass.

The priestess reported. "Yes," she stated, already nodding. "Those bracers are magical. There's also an aura coming from that ring." She pointed at something glinting on the creature's right hand. "Nothing else that I can see."

"Does anyone mind?" Cygnus asked suddenly.

The magic-user walked briskly over to the body and began unhooking his own bracers and carelessly tossing them aside.

"Cygnus!" Nesco cried out. "How do you know his bracers are more powerful than yours? They certainly didn't do much for-"

"Anything beats nothing, Nesco," Cygnus countered, a grim smile flashing briefly across his gaunt features.

"Nothing?" Aslan frowned.

"You know my bracers were melted back at the stockade, Aslan," Cygnus explained calmly as he finished attaching the silver bracers to his arms and testing the fit.

Argo pointed at the armbands now lying on the floor. "But you replaced them in Chendl with those."

"You know we had no money, Argo," Cygnus continued in a quiet tone. "Those were decorative only. Their only point was to fool people." The tall wizard glanced around at his companions and the smile returned. "Worked well enough on you all, don't you think?"

Elrohir shot a glance over at Zantac. One look was enough to confirm that Cygnus' fellow mage had been in on this secret. The ranger turned his attention back towards Cygnus. Despite himself, Elrohir was feeling flustered.

"I thought you'd been getting hit more since then," he concluded. "But dammit, Cygnus, why didn't you tell us? We could have pooled our resources; we could have-"

"You could have done _nothing_, Elrohir," the magic-user shot back. "We had no extra money and a whole shipload of problems. I did what I had to do. None of us had the option of sitting things out just because we weren't properly equipped."

"Still acting unilaterally, Cygnus?" Aslan queried harshly.

Just for a moment, Cygnus' gaze glanced over to Nesco before returning to the paladin.

"Don't talk to me about keeping secrets, Aslan."

He turned his back on the paladin and knelt down, prying the ring off the gnoll's left hand. Straightening back up, Cygnus turned to Tojo, who was as usual standing passively nearby.

"I'm not sure what else it might do Tojo, but I assume you'd enjoy not having to worry about an enemy wizard catching you in one of those _webs_."

"Or a friendly one with really bad aim," piped up Zantac behind them.

Cygnus turned to glare at Zantac, but his lips turned up, in spite of himself. He then turned back to the samurai and silently held the ring out to him.

Tojo stood there for several seconds, and then slowly took it. He took a step backwards and bowed silently to Cygnus.

The tall mage returned the bow.

Aslan only now raised his head from an apparent intense study of the floor beneath him. "Let's move out. Back in line."

The others glanced over to Elrohir, who decided not to object to the paladin's sudden leadership tone. He nodded assent, and soon they were exiting the cavern.

"What do you think that was all about?" asked Zantac, with a toss of his head at the pile of bodies receding behind them.

"A garrison, I'd suspect," answered Nesco. "Making sure no one but slavers are allowed through."

"That's all right," Elrohir chipped in softly from the front. "I'd rather fight gnolls than talk to them."

Their voices died off again. Only their footsteps, metallic clanking and an occasional cough remained.


	118. The Storoper

**13th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"Save some of that for later," Talass admonished. "There's only so much of it, you know."

Zantac turned to look at the scowling cleric. Without saying a word, the wizard slowly and deliberately chewed the last of the biscuit he was currently working on and swallowed. Only after he was satisfied that his reaction was annoying her still further did Zantac reply.

"I'm hungry, Talass."

"I can only create so much food and water each day," Talass snapped back. "None of us knew this trip would take so long," she elaborated, finishing up by turning to eye the party's other wizard.

Cygnus raised an eyebrow at the priestess. His voice was cold when he spoke.

"I told you that map was crude. It was little more than a jumble of lines. Nowhere did it indicate that the entire passage to Suderham was underground."

"We're still heading southeast, and from the signs we've found, we know this is the right direction," Nesco piped up. "At this rate, we should be there by tomorrow."

Zantac stood up from where he had been sitting, propped up against the tunnel wall. "I can hardly wait," he muttered, brushing the dust off his cloak. "May as well move on, then. No point in catering to us slackers, is there, Talass?"

The priestess of Forseti, visibly trying to control her temper, said nothing as she too rose to her feet. One glance from her, and her husband nodded to the rest of the group.

"Let's go then, people."

Aslan frowned.

"I don't see any exits."

The paladin peered ahead again into the roughly circular cavern that he and Elrohir stood at the entrance to. Cygnus, currently standing right behind Aslan, held his _continual light_ stone as far forward as he could to help.

The dim edge of their radiance was just sufficient to reveal that the width of this chamber was about forty feet. A lone stalagmite about five feet high stood in the approximate center of the cavern, while smaller stalagtites populated the ceiling overhead.

Elrohir was about to motion the group forward when Aslan preempted him. "Slowly, now," the paladin cautioned. "Keep a sharp eye out."

_Rather superfluous_, thought Elrohir with a twinge of annoyance. _Like we're incautious fools under my guidance?_

Still, nothing seemed amiss as the party entered. Elrohir, eager to re-seize the reins, ordered the others, "Check out the walls first. See if you can spot a door outline, tap for hollow spots, anything. Then we'll all take a closer look at that stalagmite together."

Aslan glanced at the stone cone, then back at Elrohir. "You're expecting trouble from it?" he queried with what Elrohir took as a skeptical tone.

"Or from what it means," the ranger replied without elaboration, then turned his attention to the section of wall nearest him.

Nesco sighed and grimaced as she rose from her current squatting position. What she had at first took to be the possible outline of a secret door had turned out to be nothing more than a crack in the stone. "I sure hope we find something," she said to Cygnus, currently on her left. "There haven't been any side passages since we started, and if the entrance to the correct way was also hidden, it'd take us weeks to backtrack and find it."

Cygnus seemed unperturbed. "If that was the case, there'd be some evidence of recent use by a secret door," he commented. "You'd have noticed, Nesco- and if there's one in this chamber, you'll find it- you did at the stockade, remember?" he finished, flashing an unexpected smile at her.

Taken aback somewhat, Nesco smiled back but took a moment to find her voice. "I was just lucky, Cygnus, and besides you were with me, remember?"

"I remember, Nesco," the wizard replied quietly, the aftermath of his smile still visible on his face. He returned his examination to the wall face in front of him without further comment.

Nesco flushed, her comment about still being a virgin unexpectedly popping back into her mind. She glanced reflexively over at Aslan.

The paladin was currently following Elrohir's outstretched finger.

"Cave fisher," the ranger said.

On an inch-wide projection on the stone wall in front of them, a small, bone-white insect sat. Six segmented legs jutted from its thorax, seemingly cementing the bug's position on its ledge. The creature's snout reminded Aslan of an anteater- a similarity enforced by the nearly-invisible foot-long filament currently extending from inside its snout and ending stuck to an unfortunate nearby black beetle that had been climbing up the wall.

As the two men, watched, the filament was swiftly reeled in. One of the fisher's two front lobster-like claws caught the beetle and came together, cutting the smaller bug in two.

"Charming," the paladin noted, turning his attention back to Elrohir.

"Survival of the fittest," Elrohir shrugged, moving two steps to the right to check out a new section of wall.

"That include us?"

The party leader glanced back at Aslan, but there was no smile on his friend's face. Elrohir clasped his gauntleted fingers together as best he could before replying. "I certainly hope so. Do you think something could be better- our leadership, perhaps?"

Aslan's eyebrows rose, but then his light blue eyes turned back to the feasting cave fisher so he wouldn't have to meet his companion's gaze. "I'm sorry, Elrohir. I don't mean to step on your toes. I- I've just been feeling nervous lately."

"More so than usual?'

"As a matter of fact, yes," the paladin admitted, but did not elaborate.

Elrohir waited a moment.

"You've had a lot on your mind lately, Aslan," he eventually offered.

The paladin seemed to turn this thought over in his head, as if that obvious generality had never occurred to him. But then it seemed to Elrohir that Aslan latched onto this as a diversion rather than an invitation to explore.

"You're right," Aslan agreed with a weak smile, and then stepped behind and around Elrohir to examine his own new section of wall.

Tojo scowled as his violet eyes finished going over the same section of wall for the third time. Although infamous amongst his friends for his aversion to small talk, the samurai nonetheless turned to the mage on his right, apparently from sheer frustration. "Ester no ronger with us. He examine this ho chamber quickry."

Zantac chewed his lip. "I've heard the name one or twice," he commented cautiously.

Tojo nodded and complied with the magic-user's unspoken request for clarification. "He erf- friend to Errohir, Cygnus and Asran-san back on our homeword. He scout out danger ahead for us many times."

It took Zantac a few moments to get his next words out. "What happened to him?"

Tojo returned his gaze to the rock. The samurai's response was equally slow in returning.

"First time Ester get caught- aweso rast time."

"This reminds me of that statue of Markessa."

Elrohir turned around. His wife, apparently bored of examining the cave walls, had walked over to the stalagmite. Elrohir gave her a disapproving glare as he walked over to join her, but she ignored it as she pointed to a circular hole midway up the stony projection. "See? That looks like the same kind of mouth the cavelings made."

"You're thinking there could be cavelings about, good lady?" asked Argo Bigfellow as he also began walking forward, a thin smile on his face.

Argos' expression didn't escape Talass. "And why not?" she replied curtly. "I'm sure she had them to spare. Why not send a few this way to guard the passage?"

Bigfellow's smile deepened. "I'm not attributing much to them as artists, Talass, but I think even cavelings were aware that their Creator had more than one eye." He pointed.

Talass looked again, bending over to look closely. Just above the circular maw, one bulging eye had been carved into the stone. It seemed to the cleric, now that she looked at it further, that the eye seemed a bit more realistic than-

The eye's pupil suddenly turned to stare directly at Talass.

The cleric took a step back in reflex, but before she could shout out a warning, two thin tentacles shot out from small holes in the stalagmite. Neither was aimed at her, however.

Cygnus and Zantac both cried out in surprise and then pain as the small needle-like projection at the tip of each tentacle pierced their clothing and stabbed them directly in the chest.

The tentacles pulled back. Both mages staggered back, their eyes rolling back in their sockets, then crumpled down to the floor and lay still.


	119. The Mages Turn

**13th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"_Zantac!"_

Talass spun around and hurled herself forward, winding up on hands and knees over the Willip wizard's unmoving form. Her husband simultaneously rushed over towards Cygnus.

Four more tentacles exploded out of the stalagmite's form. These were thicker around than the previous two had been. Although they had no barbs on their ends, they were prehensile. Argo, Aslan, Nesco and Tojo quickly found them encircling around their waists, though their hands remained free.

Talass frantically examined Zantac. A tiny hole in the mage's yellow tunic was now dark orange with blood, but so small a wound could not possibly explain how he had been dropped so quickly. The answer, distressingly obvious, came quickly to her.

_Poison. Damn it, why didn't I prepare for this? _Talass mentally screamed at herself. _We've been hit by it enough that I should have known better by now!_

Getting to her feet, the cleric tried to ignore the sounds of combat all around her as she grabbed Zantac under his shoulders and slowly began to pull the wizard away from the battle. Angry at herself, Talass instead snarled at her burden.

"Next time, I'm prepping for this. You carry your own damn food!"

"Come on, Cygnus- wake up! I _forbid_ you, as your party leader, to die- come on now!"

Elrohir, dragging Cygnus backwards, was forced to move in a wide circle, away from Talass and Zantac, due to the tentacles snaking everywhere through the air. He managed to get him all the way back to the wall before risking a quick glance around the battlefield.

Something was wrong.

Besides the obvious.

All four of his friends seemed to be gasping for breath, moreso than the tightness of the rocklike tentacles grasping them would indicate. Aslan, currently closest to the creature, turned a fatigued face towards the ranger.

"Elrohir!" he gasped. "These tentacles… sapping our strength!" The paladin struggled to draw his sword, but the tentacle covered his weapons belt.

The monster's hole-like mouth opened wider. A second, smaller mouth, likewise encircled by sharp teeth, opened and closed in apparent anticipation. The tentacle holding the paladin retracted, pulling Aslan directly towards the hole, but at the last second he thrust out both arms, pressing his palms against the thing's rock-hard flesh.

"_Use your Talent!"_ Elrohir nearly shrieked at him, then turned to check out the others.

Argo Bigfellow, closest to Elrohir, had his right hand dug underneath the tentacle holding him. It seemed as if he had grasped Harve's hilt, but was unable to draw the sword from its sheath. Argo's left hand was trying to pry the creature's limb loose, but it was uncertain whether he was going to do so or not.

Nesco had both hands around the tentacle grabbing her, but wasn't getting anywhere. The look of panic on Cynewine's face told Elrohir the story. Aslan was in the most immediate danger, but Elrohir was sure the paladin's Talent would save him. Nesco, not thinking clearly, needed aid first.

A split-second glance at Tojo revealed that the samurai had gone limp upon being entangled, his weight bearing him down to the floor. Although the tentacle holding him had started to pull inwards, the samurai had planted his foot firmly against a small rock outcropping on the floor, and was now holding his distance from the monster. Tojo's hands moved almost serenely along the length of the limb holding him- checking for weaknesses, perhaps.

_Lord, I wish I could be as calm as you, Tojo_, thought Elrohir. He was about to head towards Nesco when a groan at his feet distracted him.

Cygnus was regaining consciousness.

Zantac, too, was starting to come around.

"Thank the Justice Bringer," Talass murmured, exhaling a sigh of relief while roughly patting the wizard's cheek. "Zantac! Zantac? Are you all right?"

The magic-user's brown eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. Talass was torn between yanking the mage to his feet and shoving him towards the ongoing melee and wanting to get him out of this cavern entirely and make sure he could recover safely. She had no idea if there were any lasting effects from the creature's poison. At the very least, she supposed he'd be suffering from the same physical debilitation the others were.

"Zantac," she repeated, bending down low over him. "It's me, Talass. The others are in battle- I've got to go aid them. Lie here until you feel strong enough to move."

Zantac's eyes finally focused on hers. A deep frown spread over his face, and his brow furrowed.

"I'm hungry," he snarled.

With his left hand, Zantac suddenly grabbed the chain links of Talass' armor and pulled her down further. His right hand drew his dagger from his belt and he thrust it upwards as hard as he could…

Gokasillion was on target.

"Thanks, Elrohir!" Argo chirped. The big ranger was already drawing Harve as the stalagmite's severed tentacle writhed reflexively on the stone floor.

They both stared at Aslan. The paladin's high forehead was bathed in sweat as he continued to press against the creature.

"Aslan!" Elrohir yelled again. _"Use your Talent, dammit! This is no time to be cheap with it!"_

Aslan did not reply. Argo reacted first. "I'll cut him loose," he said, then cast a quick glance behind Elrohir before heading off. "Cygnus is up."

Elrohir turned back and saw the tall mage, a little unsteadily, rise to his feet, using the cavern wall by him for support.

"Cygnus!" the party leader yelled. "Are you all right? I've got to go help Nesco- can you attack this thing?"

The sound of Elrohir's voice seemed to snap Cygnus back into action. He stared at his friend for what seemed like a very long moment, and then extended his right arm.

"Great!" Elrohir was already turning around to go to Cynewine's aid- when he suddenly turned back again.

Cygnus wasn't pointing at the stalagmite. He was pointing directly at Elrohir.

In horrible slow- motion, Elrohir saw it all, like still paintings of increasing detail of smaller and smaller items.

Cygnus.

His right arm.

His right hand.

His _ring of shooting stars_, glinting in the _continual light._

Blazing death came hurtling straight at Elrohir.


	120. Fire Among Friends

**13th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Elrohir had time only to throw his arm over his face and turn away.

The first comet exploded.

But not on him.

A wave of searing heat swept over the ranger, accompanied by a brilliant orange flare and a deafening noise, but Elrohir's battle instincts quickly told him he was not mortally wounded- yet. With mere moments at best before the next fireball arrived, he turned back for a split second assessment of the situation.

Elrohir was stunned to see another figure standing between him and Cygnus, but before his mind could process what his eyes were showing him, the second _shooting star_ struck the person dead-on. Another burst of hellish orange radiance turned the figure into nothing more than a silhouette. Fragments of a bow and other unidentifiable debris blew off the unfortunate individual. The figure jerked spasmodically as the missile hit. He or she was yelling in pain, but the roar of the fireball hid all but the faintest trace of it.

_Someone jumped in front of me!_

The thought raced through Elrohir's mind at light-speed, but no accompanying action came with it.

The third _shooting star_ hit. Elrohir's unknown savior screamed out in agony again as pieces of melted plate armor came flying off. It was only after the overwhelming light and noise had died down that the party leader finally found himself moving again, his senses now confirming the identification that logic had made for him.

Argo Bigfellow Junior's auburn eyes still seem to carry the heat from the inferno he had just endured. The big ranger might have been trying to smile at his friend, but his eyes closed on him, and he collapsed to the floor.

Elrohir didn't look twice at him. He leapt over Argo's unmoving form, heading straight for Cygnus…

Nesco Cynewine gasped in astonishment as a hand suddenly reached over, grabbed the tentacle encircling her, and ripped it off.

It wasn't a human hand, but she knew it well.

Bellowing in rage, Grock the ogre, having already freed himself from the stalagmite's grasp, yanked hard on the tentacle he still held in his hand, pulling the cone-shaped monster right off of the floor.

Nesco ran over to Tojo, who was closest to her, pulled out her dagger, and began to saw through the waving limb that still held the samurai fast.

Tojo's voice was remarkably casual for the circumstances.

"Been waiting rong time for you, Nesco-san. Stone froor not very comfortaber."

The creature's tentacle, despite its rocklike appearance, had more of the consistency of dead and near-petrified wood. Nesco grimaced as she alternately dug and sawed at the limb, which was jerking around wildly as the creature struggled with the now giant-sized paladin.

Only sheer adrenaline was keeping her going. The feeling of weakness generated by the creature's grasp had not worn off.

Zantac's dagger, partially deflected by Talass' chainmail, still managed to slice into her upper abdomen at a severe angle.

The priestess cried out in pain. Her hand moved instinctively- not towards the dagger, but to her holy symbol of Forseti.

"_Drop!"_

Zantac's right hand opened wide at the _command_. The bloody dagger dropped to the floor.

Talass grabbed both of Zantac's hands and, still straddling the Willip wizard, pinned him down on the floor. It suddenly occurred to Talass that she didn't know if Zantac was stronger than her or not.

She also had no idea if he knew any spells that didn't require hand gestures.

As Zantac bucked like a wild horse, attempting to free himself, Talass found herself able to do nothing but hold on.

And of course, to pray.

Elrohir, unconsciously following his wife's battle strategy, grabbed both of Cygnus' arms as he slammed into the mage. The Aardian ranger pinned the magic-user's wrists above his head, against the cavern wall.

Cygnus' expression, a frustrated snarl, went momentarily thoughtful.

Elrohir translated.

_He's thinking of a spell he can still use!_

The ranger tried to slam his armored knee up into Cygnus' groin, but his plate mail restricted his knee too much, and the tactic was ineffectual. Elrohir tried to head butt, but Cygnus adroitly ducked and the ranger got nothing but a massive headache as his forehead struck the unyielding stone.

Although she had only sawed halfway through it, the tentacle holding Tojo suddenly let go. The samurai was back on his feet in an instant, as he and Nesco stood side-to-side facing the monster.

The stalagmite had wrapped all of its remaining tentacles around the ogre. Each combatant seemed intent on squeezing the other one into submission. Nesco sensed that although as an ogre Aslan would ordinarily be the stronger, the weakness generated by the creature's touch had made things more or less equal now.

Nesco and Tojo moved to the attack, but the floor suddenly dropped out from under Nesco, and she fell with a cry of surprise.

Zantac spat out a single arcane word.

A brief but brilliant flash of light dazed Talass. Zantac twisted and managed to roll her over. Although the cleric still had his hands grabbed, it was now the mage who was on top. Talass, her eyes still stinging from the flash, had trouble focusing on Zantac, who now wore an expression of fiendish glee.

Elrohir took in what was going on behind him with a brief glance, but his situation was rapidly getting worse.

Although Cygnus had not cast anything yet, the magic-user was slowly but surely forcing Elrohir's arms back. The ranger cursed to himself.

He'd forgotten how deceptively strong the thin, lanky wizard was. In just a few moments, Cygnus was going to free his hands. Already his right hand was making its way towards his left wrist to peel off Elrohir's grip.

Possibly the weakest idea ever came unbidden into Elrohir's head at that point. However, since it had no competition, it instantly became his latest miracle.

Or his final failure.

Elrohir turned his head back and yelled.

"Aslan! I can't hold Cygnus! He's going to _fireball_ you, and you don't have your armor to protect you! Watch out!"

And with that, he let go of Cygnus' wrists and slugged the wizard as hard as he could on the jaw with a roundhouse right.

Aslan couldn't even spare a puzzled frown when he heard those words. As he tried to keep his left hand from being drawn into the stalagmite's eager circular mouth, he could only be surprised at how his friend of so many years still apparently didn't understand how his _polymorphing_ worked. While he of course no longer benefited from his plate mail, Grock's tough and warty ogre hide afforded a reasonable degree of protection. A _fireball_ however, made such mundane matters irrelevant. How could Elrohir make such a tactical-

A tiny glint of moving metal coming at him caught the ogre's attention. It was more instinct than anything else that moved Aslan to catch it out of the air.

"Aslan! Get away!' came Elrohir's voice again. "_Polymorph_ again- anything! You'll die if he fireballs you!"

The paladin glanced down at what he held in his hands, and afforded himself a big, ugly, ogre smile.

Nesco's surprise at her unexpected drop was exceeded only by her amazement as Yanigasawa Tojo, without hesitation, grabbed the ranger under her arms before she went far.

Cynewine looked down. The stalagmite had apparently been initially positioned over a hole in the floor, just a tad shorter than the creature's diameter. Nesco caught a brief glimpse of metal rungs set into the stone tunnel below before she was swiftly, if roughly, deposited back on her feet. She took a moment to regain her bearings, but then couldn't help but look over at Tojo.

The samurai gazed back at Nesco questioningly for a moment, and then realized he was still holding onto her.

Pulling his hands back as fast if she were made of green slime, Tojo was forced to avert his gaze.

What he saw was Elrohir, down on one knee over Argo's still form. The team leader saw Tojo looking at him and shouted out. "Tojo! Nesco! You can't save Aslan! Cygnus is going to _fireball_ him! Go help Talass!"

Tojo raised an eyebrow. Something was not right. The samurai saw Cygnus, still against the far cavern wall, straightening up now and rubbing his chin. Aslan- or rather, Grock the ogre- was still grappling with the stone monster. He looked over at Talass still struggling with Zantac.

The samurai decided. His good friend Aslan was apparently in imminent danger from something he was not aware of, but Elrohir had given him a tactical command.

To disobey would be to show dishonor.

Tojo headed towards Talass, but Nesco was already there.

Talass breathed a sigh of relief as Cynewine hooked her arm around Zantac's neck from behind and pulled. Even in her weakened state, it was enough. Between the two women and the arriving samurai, they soon had Zantac pinned and helpless on his stomach.

"Cygnus- please don't! Aslan's your friend! You of all people know what it's like to be fireballed! Don't do it! Don't!"

Elrohir got to his feet, running away for his own safety even as he pleaded with his erstwhile friend.

Cygnus merely grinned wider. One hand pointed at the ogre, while the other swiftly and surely found what he needed in his spell component pouch.

"Aslan!" Cygnus shouted, his voice high with manic glee. "Aslan- _I'm acting unilaterally again!"_

He stopped laughing only long enough to cast.

At the last instant, Aslan enacted what he hoped was Stage Two in Elrohir's master plan.

And he hoped even more that Stage One would let him survive.

The stalagmite's one eye widened further as Grock swung it around, and in a stroke of luck that none of them, even Elrohir, had dared hope for, the tiny orange sphere shot towards it- and vanished inside the creature's gaping outer mouth.

For the briefest of instants, orange light spilled out of the monster's maw.

And then the stalagmite blew to pieces.

Its form not containing the _fireball_ to any great degree, the magical fire enveloped the ogre completely.

But when it dissipated, Grock was only mildly singed.

Cygnus caught a brief glimpse of something glinting off the ogre's right hand before another fireball went off in his own head, and the magic-user blacked out.


	121. Fixing Things

**13th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"Have some more water, Cygnus."

The tall mage, currently sitting propped up against the cave wall, shook his head. "Take it for yourself, Argo. Healing or no, you still look like you just came out of the oven."

The big ranger glanced down at Cygnus, drained the cup he held, and then smiled. "Cosmetic damage only. Looks like my magic ring trumped yours- if only barely."

"That reminds me, Argo. Catch."

Argo only needed a half-turn to catch Icar's- no, his- _ring of fire resistance_. Slipping it back on, he cocked an eyebrow at the once-again human paladin who had tossed it to him. "How'd you know that ring would resize itself to fit your fat ogre finger?"

Aslan could only shake his head and shrug. "I suppose I might have read of a magic ring doing that somewhere- but it was basically a blind hope that Elrohir knew what in the Nine Hells he was doing."

Bigfellow turned his gaze to the group leader. Elrohir stared steadily back at him, his expression grim.

"You'd have less faith in me if I told you the truth, Argo," he began, but then fell silent.

Argo regarded his fellow ranger curiously. Eventually, Elrohir walked up to Bigfellow. His expression softened as he laid a hand on Argo's shoulder.

"You shouldn't have done it, Argo. You had no of knowing whether that ring was sufficiently powerful to protect you from Cygnus' _shooting stars_. As it was, you might have died without Aslan's healing."

The big ranger's face assumed a thoughtful gaze that Elrohir knew- this time- was all too real.

"To be honest, Elrohir," Bigfellow said sheepishly, "I'd clean forgotten about the ring."

"Damn you, Argo," his friend whispered. "I knew you were going to say that."

"Where do we stand now, Aslan?" Nesco asked quietly.

The paladin took a deep breath before replying. "My Talent's down to the dregs. I fired two _psionic blasts_ at that thing before I realized they weren't working. I didn't want to skimp on healing, though." Aslan looked around the circular chamber. "We'll camp here tonight. If we have unfriendly visitors that need etiquette lessons, we'll have to rely on mine or Talass' faith to patch us back up."

Nesco kept her voice low. "Argo still looks a mess, and he's lost so much- his sling, his bow, half of his armor."

"Our wizards may be able to help a little with Argo's armor, but getting it replaced isn't feasible on our timeframe. We'll just have to make do. We should reach Suderham sometime tomorrow- if your calculations are correct, Lady Cynewine."

The paladin finished with a sudden smile that left Nesco speechless. Eventually she managed to return the smile, but by then Aslan had already walked over to Tojo, who was pointing out several small gems lying on the floor. Apparently, they were the sole undigested remains of the stalagmite's previous meals.

Nesco glanced over to her other side. On the far side of the room, Zantac sat huddled on the floor, his head on his drawn-up knees, and buried in his arms. Talass was squatting down on her haunches next to him.

"Zantac- it's all right."

"No." The Willip wizard sniffled and raised his face, tearless but flushed and swollen with the effort to avoid them. "No, Talass, it's _not_ all right. I could have killed you," he added plaintively, eyeing the ragged gash in her chain shirt.

The cleric maintained an even tone. "You were not responsible for your actions, Zantac, and no one here- even me- holds you accountable for them. Haven't you ever been charmed before?"

Zantac shook his head. "No. I was the enchanter when Zelhile paired us off in practice, not the victim."

Talass smiled gently. "I can't speak for Nesco, but all the rest of us have been, at one time or another."

The mage seemed to consider, but then shook his head again, more violently. "But it wasn't just that my body was doing terrible things." His light blue eyes seemed to looking back on his recent self.. "I _wanted_ to kill you, Talass," Zantac said, his voice threatening to crack from shame.

The priestess was silent for a few moments. Her face assumed a neutral expression.

"And you have trouble accepting that?"

"_Accepting it?"_ Zantac cried, loudly enough to turn all the heads in the room. "I'm having trouble _living_ with it!"

He buried his face in his arms again. His shoulders shook.

Talass waited silently, watching the wizard cry. Without moving her eyes, she held up a warning hand, telling the others to keep back. She listened to the half-intelligible expressions of remorse and pleas for forgiveness.

"Zantac," she said eventually, her voice still even and controlled. "Zantac, look at me."

Slowly, wiping his eyes, the mage lifted his head. Talass continued to wait until Zantac's eyes finally settled on her face like a nervous bird coming home to roost.

Talass suddenly slapped Zantac as hard as she could across his cheek.

"OW!" The magic-use scooted backwards on his butt, holding his cheek with one hand while trying to hold off Talass with the other. "What the hell was _that_ for?"

The cleric, who hadn't moved, merely shrugged. "You said it yourself, Zantac- you tried to kill me. Frankly, you deserve much worse."

"But, but- I was charmed! You just said-"

"_Ah, ha!"_ Talass leaned forward suddenly, her index finger raised in front of Zantac's nose in a gesture of triumph. The mage flinched at what he thought was another attack coming, but soon confusion registered in his face.

It was soon replaced by a sheepish smile, but before he could speak, Cygnus' voice came drifting over from the other side of the chamber.

"Can I slap him too, Talass? I still own him one!"

"I owe you _three_, Cygnus," Argo suddenly mused. The big ranger's face was a study in neutrality that absolutely unnerved the tall wizard. He didn't know if Bigfellow was joking or not. Cygnus turned to Aslan, but the paladin already has his arms across his chest.

"Don't look at me, Cygnus. I'm a charter member of your fire club, too."

Zantac couldn't resist a shaky smile. "Cancel mine and slap him twice," he offered to the room at large, then faced Cygnus directly as he stood up." How come you're only accurate when you're blasting your allies, Skinny?"

Cygnus smirked. "This coming from the only wizard to ever miss with _magic missiles_."

"What? I never-," Zantac spluttered. "Where did you hear that?"

"Thormord told me during my training."

Zantac stuttered something about a _blink_ spell, but everyone was too busy smiling to pay much attention.

The memory still brought a smile to Zantac's face as he lay down on his bedroll an hour later, his black-and-red cloak draped over him. He raised his head just enough to peer towards the center of the room.

Talass sat atop her backpack in the center of the room, having drawn first watch. She was wearing Cygnus' _continual light_ necklace, and was currently facing away from Zantac. The wizard watched the light cast Talass-shaped shadows on the walls as the priestess looked towards the entrance to this cavern, then down the tunnel, about ten feet deep, that led to the continuation of the slaver passageway. She then glanced around at her sleeping party.

Zantac quickly lay back down and closed his eyes before her gaze reached him. The memory of his thrusting and digging his dagger into her flesh unexpectedly came back, and a fresh wave of guilt overcame him.

_I'll make it up to you, Talass_, he vowed silently. _I'll make it up to all of you._


	122. Preparation

**14th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Elrohir ran his hand along the wall, and then looked at the rest of his team.

"We're almost there. Minutes now, rather than hours."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crude mosaic of several life-sized noble figures that the ranger's gauntleted hand rested on was nothing remarkable in itself- age had destroyed most of it, and what could still be seen revealed an unexceptional artist's hand. But it was the very fact of its existence that was important.

The cavern tunnel that the party was traveling down now had finished walls. Ill-fitting, cracked tiles composed the floor, and wooden crossbeams in varying stages of decomposition were braced every ten feet. Argo examined one of them.

"This isn't dry rot," the big ranger said softly. "We're not right by the entrance, but close enough for some moist air to get in here."

"I wonder who those people are." Talass mused, indicating the mosaic.

"I'd guess King Olaric and his court at Suderham," Nesco replied.

"Who in Boccob's name is that?" Zantac queried, pointing at a figure standing slightly off to one side.

As best as could still be determined, the man in question was wearing brown robes embroidered with gold and gemstones, creating an image of a coiled, wingless dragon. A bronzed skull of a small dragon served as a helm, obscuring his face. In his hand was what looked like a miner's pick.

The party looked at Nesco, but she could only shrug.

No one expected the samurai to speak up at this point, but he did.

"Shugenja. Servant of _Dao Rung_- Earth Dragon."

The others turned to him in astonishment.

"Are you certain, Tojo?" Elrohir eventually asked. "I know we've discussed the possibility that the Earth Dragon of Nippon and this one are-"

"They are same, Errohir-san," the samurai uncharacteristically interrupted.

"What does that mean for us, Tojo?" asked Argo.

Tojo hesitated so long before replying that Elrohir would have told him to forget it, but the samurai's eyes never left Bigfellow's face.

At length, one dark eyebrow lifted skyward, and a faint smile creased his lips.

"It mean big trouber for us, Argo-san."

Argo breathed a sigh of relief and wiped his brow. "I was worried it might be something new."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group continued to walk down the ten foot-wide corridor. Every so often, it would turn at a ninety-degree angle, but there was nothing beyond but more corridor.

"I wonder when all this was first carved out," Talass asked. Several of the others were startled out of their personal reveries. It was the first anyone had spoken in over five minutes.

Nesco calculated in her head. "Assuming that mosaic dates back to that time, I'd say about fifty or sixty years ago."

Talass didn't seem to immediately accept that. "Why assume that? I've know mosaics or paintings created and displayed long after construction."

"It'd have to have been. Suderham was sacked by the humanoids after Olaric was slain on the field of battle. There'd have been no one left afterwards to create it."

Ahead of her, Cygnus suddenly stopped, causing Nesco to nearly collide with him.

"Then what exactly are we expecting to find at the end of all this?" Cygnus interjected, his voice noticeably louder than the others and flooded with irritation.

"My guess is the Slave Lords have rebuilt a section of the city, and are now using it as their headquarters," Aslan answered, his voice quiet and his light blue eyes fixed firmly on the tall wizard. "And from this point on, Cygnus, I'd keep a damper on that temper of yours. We're making enough of a clankfest as it is with all our armor."

The Aardian mage glared back at the paladin and crossed his arms, but when he replied it was in an equally low tone. "We haven't seen anything in over a day, Aslan. What makes you think enemies are just around the next corner?"

Aslan opened his mouth but Argo jumped in first. "Maybe not around the next corner Cygnus, but it won't be long before you turn one and find yourself face-to-face with some more of our furry friends, and I promise you they won't be as surprised as you will."

"More gnolls?" Cygnus frowned. "How do you know?"

Bigfellow smiled in response and tapped the side of his nose with his finger.

"_The nose gnolls."_

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"Light."

Elrohir's declaration, while dramatic, was unnecessary. The party, having just followed the corridor around yet another turn, this one to the left, immediately saw faint glimmers of illumination coming from behind the first door they had seen in this entire labyrinth.

The corridor finally ended about fifty feet from where the group currently stood. The door was situated, not at the corridor's end, but just next to it on the corridor's right side. The party slowly moved forward until they were by the door. Elrohir insisted upon checking the corridor's end and the wall opposite the door first for any trace of a secret door, upon the supposition that the visible door might be a fake, or worse, a trap. These examinations proved negative.

"Well, now what?" asked Cygnus.

"We scout ahead," Elrohir replied without hesitation before turning to his friend standing next to him. "Am I right in thinking a fly could fit under the gap in this door, Aslan?"

The paladin regarded his team leader for a moment, and then glanced at the bottom of the wooden door before them.

"Let's find out," he said.

The others had only a glimpse of a dark speck flying down to the floor and vanishing into whatever lay on the other side.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrohir didn't know how long he had been tapping his foot before a smirk from Argo made him stop.

"He should have been back by now," he stated, somewhat defensively.

"It's only been a few minutes, Elrohir," Argo said reassuringly. "Knowing Aslan, he probably changed back to his human form to share his philosophy of truth and righteousness with them. They should all be dead of boredom by now."

Nesco didn't seem reassured. "I think we should just burst through. If something has happened to Aslan, every moment we delay brings-"

"Asran return."

The words had barely left Tojo's lips when their paladin friend was once again standing with them, seemingly none the worse for wear. "Well," he grimaced after taking a deep breath, "that was interesting."

"Glad you're all right, Aslan," Elrohir nodded. "Let's have it."

"There are gnolls in there, all right. It's a much bigger room than I was expecting, perhaps two hundred feet to the far end, and maybe sixty wide. I'm not sure; I think it's an audience chamber of some kind. There are _continual flames_ at both ends, and outlining two sets of pillars running down the center, but the sides are in shadow."

"How many gnolls?" Talass asked.

"Nineteen, as best I could tell," the paladin reported. "One each by six of the pillars. They're expecting us, all right. They've all got crossbows loaded and aimed right at this door. There's a large throne at the far end; six gnolls with halberds to one side, and six gnoll ghouls on the other."

"Ghouls?" repeated Talass incredulously.

"Isn't that your specialty, my good lady?" inquired Argo with a faint smile.

Talass frowned, however. "I've known gnoll priests to command ghouls, but not when working with their living brethren. They don't like them any more than we do."

"That's eighteen, Aslan," Zantac cut in. "Where's the last one?"

The paladin grimaced again. "Sitting on the throne; armored up and holding a triple-headed flail in his hand." He shook his head. "Gnolls are giants by my book in any case, but that one on the throne would have to clear eight feet if he stood up. And there's one more thing."

Cygnus sighed. "There always is."

Aslan ignored him. "A large reptile of some sort; about the size of a small pony. I've never seen the like before. It's got a bony carapace on its back, somewhat like a tortoise, but the legs are longer and its tail ends in a kind of boney club."

"Intelligent?" Elrohir inquired, his right hand going unconsciously to Gokasillion's hilt. The paladin however, shook his head.

"I don't think so. A guardian creature of some kind, I'd say."

There was a silence while all of this was digested.

"So what's the plan, oh fearless leader?" Argo eventually inquired. "We rush inside, kill everyone, grab the swag and ride off into the sunset with any number of nubile yet exceedingly grateful maidens held prisoner within?"

"Does Caroline know you talk like that when she's not around?" the paladin snapped at the big ranger before Elrohir could reply. Argo turned to face him, his features hardening.

"As a matter of fact, she does, Aslan. My wife knows me. She takes me as I am, and she loves me the same way. Wonderful thing, love is. You should try it sometime."

Aslan pinched his lips, and Elrohir saw his fist clench in anger once before relaxing. When the paladin replied though, he changed the subject, jerking a thumb towards the door.

"That's not the door of your cabin, Argo Bigfellow Junior, and Caroline is not inside there, waiting to serve you a hot dinner. I don't consider _any_ combat to be a stroll through green fields, let alone nineteen gnolls and some monster. And I have _no_ intention of fighting alongside anyone who doesn't take this as seriously as I do!"

He was still speaking to Argo, but Aslan's glance suddenly went to Nesco.

"I've already seen enough death. I won't see any more- not if I can help it."

A short but embarrassed silence ensued. Nesco, unable to face anyone's eyes upon her, stared down at the ground, while the others waited for this latest Aslan/Argo brushfire to burn itself out.

Argo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me that you think my joking means I'm not as serious about this as you are, Aslan. Look into my eyes and tell me that."

And Aslan did indeed stare into the big ranger's auburn eyes, but he couldn't seem to find a satisfactory answer there. After a few seconds, the paladin dropped the matter with a sigh.

"I swear by the fields of Asgard; I can't figure you out, Argo."

This was apparently the type of response Bigfellow had been hoping for. Argo allowed his smile to suffuse his whole face. "When I do, you'll be the second to know, my friend." He then turned to their party leader, a somber expression back in place. "Sorry for my flippancy before, Elrohir. Seriously- what is the plan?"

"Aslan and I will open the front door, rush in and engage that beast at swordpoint," Elrohir replied, unhooking his shield from his back and handing his longbow and quiver to his fellow ranger. "Argo, you follow behind and start taking out those gnoll snipers. Talass, proceed as you think best until you can get close enough to those ghouls to turn them, but don't stray too far from the rest of us. Cygnus, Zantac- shine up now if you need to. You'll probably wind up taking on that head gnoll on the throne. Stick to cover as best you can."

Zantac glanced over at his fellow mage. "Two hundred feet; that's a fair distance. Limits our options somewhat until we can close to range." Cygnus nodded soberly in reply but said nothing.

"Nesco, Tojo- bows out. Help Argo take out those snipers," Elrohir finished up with a long look at his front-line partner. "Ready, Aslan?"

Aslan nodded. The paladin was now in a slight crouch, his sword and shield in hand. He prepared to bring his right shoulder to bear against the door, and then looked again at Elrohir.

"Bring your shield up a little higher Elrohir, and crouch down a bit, like me. Those gnolls are aiming towards where they expect a human head to be when this door opens."

Elrohir was flushed that he hadn't thought of that, but he just nodded in response and adopted his friend's pose. "Ready everyone?" he called softly over his shoulder.

"Readier than they are, I hope," Cygnus replied dourly. A brief discussion with Zantac had concluded with the agreement that _shield_ spells seemed unwarranted. The tall mage couldn't fight the knot of anxiety that was twisting his stomach into a hard knot, but he gave a small smile of encouragement to the ranger. "Let's do it."

Elrohir took one more deep breath, made eye contact with Aslan, and as one they placed their shoulder against the door and pressed forward as quickly as they could.

And just as they did, they heard Argo Bigfellow's strong voice ring out behind them, as clear as a brand-new church bell.

"_I'M HOME, LOVE! WHAT'S COOKIN' FOR DINNER?"_

The air filled with crossbow bolts.


	123. Chapter 123

**14th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

Although the missiles either passed over their heads or ricocheted harmlessly off the tops of their upheld shields, Aslan couldn't resist letting out a wordless yell of frustration as he and Elrohir charged into the room. The paladin didn't have the luxury of turning to glare back at Argo, so he settled instead for a glare at Elrohir, who was maintaining pace right along with him as the two lumbered forward as quickly as their plate mail would allow, swords raised for the battle ahead.

Elrohir gave an answering look of commiseration, but his attention quickly returned to his surroundings. Even having been informed beforehand, the ranger was impressed by the size of this chamber. The walls and floor seemed carved out of yellow sandstone, as best he could tell. As Aslan had mentioned, pillars- four rows of four each- traversed the room. The row of pillars closest to their position on either side were each wreathed in wispy flames that gave off light but no heat. Each column, Ionic in style but without decoration, was a little over three feet in diameter.

The reptile Aslan had spoken of was now only fifteen feet in front of them. Its narrow head turned towards the duo and cocked slightly. It almost seemed as if the beast was trembling slightly. Its club-like tail waved gently, as if in a breeze.

Perhaps sixty feet or so beyond the creature, Elrohir caught a glimpse of the seated gnoll, and the others clustered around him. He hoped his wife and the two wizards could deal with them, but he was forced to turn his immediate attention to the turtle-like monster ahead of him and the surrounding pillars. Elrohir tensed himself for more crossbow fire, but none came.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Argo maintained the smile on his face, but his body language was all business as he moved into the room, more slowly than the front line had. Talass came in alongside the tall ranger, but then began to move off towards the right slightly as Bigfellow did the same to the left. Argo caught a glimpse of the priestess scowling at him before she turned her face away.

"Idiot," came wafting back towards Bigfellow. The rest was incomprehensible, but then the appearance of a shimmering, silver glow around the cleric told Argo that Talass had raised her protective _shield of faith_.

Argo scanned each pillar in turn. He could tell from shifting shadows at least some of the pillars that were hiding gnolls behind them, but no one was giving him a direct line of fire, until Bigfellow saw the tip of a hyena head peer around the closest pillar from the furthest row on the left; about forty feet away. Now he could see the crossbow aiming at him…

The humanoid squealed and staggered back. Argo's shot had intended to strike right between the creatures pale, yellow-green eyes, but it had delivered only a grazing head wound instead. Argo's grip tightened on his bow even as he went for another arrow. Elrohir's bow wasn't strung quite the same as Argo's and he hadn't thought to fix it before they entered battle.

A trickle of blood matting its fur, the gnoll snarled at Bigfellow, raised its weapon again and fired, but the bolt went wide.

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The two mages were next to enter, and each immediately began moving along the side the room they had entered from, keeping the wall to their back. Cygnus went to the left and Zantac to the right.

Like Zantac, Cygnus had lost his quarterstaff in the fiery battle against the stalagmite-creature. The tall wizard kept one hand on his spell component pouch while the other shielded his eyes as he scanned the room. He was now directly opposite one of the rows of pillars, the closest being about twenty five feet in front of him. He hoped there was no gnoll standing behind it, because he planned to make for it and then use it for cover while he fired off spells at the big gnoll at the far end of the room.

First though, he had a personal spell to cast. Keeping one eye on the reptilian beast that Elrohir and Aslan were heading towards, Cygnus reached into his pouch and came up with a small piece of tortoise shell.

_Hope this wasn't a relative of yours_, he thought.

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Zantac was in shadow. Cygnus was carrying the _continual light_ stone, and no magic flames or glowing swords were close enough to give him full illumination. This gave the Willip wizard no illusionary comforts about his safety, however. He was well aware that all the gnolls could see just fine in darkness.

Zantac, by personal choice, did not have the spell memorized that Cygnus was at that moment casting on himself. He too was opposite a pillar wreathed in continual flames, and he decided to make for it. He took a deep breath and dashed forward.

Success! The mage practically wrapped his arms around the pillar. He slid round a little, so he was now hidden from view from the throne's inhabitant at the far end. He was happy that he could call this pillar his own.

He was less happy at the leering gnoll that peered around the pillar about twenty feet to his right and raised its crossbow at him.

A second later, an arrow slammed into the creature's weapon, knocking it out of its hands. The gnoll yelped in surprise, but then bent down and picked up the weapon with its left hand, while still waving the right one around in pain.

Zantac followed the gnoll's gaze. Standing right where he had been along the wall, was Tojo. The samurai was already drawing another arrow from his quiver.

The prayer of thanks was still forming on Zantac's lips when two bolts slammed into the pillar inches from his face.

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Tojo effortlessly dodged the bolt that came his way. The gnoll that had launched it was still hurting too much to keep its aim steady. The samurai glanced over to his left just in time to see Nesco Cynewine emerge through the doorway, an arrow already strung on her longbow.

"Nesco-san!" Tojo shouted and pointed with his right hand, currently clutching an arrow at the pillar that was thirty feet beyond Zantac's.

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Nesco frowned. She could just barely make out a small piece of grey fur around the left side of the indicated column, but her target was a good sixty feet away, in less than perfect lighting, and behind cover. Trying to ignore everything else, she pulled back the bowstring, took a bead and fired.

Her aim was true, but the gnoll was fast. It ducked back in the nick of time and the arrow went sailing past.

_That was it,_ Nesco thought grimly as she yanked another arrow from her quiver. _That was my one allotted miss. There won't be another._

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Elrohir and Aslan stood their ground and awaited the beast's charge.

And charge it did at them, although in a rather ungainly fashion. The creature's beak-like mouth opened and an odd _chit-chit_ sound came from within- hardly the roar the warriors had been expecting.

Elrohir was standing just to Aslan's left, but the monster ran straight at the paladin. Aslan had plenty of time to get into optimal position…

His sword connected.

And in that split-second, there was a distortion, like a heat ripple on a blazing hot day, and the image of the creature seemed to peel away and vanish like a mirage.

Except that there was still something there.

This creature bore only a superficial resemblance to what they had just seen. It was mostly rust-red in color. It still had four legs, but they were like those of a giant insect. The beast's squat, humped body was covered with thick, lumpy, plates. Its tail was covered in thinner plates and ended in a three-pronged, bony projection. A long, feathery antenna sprouted from just underneath each of the creature's eyes.

The thing squealed with agony as Aslan's blade bit deep into its back, and a rust-red fluid spurted out of the wound. Satisfied, Aslan pulled his blade free-

Except that there was no more blade.

Only a hilt.

And Aslan suddenly realized this creature looked familiar.

"_Ruuusteeerrr!"_

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The cry altered the trajectory of Elrohir's own swing as surely as if the paladin has grabbed his sword arm and jerked it.

It meant a miss, but that didn't matter. Gokasillion's sweeping blade leveled off into a horizontal arc in front of the creature. One of its antennas swept underneath the sword; the other just above it.

Elrohir gasped; his eyes wide. He took a step backwards in reflex. This required a bold and clever shift in strategy.

Of exactly what that would be, the ranger had no idea.

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The gnoll on the throne stood up.

_Lord, he's a big one all right_, thought Cygnus, who was currently devoting the most attention to this figure. The gnoll gestured to his left and to his right, and both sets of gnolls, living and undead, came running and shambling forward. In a matter of seconds they had covered nearly have the distance of the chamber, and seemed to be heading for Aslan and Elrohir.

A bolt slammed into the wall about ten feet to Cygnus' left. Another passed somewhere between him and Argo, so far off he couldn't tell which one of them had been the intended target. When he looked back at the large gnoll still at the far end of the chamber, something had changed.

Only a shifting, blurry outline of the gnoll could be seen. It looked as if the creature was leaving smeared images of itself as it moved. Cygnus' jaw tightened.

_A blur spell. He's a goddammed arcanist. Plus a warrior, a priest probably, and who in the Abyss knows what else. _

"Change of plan!" yelled the mage to anybody and everybody. "Take out that gnoll in back- _now!"_

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Aslan heard Cygnus, but obeying wasn't an option. He was in far too much trouble.

The only other time the paladin had ever encountered a rust monster, he had never gotten this close to it, and someone else had managed to distract the beast with a large amount of metal until it could be attacked _en masse_ and slain.

Now Aslan could see six gnolls with halberds coming at him. The pitiful amount of iron in their weapons wasn't going to distract the ruster; not with a veritable feast- the paladin's plate mail- right in front of it.

Aslan dropped the hilt of what had once been his sword and carefully backed several steps away and to the right from the monster. He could in theory draw his longbow and might even be able to finish off the ruster with it- but that would leave him a poor position several seconds later when he was surrounded by a pack of bloodthirsty gnolls. As far as he could see, his viable options were limited to one.

The paladin turned his head just so; made sure Elrohir was out of the line of fire, and let loose a _psionic blast_ that caught both the rust monster and the charging gnolls in its field. The ruster let out a squeal and toppled over onto its side, stunned.

The oncoming gnolls, however, were completely unaffected.

Despite himself, Aslan's mouth fell open.

_What the-_

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Elrohir shot a look over at Aslan when the rust monster crumpled to the ground. He wasn't sure if the paladin had used his Talent or not, but there was no more time to make an issue of it. The ruster was no longer an immediate threat, but there was no possibility of concentrating upon the tall gnoll in the back.

Elrohir was facing six onrushing ghouls.

The ranger began moving to the right, almost in a side-stepping fashion. He passed in front of Aslan and wound up about ten feet in front of Zantac's pillar. If all six ghouls surrounded Elrohir, he knew he'd be finished. A quick backwards glance showed him that Talass was just about in range, but the ranger privately was unsure whether his wife had the strength of faith to turn all six.

Not that he would ever mention that to her, of course.

Still, even two or three less would reduce his upcoming burden significantly. Elrohir tensed up. He hated ghouls; not just on the general revulsion that most living things shared for the undead, but for their sheer horrible appearance. And gnoll ghouls were particularly ghastly.

The mangy, maggot-ridden fur; the taut, dead skin underneath stretched too-tightly over bones; the unbelievable putrid smell of-

Wait a minute. Putrid smell?

_The nose gnolls_, Argo had said. And the cleanest gnoll Elrohir had ever seen still smelled like a buzzard taking a bath in a dung wagon.

Like Cygnus before him, Elrohir yelled out to everybody and nobody in particular.

"There's no smell! Those ghouls don't smell at all! None of these gnolls do!"

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Argo was too far back to tell if the oncoming gnolls had any smell to them, but his team leader's announcement cued Bigfellow's mind to the oddity that a dozen gnolls would normally be making a lot more noise than these particular ones were.

Which was in fact, none at all.

At the last moment, Argo swung his bow around, and his arrow flew right at the chest of one of the gnoll ghouls- and then continued onwards passed the empty space it had occupied a moment before.

"Illusionist, let the sham be exposed!" Bigfellow yelled out as he drew another arrow and started cautiously to advance.

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Talass pondered as she slowly moved forward as well, and wound up standing next to Aslan. A quick shared glance told her that Aslan wasn't totally convinced. Were these ghouls mere illusions? Many illusions vanished when disbelieved.

These weren't going anywhere.

An idea came to Talass. If the gnoll ghouls were real, they'd react to her turning according to the level with which she was able to channel her god's power. If they were illusionary, they'd react as their controller would have them plausibly react.

_The question is, what does that tall gnoll know about me?_ She thought to herself, with the hint of a smile at the linguistic play. _What I want him to, _was her answer.

The priestess of Forseti held forth her holy symbol and shouted, "These creatures are as nothing to me! Not even a test of my faith! Begone, corpsewalkers, in the name of the Justice Bringer!"

Without a sound, all six ghouls seized up and crumpled to the floor.

"Well done, Talass!" Aslan complimented her.

"One way or the other, I suppose," she mumbled back as she readied her warhammer.

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Breathing hard. Cygnus continued to peer around his pillar at the blurred form of the tall gnoll at the far end of the chamber.

For all his experience in combat, the Aardian wizard did not often come up in battle against fellow magic-users. Cygnus had never had any formal training in magical battle. He could remember vividly his mentor Part-Hew staring at him after an eighteen year-old Cygnus had finally broached the subject.

"_There's nothing to teach, boy. Waste of your time and mine to fill your head with all that Guild nonsense." Part-Hew's vivid grey eyes had flashed at him over his white handlebar mustache._

_Cygnus had frowned. "But what if-"_

"_What if you find yourself facing a fellow mage in battle?" Part-Hew snorted. "Very simple, boy. You know how to identify the winner of a magical duel?"_

"_Umm," the apprentice wizard could only guess. "The one's who still standing?"_

"_But why is he the one who's still standing?"_

_Cygnus tried to think like Part-Hew. Simply._

"_Because he struck first?"_

_Part Hew snorted again, grabbed Cygnus' hair and pulled the taller mage's face down so that it was level with his._

"_No, boy. Because he struck last."_

Cygnus took one more deep breath in a failed attempt to steady his nerves, and jogged forward and a little to the right. He stopped about ten feet to the left of Argo, who looked at him, concerned.

"Cygnus, get back to cover!"

The tall magic-user shook his head. "Don't need it!" he shouted, as much for the benefit of any nearby gnolls as for his teammates. He then spared a second for a grim smile at Bigfellow.

"Gotta go with what you know!"

The orange sphere streaked across the chamber.

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Despite being over a hundred feet away from the point of detonation, the flash and roar of the _fireball's_ explosion was enough to make Zantac wince.

When he looked again, a blurry, staggering form was screaming in pain at the far end of the room. Wisps of smoke rose from it.

Zantac adjusted his gaze. The six gnolls with halberds were continuing to advance towards him and his friends, heedless of their master's condition.

The Willip wizard thought hard. Were these gnolls mere illusions? Probably, but if they weren't, there wasn't going to be any second chances before they were on them. He wasn't sure where to direct his spells.

Unlike Cygnus, Zantac _had_ undergone training in magical combat…

"_I heard someone say once that a magical duel is like a chess game." Zelhile's stony face had lasted the entire length of the lesson, and now that it was nearly over, he let it come close to a thin smile. Then he shrugged. "I suppose, if chess were played in seconds and the loser was executed. Pretty poor analogy, in my book."_

_His dark eyes had flashed over Zantac, Martan, Aimee and the others._

"_The single most important thing you have to decide is when to switch over from defense to offense. Too soon, and you leave yourself open for a devastating riposte. Too late, and your opponent is so shined up that you won't make any difference. How do we find this moment, people?" The Guildmaster addressed his students with an expression that clearly indicated he didn't think anyone would be able to answer him correctly._

"_Detect?" Zantac had ventured._

_Zelhile gave a practiced sigh. "Even if you ever learn to quicken it, Zantac- and do note my use of the word if- it'd take far too long for the really useful information to come to you, and by then you're waiting for a richly deserved shallow grave. Anyone else?"_

_No one had dared. Only in his eyes did the Guildmaster's irritation come through._

"_Knowledge, people! Your brain; your skills. The spellcraft I've vainly been trying to chisel into your adamantine skulls is the only thing you can rely on when you need it! The rules are the same for all of us, people."_

_Zelhile had ended the lesson by turning his back on them. "Learn them."_

_I wonder if you ever found yourself in a situation like this, you bastard_, Zantac mentally groused at his former teacher. Still, his subconscious mind tried to arrange everything into an orderly package for him.

Zantac had never been able to memorize the _fireball_ spell, but a _lightning bolt_ should certainly work. The range was farther than he had ever thrown one, but Zantac was sure the bolt would reach.

Pretty sure.

The problem was that the six gnolls were in the way. If they were mere illusions, it wouldn't be an issue, but if they weren't, the bolt wouldn't get all six, and the tall gnoll would still be standing.

Zantac made his decision, and cast.

The gnolls disappeared.

Talass and Aslan looked back and to their right at Zantac, who allowed himself a smile. His _dispel_ had proved the gnolls illusions, and he still had his _lightning bolt_ in reserve.

"The field is cleared, my friends. At 'em!"

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Tojo, now halfway towards the gnoll that he had wounded earlier, stopped only long enough to let fly another arrow. The gnoll yelped in pain and ducked back around the pillar it was hiding by.

The samurai narrowed his eyes. Neither wound had been mortal. He saw a furry hand sneak back into view and snatch a wooden shield that had been leaning up against the pillar.

Tojo did what he always did in combat. He waited for his moment.

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Nesco moved forward cautiously, and let fly an arrow at the gnoll Argo had already hit. The missile sliced by the creature's right shoulder as soon as it came into view. A thin stream of blood spurted from the wound, but the humanoid quickly ducked back behind its pillar again.

_I think it's time you and I danced_, the ranger thought as she re-slung her bow.

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The three gnolls on the left side of the chamber, displaying remarkable coordination, peered out from behind cover and fired their crossbows simultaneously at Cygnus.

Two of the three bolts struck the wizard full in the chest.

And bounced off.

Cygnus turned back to the others. "Told you I didn't need cover."

The light dawned on Elrohir. "That's the same spell as that black potion I drank back in Highport!"

The tall mage raised an eyebrow. "Not bad for a layman's guess."

"Mind brewing up some for us next time?" quipped Argo.

"Sure," Cygnus replied. "As soon as we have the money, and the equipment, and the spare time-"

Elrohir cried out. A bolt had struck him in the chest as well, but the plate had deflected it. The impact actually rocked the ranger back on his heels, but he managed to retain his balance. "All right, Cygnus- I get the message!"

Two more bolts came flying at Tojo. One, fired by the very gnoll he was advancing on, struck the samurai in his right side. Tojo grimaced and halted his approach, but made no move to pull the projectile out.

"Tojo!" Aslan shouted. "Are you-"

Without warning, color flooded the room.


	124. Frump

**14th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

"It's… so beautiful," Elrohir whispered.

It was like being inside a rainbow. Captivating hues swirled around the group like gentle breezes, always in motion. They called to the eye, enticing it to follow their winding streams; moving, merging, diverging.

Although he really didn't want to, Elrohir forced himself to look around for his friends. He knew that they had just been involved in deadly combat, and that it might not yet be over.

His gaze soon found them. He could see Nesco's eyes were following the pattern of colors, but the others- his wife, Argo, Aslan and the two wizards- were looking around just as he was. The ranger decided to reassure them.

"It's all right." The team leader had expected his voice to be louder than it was, but everyone seemed to be able to hear him anyway. "It doesn't seem to be harmful, whatever it is…. Someone let me know if they see anything dangerous."

And with that, Elrohir let his eyes return where they wanted to go. To the colors.

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"_What?"_

"Don't bother, Argo. Both Elrohir and Nesco seem to be under some kind of hypnotic effect." Aslan peered at Tojo, who alone among the group was outside the pattern effect, an area the paladin estimated at about sixty feet wide.

The samurai was frowning. "Awe of you- reave area!" he called out.

Aslan was already heading towards Elrohir. "Argo! Talass! Snap Nesco out of it! I'll take care of Elrohir- the rest of you, move forward- get away from these colors!"

Elrohir was forced to return his gaze to Aslan after the paladin stepped directly in front of him.

"It's amazing, isn't it Aslan?" he asked quietly.

The paladin nodded soberly in response.

"If you think a rainbow is amazing, try stars."

And with that, Aslan slapped Elrohir across the face with his gauntlet.

The ranger's cry of pain and surprise quickly gave way to shock, and then a silent, stunned embarrassment. Fully aware of what had transpired, the ranger cupped his stinging cheek with his palm as he looked towards the far end of the room.

The blurred figure of the tall gnoll seemed to be waving its flail around, although it was hard to tell for sure. To Elrohir however, it was all the confirmation he needed. A wordless snarl erupted from his throat, and with Gokasillion raised high, he began to charge towards that distant figure. However, the gnoll hiding behind the pillar twenty feet in front of Elrohir suddenly peered around to check on the group. The ranger altered his trajectory. The gnoll dropped its crossbow, grabbed its wooden shield and tried to retreat behind the column, but Elrohir followed him around. The others heard a yowl of pain, and then the gnoll reappeared on their side of the pillar, one hand pressed over its leather tunic in front, from which a dark liquid was seeping.

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"I'll take care of it." Talass shouldered her way past Bigfellow en route to Nesco. "No telling what lascivious idea you'd come up with, Argo."

The big ranger's eyes shot up as he assumed a hurt look. "Lascivious? Me? You _wound_ me, my good lady."

"Is that a prophecy or a request?" muttered the cleric as she reached Cynewine. Not even waiting for a response, Talass grabbed Nesco by both shoulders and shook her roughly. "Nesco! Come on- snap out of it! Don't look at the colors- look at me!"

She had no slapped cheek to contend with, but Nesco's hazel-green eyes eventually showed the same shock and shame that Elrohir's had. That suddenly vanished however; the ranger suddenly refitted her arrow onto her bow, sidestepped around Talass and let the missile fly while crying out a warning.

"The ruster! It's getting back up!"

The ranger's arrow jammed its way between the plates on the creature's back. The shaft then fell out, its metal arrowhead rusted away to nothingness. The creature squealed again, but still managed to regain its footing. Its antennae waved around wildly. The ruster seemed to be torn between Argo and Aslan, who were both at identical ten-foot distances from the monster.

The former let his arrow fly, and more rust-red fluid spurted, this time out of the monster's right front leg. Argo jogged forward about twenty feet to put some distance between him and Talass. He and Aslan were now flanking the creature.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Talass cast, holding her holy symbol of a bearded face out towards the far end of the room. There was no visible reaction, and the priestess uttered a short but virulent string of curses in Fruz loud enough to cause Aslan to blush.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cygnus moved up to stand right behind Argo. "The gnolls are no problem, and I'm of no interest to the ruster, but I'd still appreciate a meat shield between me and Hyena-Head up there."

Argo gave him his pained smile. "Why Cygnus, I didn't know you cared."

The wizard returned it as best he could. "Here's the proof." And with that, he cast. Argo could not see, but could almost feel the arcane power flowing along Cygnus' arm as the tall mage finished the spell by pointing down the chamber.

The _blur_ effect stopped. The group once again saw the tall gnoll, who was now clearly moving his hands in a way that suggested a link between it and the hypnotic pattern of colors that Talass, Nesco, Aslan and Zantac were still inside of.

Cygnus yelled back. "I know it's a tall order, Zantac, but carry your weight for once! Take out that damn gnoll!"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, _someone_ has to!" yelled the Willip wizard in reply. And with that, he dashed out from behind his pillar, darted between Aslan and the rust monster, and wound up out of the colors, about twenty feet west of the pillar which Elrohir was still chasing his gnoll around.

"Watch and learn, Stick!"

The echo of the _lightning bolt_ rebounded off the stone walls long after the brilliant flash has disappeared. When everyone could see again, the tall gnoll lay sprawled out on the floor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gnoll that had already wounded Tojo turned back from the sight of its unmoving master. It didn't matter. It already knew that it would fight to the death, and-

The humanoid blinked in surprise. Only a moment again, the almond-eyed human had been holding a bow and arrow. Now it was holding an unfamiliar type of longsword in both hands, and it was much closer than it had been before.

Too close.

The gnoll pulled back around the pillar, but not before having its shield cleaved from its hand- along with two fingers from that same hand. The creature howled with pain and counterattacked with a wooden club it held in its other hand.

His attacker moving more from pain and fury than from anything else now, Tojo easily avoided the club swing. The samurai did not counter immediately, but settled for parrying the gnoll's succeeding swings. Each one that came his way was less energetic than the last.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two gnolls who had hit Cygnus earlier with their bolts fired again, to the exact same effect.

"Didn't believe me the first time?" the magic-user called out to them. Behind his smile though, Cygnus was starting to worry.

_I hope they give up on this soon. A couple more like that, and the spell's all used up._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The third gnoll switched targets. The bolt ricocheted off Argo Bigfellow's helm hard enough to make the big ranger double over for a moment and hold his gauntleted hands to his head to try and stop the ringing in his ears.

"Damn," he gasped to the sandstone floor. "It's only funny until…"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrohir's gnoll, perhaps sensing its futile situation, suddenly turned around and swung its club right at the ranger's head.

The wooden shaft met Gokasillion's blade. It only stuck for a moment, but by the time the gnoll had pulled it free, The ranger's sword had pierced the humanoid's leather armor twice and drawn blood, first on its shield arm, and then in the stomach.

Elrohir was ready to deliver the final strike when his back felt like an ogre had kicked him there. The loud _clang _was all he needed to know that another crossbow bolt had hit him there. It hadn't penetrated, but the back of his breastplate was bent so far inward the ranger could feel it scraping across his back when he breathed or moved.

Amazingly, the gnoll in front of him was still on the attack. Elrohir didn't like this. Gnolls in his experience didn't have the stock military training that say, hobgoblins did. He couldn't predict their tactics so easily. The ranger's own combat experience normally compensated, but these gnolls had trained in their own way. They weren't sword fodder.

All Elrohir could do was hope that there would be no more surprises.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The swirling colors vanished.

_That's more like it_, Aslan thought. _Now to take care of things. Since we have no more illusions to worry about-_

The paladin backed up about twenty feet and let another arrow fly at the rust monster. It burrowed through the creature's tail. The head rusted away, but the wooden shaft remained in the flesh. The ruster slammed its tail against the floor again and again in a vain attempt to dislodge the painful thorn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time Argo had straightened up again, Elrohir's bow was over his shoulder, Harve was in his hands and the big ranger was heading towards the gnoll nearest him.

"Sweet Lord of Swords! Is that a _rust monster_ I'm hearing?" the sword squealed.

"That's what I like about you, Harve. Your sense of self-sacrifice for the greater good."

There was a pause, and then the weapon spoke in slow, serious tones.

"I've never told you this before Bigfellow, but I feel like you're a father to me."

Argo stopped, eyed his longsword and paused an identical length of time before responding.

"Well, I'm not a smith of any kind Harve, so that's just plain creepy."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Talass was frustrated. She wanted to head over to where the tall gnoll was laying to make sure he was dead, but that would take her right past the ruster. The cleric had no non-metal weapons on her, but was wearing nice, juicy chainmail. Her warhammer would make a tasty dessert for the thing, she was sure.

The priestess glanced over to her left and then ran to the nearest pillar and took cover behind it. Another pillar, twenty feet further on, was only dimly lit by this column's magical flame, but Talass knew there was a gnoll lurking behind it.

She took a deep breath and prepared to rush it.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Streaks of white light tore into the ruster. It let out a final squeal, turned around once, and then collapsed to the floor. It took over thirty seconds to stop moving completely, but no one in the party gave it another glance.

Zantac looked irritatingly at Cygnus' smug expression.

"Well, _fine!"_

The Willip wizard hustled towards the far end of the chamber, but after about thirty feet suddenly whirled and fired off three magic missiles at a gnoll peeking out behind a pillar near the east side of the room. It screamed and ducked back out of sight.

Zantac scowled. He'd hope to drop the gnoll with one volley, and he had no more _missiles_ left.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tojo's gnoll finally made a swing that was bad enough. One sweep and one thrust of the samurai's katana left the creature's corpse pinned against the pillar. Tojo drew his sword back, and the gnoll's body slumped to the floor.

Tojo didn't look back. He was already on his way towards the gnoll Zantac had just wounded.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrohir saw Cynewine racing towards him.

"Nesco!" he shouted. "I've got him! There's at least three more unengaged- take one!"

His fellow ranger stopped short, the frustration showing on her face again. In Nesco's mind, she'd been of little use this entire fight. Pursing her lips, she took in the field in battle, then turned and headed back towards the west. She passed Cygnus en route.

"Hello, there. Come here often?" the mage queried with a smile, but Nesco didn't respond. Her attention was locked on a pillar about forty feet away.

Nesco was angry, and looking for a furry face to take it out on.

Two of those furry faces suddenly altered their crossbow sights from Cygnus to her, and let fly. Nesco got her shield up just in time. She would have sworn the impact of the bolts broke her left hand. Certainly, her shield now bore some very impressive dents.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that the best you can do?" Argo complained after parrying his gnoll's club.

With a sudden yell, Argo feinted with a slashing move to the right. The gnoll moved as he expected, and Harve was already thrusting forward. Blood spurted all over Bigfellow's face as he twisted the blade around in the creature's chest and then pulled it out with a flourish.

"That's gnolls for you," he wryly told Harve while trying to wipe the worst of the fluid out of his eyes. "They seem tough in combat at first, but in the end their heart's not in it."

"Funny, Bigfellow. You mind pulling that particular organ off my point now?" the sword complained.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elrohir's gnoll died with little more than a whimper and a death rattle. The team leader looked around. Things were definitely going in their favor now.

Of course, that was usually when things tended to turn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Talass!" Aslan yelled. "Do you-"

"I've got him!" the cleric yelled back, the annoyance in her voice evident.

The paladin shrugged, and then started to lumber forward again. He didn't expect to find any targets, but then he saw that the gnoll Zantac had wounded was hiding on the opposite side of its pillar from the mage.

That put him very nicely in Aslan's view.

The paladin's arrow did not deliver a mortal wound, but the humanoid still cried out. It seemed to be staying upright by sheer force of will now.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The gnoll's eyes widened with surprise, if not outright fear as Talass suddenly charged it, shrieking out battle oaths in Fruz. The creature dropped its crossbow, but was too slow in drawing its own weapon, and was rewarded with a glancing hammer strike to the side of its head. It roared, rage only guiding its actions now. It didn't even bother trying to grab its shield, but grasped its club with both hands and swung at Talass.

Actually, it began to swing at Talass. Four white streaks of energy from Cygnus' hand struck first.

_Magic missiles_ never drew blood directly- they caused internal injuries. In this case though, those were severe enough to cause blood to spurt out of the humanoid's mouth even as its swing continued on wildly. Talass normally would have dodged or blocked the blow without a problem, but she was so distracted by the unexpected aid that she had completely taken her eyes off her opponent for a second.

The club slammed into her right arm. Talass was pretty sure she felt something snap, but adrenaline kept the pain away for now as she again refocused her attention on the gnoll.

_Thanks, Cygnus. Thanks a lot._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Zantac saw Tojo was heading for his gnoll, and Aslan was firing at it as well. He resumed heading towards the front and soon pulled up next to the supine form of the tall gnoll.

It wasn't dead yet, but it was clearly getting ready to breathe its last.

_Something's not right here_, the wizard thought. _Guess I'm not done casting just yet._

_--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

Tojo ran up to the gnoll, but pulled up just inches short of where the creature expected him to stop. The club _whooshed_ by the samurai's face.

His katana sliced the humanoid's jugular open. It was back in the samurai's sheath before the gnoll hit the floor.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nesco was breathing hard.

_Dammit_, she cursed to herself. _Why did I ever choose chainmail? Sir Damascene warned me against it. I feel like I've got lead weights attached all over my body, and I've done less than anybody!_

She was about halfway to her target, which responded by firing off a crossbow bolt at her. The ranger brought up her shield again, but just a fraction of a section too late. The projectile snuck underneath and slammed against her stomach. Nesco cried out and stopped.

"Nesco!" someone shouted. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine- _shut up!"_ she shrieked back, her agony fueling her anger even more.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aslan blinked in surprise. First Talass, and now Nesco.

"Was it something I said?" the paladin asked, too softly for Nesco to hear.

This wasn't good. Nesco had a tendency to let her emotions get the better of her sometimes, and this was very definitely one of those times. Argo suffered from the same affliction, but Cynewine's skill with a blade just wasn't on a par with Bigfellow's.

Aslan debated for a moment, and then began to move towards Nesco.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nesco saw Argo also heading towards the gnoll now.

_Her_ gnoll.

"I've got him- _back off!"_ she screamed at him, causing the big ranger to pull up short. Argo glanced back at the paladin.

"Was it something _he_ said?" the big ranger asked Aslan, jerking his thumb back at the humanoid.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Talass' next hammer strike was not a glancing one. The cleric actually had to put her foot down on the dead gnoll's head and yank the head of her weapon out of the creature's caved-in skull. She then also began to head towards Nesco.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cygnus wanted no part of this. He headed to join up with Zantac. The Aardian wizard arrived just as Zantac knelt down over their fallen adversary. Cygnus watched in amazement as his fellow mage poured out the contents of his waterskin over the humanoid's burns, and then took a thin strip of cloth from his spell component pouch and began to bandage up one of its wounds.

"Get Talass over here. I don't think I can save him by myself." Zantac spoke without looking up.

Cygnus didn't even try to hide his puzzlement. "And why exactly do we want to do that?"

"Because the illusions aren't over yet."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With a scream of rage, Nesco tore into her gnoll. Sundancer cut a gash across the creature's tunic. The humanoid responded by dropping its crossbow, pulling its club out from its belt and grabbing its shield, but by then Nesco had stabbed the gnoll again, this time deep in its left shoulder. The creature dropped its shield in agony, but the club still came around. Nesco caught the blow on her shield just in time. Her anger erased the fatigue from the ranger's mind as she pierced the gnoll's defenses again and again.

Nesco Cynewine, once again conscious of her heavy breathing, looked up from the dead body at her feet.

Argo, Aslan, Talass, Elrohir and Tojo were all standing nearby, looking at her questioningly.

She flushed red, her recent utterances coming back to mind. "Let's see what's going on," was all she could come up as she began to walk briskly towards the two wizards.

The others followed.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After Aslan had stabilized the gnoll, everyone stood around waiting, as per Cygnus' instructions, though not without some impatience.

"Why are we waiting? Can't you just remove whatever spells he's cast?" asked Nesco.

"He's got so many active spells on him, Nesco; he's wrapped up like an onion," replied Cygnus. "Odds are, it'd take more _dispels_ than I've got to get rid of them all. Besides, I'm saving it for one particular spell."

Nesco nodded in glum acquiescenceand then whirled around in surprise.

Aslan, holding onto the ranger's arm, had just healed her. The paladin's light blue eyes bore into her own.

It was what Nesco had always wanted, but not with that expression.

"What I said to Argo before this fight started was meant for everyone, Nesco," the paladin rumbled. "We're all warriors. I expect us to act as such. Not as a mindless horde and not as if we were engaged in some kind of childish killing contest."

Nesco's heart caught in her throat. She knew Aslan was right, but she just couldn't bear to hear that tone of voice from him, coming at her.

"There's no point in having me along if I can't do my fair share."

"We've discussed this before, Nesco. You are an equal member of this team; no more or no less than anyone else. We wouldn't have you along otherwise."

Nesco dropped her gaze, unsure of what to say or what she was feeling.

By the time she looked up again, Aslan was healing up Tojo and Talass. She saw the paladin glance back at her for a moment with a curt smile, and then return his attention to the figure lying on the floor. She slowly rejoined the group, staying to the rear.

Minute after minute rolled by. Aslan saw Zantac and Cygnus look at each other and then nod. The latter cast, and suddenly the gnoll became an image, peeling up and away before breaking into fragments and disappearing…

Leaving a man.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was elderly; perhaps in his seventies, with wizened features. He couldn't have been more than four inches over five feet tall, if his rounded back were to be straightened up. Burns now covered most of his body. He was garbed only in a loincloth and the scorched and tattered remnants of an old robe.

Cygnus caught his breath. The old man's hair and eyebrows had been completely burned away, leaving hideous scars. The memory of it brought phantom pain to Cygnus' own face and head, and the wizard had to close his eyes and concentrate on his breathing in order to will the sensation to go away.

"Someone bind his hands," Zantac said softly. Tojo pulled a length of hemp rope from his backpack and silently complied.

As he was doing this, the old man opened his eyes.

Groans of pain were all that came from his mouth. Seeing his enemies all around him, he apparently made a feeble effort to struggle, but even that was enough to cause the searing heat from his injuries to flare up again. He moaned louder and made no more resistance. Aslan gave him a tiny fraction of additional healing, and soon had him sitting upright; his hands now bound and in his lap.

Everyone looked at each other, and then at Elrohir. Their team leader sighed and then walked up to their prisoner. He considered kneeling down, but he wanted to maintain his position of superiority, so he didn't. "Who are you?" he asked.

The captive eyed him back, but didn't answer.

Elrohir narrowed his eyes. "Silence is a poor way to repay the gift of having your life spared. We want information, but we have no intention of slaying you after we receive it. We are men and women of morals, even if you are not."

Still, the old man said nothing.

An idea suddenly dawned upon Argo. "Did those gnolls even _know_ you were a man?" the ranger asked disbelievingly while indicated the back of the chamber with a nod of his head.

A bitter smile crossed the man's lips. "I'm very good at what I do," he replied, his voice sore and cracked from a burnt throat.

"And what is it you do?" asked Elrohir.

The prisoner hesitated. Talass took a step forward. "You don't have to worry- you have nothing to fear from us," she said calmly. "Let's start at the beginning. What is your name?"

The haughtiness returned to the old man's bearing. "Frump. Wimpell Frump."

There was a short pause.

"You can start worrying again," quipped Argo, shaking his head in pity.

The man's eyes blazed. "The Frump name is one of the most distinguished in all Suderham! You have no-"

"Suderham?"

Nesco suddenly pushed to the front, her other concerns forgotten. "Did you say you're from Suderham? Did they rebuild the entire city?"

Frump seemed to size up the ranger, or more accurately, her questions. He eventually answered with one of his own. "If you are so ignorant, why are you here?"

"We'll ask the questions," Elrohir snarled. He did kneel down now, but it was only to clamp his gauntleted hand down on Frump's shoulder. The pain this caused him was more than enough to get the ranger's point across.

"Your life is secure only with your cooperation, and my patience grows short. What was your purpose here?"

Some of Wimpell's arrogance faded. "I secured the cooperation of the gnoll tribe by pretending to be an emissary from Yeenoghu, their demon lord. Anyone other than slavers who used this route into Suderham was slain by them."

"You were set up here by the Slave Lords, then?"

Frump hesitated again, but seemed to determine this was a point best conceded. He nodded.

"How far are we from the city?" Elrohir pressed.

"About half a league."

Elrohir was surprised. "Still that far?"

"I think he's telling the truth, Elrohir."

The party leader looked up. Argo and Tojo were standing about twenty feet back now, the big ranger looking at something on the ceiling that Tojo had apparently pointed out to him. All Elrohir could see from his position were a few dark spots.

"What are they, Argo?"

"Ventilation holes; only a few inches across, that lead to the surface. I can feel the breeze. It's probably the main fresh air source for this complex."

"That suggests a sealed door leading out of here, if the passage continues," Cygnus mused.

"It does indeed, "Aslan agreed.

All eyes returned to Frump, who seemed to consider.

"If I show you the way to the city, my life will be spared?"

"First things first. Show us the door," Elrohir replied tersely.

"There is a wooden panel in the back of the throne, painted to look like stone. Slide it back."

"No need," Zantac reported from the stone chair. The _fireball_ blew it away." The mage was blowing on a slightly charred book. "Always keen to learn some new spells," he smiled and then looked back at the others. "It's just a compartment inside- not a passage."

Wimpell sighed in exasperation. "Open the front cover."

Zantac stared at him for a moment, frowned, and then cast a spell and stared at the book in his hands for several seconds before complying. He reached inside and pulled out a key.

Frump indicated the far northeastern corner of the room with a glance. The secret passage is there- but you won't get far without me. The way is riddled with magical traps that even your mages won't be able to detect. I can disarm them. I will escort you though to the end safely, but only in your sworn word that you will release me then. A bargain any _moral_ man would agree to." He finished with another haughty look at Elrohir.

Elrohir hesitated a moment, and the rose to his feet, taking the key that Zantac offered him. "Opinions, people?"

Argo shrugged. "He's probably a lying scumbag, but since when has that ever stopped us? Into the dragon's maw, I say!"

"I suggest we go over this room ourselves, first," Aslan put in.

"Do so if you wish," Wimpell called out, but do not touch the secret door unless it's with the key. A magical lightning trap will slay you otherwise."

Aslan frowned, and then glanced over at their magical contingent. "Can you confirm that?"

Cygnus and Zantac both shook their heads. "We're out of _detects_," Zantac confessed.

"I've got one," Talass offered. The priestess walked over to the indicated spot and cast. After a short time, she returned to the others. "There is a strong aura of evocation. I can't be certain, but it does match up with what he said."

"He seems helpful enough, Elrohir," Aslan decided. "And with his hands bound, he's no longer a threat. I say we accept."

I'm curious to find out what exactly is going on in Suderham." Nesco spoke only when Elrohir asked her. ""Let's search this room first as Aslan suggested, but if we don't find anything, let's do it."

The group leader asked the mages next. "What do you two think?"

Cygnus seemed the more skeptical of the two. "We'll probably have to unbind his hands for him to disarm those traps."

Frump apparently had hearing on a par with Tojo's for he called out. "No. I can disarm them with but a word."

"That makes it work for me," was Zantac's opinion. Cygnus still looked cynical, but said nothing as Elrohir moved on to the samurai.

"You not want my opinion, Errohir-san," Tojo spoke up even before Elrohir could open his mouth.

The ranger looked at his friend, surprised. "Why would you say that, Tojo? I don't care if you dissent, but it would not be proper to exclude you from this. You know how we work."

Tojo's violet eyes danced around in discomfort before settling on their prisoner.

"To be captured is disonoraber, Errohir-san. To bargain for one's rife is more dishonoraber stirr."

His eyes flashed back to Elrohir.

"Cannot trust such a man."

Elrohir considered. "Thank you, Tojo-sama," he said softly, while giving a small bow.

Like Tojo, Talass spoke up first.

"We do it."

Elrohir was even more surprised. His wife stood in her confrontational stance; arms folded across her chest, and her light blue eyes radiating a cold disdain. Questions were not to be welcomed, and her husband couldn't even figure out why.

The others, including Wimpell, watched the ranger in silence as he stared at the flames dancing along the pillars. Eventually, he turned back to his friends.

"Get him up. We're not going to spend anymore time here than we need to, either. We leave now."


	125. Trap

**14th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY  
Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

_I don't like this._

For what seemed like the tenth time in the past several minutes, Cygnus again tried to crystallize his feelings of dread into something tangible; something that he could explain to Elrohir about why this was not right.

Nothing came to mind.

The corridor they were now traveling down had descended downwards noticeably before leveling out. It was about ten feet wide, the same as the previous one they had traversed. In several spots however, this one bore signs of partial collapse. Debris fallen from the roof that had been casually brushed aside. Large and frequent cracks in the walls. Buckling up of the floor in several places, enough so that their pace was sometimes impeded for a bit. There were actually a few torch sconces placed here and there, but none contained torches, lit or otherwise. The only light came from Cygnus' own _continual light_ rock, worn around his neck on a chain, and the two swords Gokasillion and Harve.

Wimpell Frump led the way. His hands were still bound in front of him, but he made no request that they be untied. That in itself struck a discordant note with Cygnus. To a wizard, the freedom to gesture was not just a convenience- it could mean the difference between life and death. True, there were spells that did not require gestures- both he and Zantac knew some, but if Frump had any of them memorized, why hadn't he used them? Of course, who knew what other spells lay in Frump's spellbook? Neither mage had had the time to actually attempt to decipher it yet.

That was another thing. Frump didn't even seem to care that his spellbook, a wizard's most prized possession, was now in enemy hands. If their positions had been reversed, Cygnus doubted he'd have been as agreeable as Wimpell was apparently being.

Especially considering his haughty attitude earlier. Where had that gone?

Cygnus wished desperately that he had a _detect_ or two left, so he could analyze what was going on in the two occasions thus far that Frump had stopped, pointed at a blank section of wall, and incanted. It was no spell that either Cygnus or Zantac could recognize as such. It might be pure gibberish- or not.

The one possibility Cygnus could verbalize was that there were in fact no traps at all, and Wimpell was just stringing them along to save his own hide. Perhaps he'd try to make a break for it when they reached the end of this tunnel. Perhaps he had friends waiting there. More gnolls, perhaps?

But Cygnus wouldn't go to Elrohir with this. It was just an idea, with nothing to back it up.

The tall magic-user sighed and tried to keep all his senses alert.

Tojo was walking in front of him; right behind Frump. His right hand rested on the hilt of his katana.

The samurai had made no bones about his dislike of the illusionist, but that was just Tojo for you. He acted according to his honor system. Cygnus thought their Nipponese friend would charge Iuz himself if he thought the demigod had insulted his honor. The mage shook his head. What a waste of a good person that would be.

Talass was alongside Tojo. Cygnus couldn't understand Talass' suspicion as anything more than a gut feeling, like his own. He'd asked the cleric if her distrust of Frump was based on anything solid, but she'd pointedly looked away and not answered him at all.

Cygnus looked behind him. Elrohir and Aslan were behind him. Occasionally, they would exchange a few sentences on tactical matters, but for the most part they kept quiet.

Argo and Zantac were the next rank. Zantac seemed jittery, but Argo was being his usual flippant self, making jokes to Zantac that the latter responded to with little more than nervous laughter. Cygnus suspected that Bigfellow just liked the sound of his own voice. At least, he wasn't being paranoid about being apart from Caroline, as he'd been on that first trip to the stockade.

Nesco was alone in back, acting as rear guard. She had her bow out, and seemed to take little interest in Frump or anything else going on ahead. Cygnus thought that she might-

"Collapse up ahead. We'll have to go through single file."

That was Talass. Both walls had partially caved in, and although the rubble had been pushed to the side, it was going to be a tight squeeze, especially for those in plate mail. Cygnus could see about twenty feet past it, the corridor took a sharp turn to the right.

"We're almost there," Wimpell announced as the party pulled up short. "There's one more trap here, and that's the last of them. The cave exit is only a few hundred feet past that turn. I'll dispel this ward now."

Frump, now standing at the bottleneck, looked back at the party. "I trust that you will have at least begun to accept that I have been honest with you. I expect the same when the time comes."

He received no reply. Frump frowned, took a deep breath, turned to the right-side wall and began incanting in a low voice.

He went on for some time longer than he had previously. Even with the hoarseness from his burned throat, the illusionist's voice had a mesmerizing cant to it. It seemed to fill the whole corridor.

It immersed the group within its folds. No one said anything.

_Could this be the prelude to some kind of hypnotic effect?_ Cygnus wondered. _Perhaps I'd better-_

And then Talass shouted.

_"He's lying! There's no trap here, or anywhere else! He's been faking it!"_

And from that instant on, time seemed to move in precise increments, each infinitesimally slow.

Wimpell turned suddenly towards Tojo, and spat out more gibberish.

But this gibberish, Cygnus recognized.

Tojo's eyes turned a solid, milky white.

The samurai cried out.

The sound of moving stone came from ahead of them.

Frump bolted.

Talass looked at Tojo, unsure of whether to pursue.

Cygnus rushed forward, and nearly collided with Tojo and Talass, who were blocking the corridor.

Tojo screamed. Not in pain, and not in anger.

It was his battlecry.

Like wind, the samurai drew his wakazashi and threw it towards the sound of receding footsteps.

The sword penetrated into Wimpell's back, but not deeply. It fell out.

Aslan and Elrohir began to more forward now, the others right behind them.

Talass dashed after Frump.

Blood began to ooze out of the illusionist's back. He stumbled.

Something was glimmering in Cygnus' _continual light._

Wimpell tripped a few feet short of the turn and fell forward.

Cygnus saw a nozzle of some kind protruding out of a hole in the stone wall at waist height.

It was pointed right at them.

Wimpell Frump hit the floor- and immediately disappeared.

There was a clicking noise from the nozzle.

Cygnus' hand dove into his spell component pouch.

Talass, still running, suddenly leapt into the air as high as she could.

There was a _whooshing_ sound.

Cygnus could feel the others moving up. There were shouts but he didn't listen. With his left hand, he reached out and shoved Tojo backwards.

His right hand found what it was looking for.

Talass landed just about where Frump had.

Tojo fell down.

A glimmer of light came from the nozzle.

Talass vanished.

Liquid sprayed from the nozzle.

Cygnus began to cast.

And with a deafening roar the liquid ignited and the entire corridor became an inferno of merciless death.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Right up to the point where it met Cygnus' _wall of ice._

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sound filled everyone's ears as the flames slammed into frozen water. Steam instantly obliterated whatever vague sights might have been visible through the translucent wall. The illumination was greater than all the party's light sources combined. Everyone could only watch in dumb amazement as the ice wall grew thinner and thinner. Beyond it, a rolling maelstrom of orange continued to consume every inch it could find.

Cygnus was about to tell everyone to move back when Elrohir suddenly screamed.

_"Talass!"_


	126. First Look

**14th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Drachensgrab Hills, The Pomarj**

The ranger rushed forward, but Cygnus and Argo restrained him. There followed a few seconds of completely ineffectual pleading with Elrohir when suddenly the fire went out.

Elrohir broke free. Gokasillion was already in motion, the blade cutting through the now-thin ice as if it was water. Several strokes later, and in conjunction with Harve the wall fragmented. They rushed through, Cygnus now helping the samurai to his feet and holding onto him. Tojo was asking questions nonstop, but the mage had no answers for him.

At first there was nothing but blackened stone.

But then, a dim outline began to show itself to Cygnus. Right where Frump and Talass had vanished, a 10 foot square section of floor was covered in a dim, black haze.

Only Cygnus, Argo and Zantac could see it, however. The others saw only solid stone.

Save for Tojo, who remained totally blind.

"It's an illusion," commented Cygnus. "It's a pit, with an illusion of the floor over it! Concentrate, you'll see it soon enough. I'm going to see-"

But Elrohir shouldered roughly past him, still yelling out for his wife. Cygnus actually had to grab the ranger from behind to keep him from walking into the pit.

"I thought I heard her!"

"Stand still- you're right at the edge!"

"Talass!" yelled Elrohir again.

This time everyone heard the reply.

"I hear you, but I can't climb your voices out of here. Could someone please let down _a goddamn rope?"_

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The voice sounded pained, but it was very definitely Talass. Soon as many people as possible were crowding over the edge of the hole. Everyone could now see through the illusion of the stone floor.

The pit was about ten feet deep. The bottom was surprisingly, covered in sand. Talass was sitting, one hand holding her newly-bloodied warhammer and the other clutching her ankle.

Next to her lay Wimpell Frump. The illusionist wasn't moving, and there seemed little chance that his crushed skull had resulted from his fall into the pit.

Elrohir took Tojo's rope from his knapsack, and let it down the side of the pit. The ranger's voice was weak with relief even as he tried to make light of the situation.

"I think there really may have been one actual trap, dearest."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aslan straightened up after healing the cleric's broken ankle. "Now, would someone mind explaining to me what in the Nine Hells just happened?"

"In a minute," Talass said, reaching her hand out to examine Tojo's face. The samurai jerked back at the unexpected touch, but the cleric grabbed Tojo's shoulder with her other hand. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, Tojo. I swear, you men…"

With obvious displeasure, the samurai kept his face still. Talass moved the skin of Tojo's eyelids back and stared at the white orbs for a few seconds. She then motioned to Cygnus and Zantac, and the three huddled together like consulting physicians.

"I have a bad feeling this is permanent." Talass shook her head. "Even if any of us had a _dispel_, I'm not sure it would work."

"It wouldn't," Cygnus added grimly. "I know this spell. It's an instantaneous effect, like the _wall of ice_. I've never been able to learn it myself, but it's a nasty one."

"Can't you cure it, Talass?" asked Zantac.

The priestess nodded. "Yes, but I'll need to pray to receive that blessing. Tojo will have to wait."

"How long will that take?"

The three turned around. Aslan had joined them, while Elrohir, Argo and Nesco were making an effort to distract Tojo with small talk.

Talass sighed. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I was exhausted after that battle with the gnolls. Now I can barely keep on my feet. I'm guessing nine to ten hours."

Aslan's light blues eyes looked Talass over. She did look wretched. The paladin stroked his beard as he thought for a moment, and then announced in a voice that was clearly for everyone's benefit.

"I've got another idea. Elrohir, I'd like to _teleport_ back to Chendl with Tojo. The Royal Church will cure him as per our contract, and I can mindrest fully in only a few hours- more quickly than I can here, that's for sure."

Elrohir turned the idea over in his mind.

"That sounds fine, Aslan," he replied at length, "but I want to get to the end of this tunnel first, and see what's at the exit. Frump said we're only a few hundred feet from it, and I think he was telling the truth about that."

Aslan frowned while nodding at Tojo. "You want to take him with us as is? If we encounter more gnolls or worse-"

"I aber to fight, Asran-san," Tojo announced, standing straight and looking as solemn as ever. The samurai's hands caressed the hilts of his two swords, his wakazashi having been returned to him. "It not be first time I fight in darkness."

The others stared at him in amazement. Argo was the first to break the silence.

"I'm fine with that, Tojo- just don't try using your bow, okay?"

Amazingly, Tojo smiled back. "Not to worry, Argo-san. Arways know where you are. I just risten for rame jokes."

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After the turn, the tunnel began to climb.

It was of course Tojo who made the initial pronouncement.

"Feer breeze on face. We nearing end."

"Smartass."

"Don't bug Tojo, Argo, "Aslan directed, and then changed the subject, "I believe that I was asking Talass about what happened back there. How did you know Frump was lying? I know you didn't have any divinations available."

"I've been trained in the ways of truth and falsehoods my whole life, Aslan," Talass began. "The way I reasoned it, Frump knew that as long as he obeyed our commands, we wouldn't kill him. Letting us know about the trapped door and giving us the key put him in our good graces for a start. Leading us through a trap-filled corridor would make him invaluable, but if there were no more traps, what then? He'd have to pay us off in information, and he clearly was unwilling- or more likely, afraid- to do that. So, his best bet would be to fool us into thinking we needed him."

"Damn it," Zantac muttered.

Everyone stopped to stare at the Willip wizard. "What?" asked Cygnus.

Zantac ran a hand through his mop of brown hair while sorrowfully looking at Talass. "I shouldn't have said out loud that we had no _detects _left. Hearing that probably put the idea in old Wimp's head to begin with. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Zantac." Talass brushed this off and began walking again. Everyone followed to keep up, but Cygnus noticed Zantac kept his eyes on the floor for the most part.

"Anyway," Talass continued. "None of us could identify through spellcraft if Frump really was disarming traps or not. That in itself made me suspicious. He was trying to play it calm, but his behavior just didn't match up with his body language. Frump was very nervous when he started that final chant, so I decided to call his bluff."

"So you weren't sure he was lying when you blurted out that he was?" Elrohir asked with some surprise.

His wife allowed a proud smile to cross her face for a moment. "If Frump had been telling the truth, he would have argued the point," she explained. "But he didn't. He made a break for it, and that sealed his guilt in my mind."

"But there _was_ a trap there," Nesco felt constrained to point out.

Talass' confident demeanor abruptly vanished.

"Yes," the priestess said quietly. "Once I knew Frump was lying, it never occurred to me that there might be a real trap- and that he might use it in an attempt to get rid of us. I guess I underestimated him after all."

"The fire I can understand," Argo mused. "But that pit- and with a sandy floor, no less- how does that figure in?"

Talass let her smile return. "Imagine you're a slaver, Argo, and you've been captured by the enemy. They say _show us the way or die. _What do you do? You walk on ahead at sword or bowpoint, and suddenly fall through an illusionary floor onto a relatively soft surface. Meanwhile, your captors behind you are roasted alive."

"Clever," Bigfellow allowed.

Cygnus shook his head. "We're alive and he's not. I say the Clever Award goes to us."

"Or maybe just the Lucky one," Aslan admonished.

No one said anything else on the matter, so it was dropped.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The end came within sight.

Stars twinkling in a black sky were at first all they could see. It was nighttime in the outside world.

Aslan insisted upon scouting out ahead in fly-form. "I'll be mindresting back in Chendl, remember?" the paladin pressed. Elrohir seemed reluctant to agree for some reason, but eventually acquiesced.

The others hung back about twenty feet from the entrance and waited until Aslan was again standing there.

The paladin beckoned his friends forward. "It's all clear."

The party emerged onto the surface for the first time in three days.

The exit was a cave in the side of a small hillock. A dirt path descended down a hundred feet or so for perhaps six hundred feet through fields of wheat, glimmering softly in the moonlight. The path ended upon a large plain. In the direction that the cave faced, a large slum of shanties, tents and hovels squatted on that plain. A few pinpricks of arrange indicated torches or perhaps lamps. Perhaps a half-mile past, there was nothing but the inky blackness of water.

They were on an island.

On the far side of the docks, the slums ended abruptly at walls. The walls of a city.

The walls of Suderham.

Nesco could only gape.

"It hasn't been rebuilt," the ranger could only whisper. "This city never fell."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Suderham seemed quite small; barely deserving even of the title _city_. The stone walls, about thirty feet high, formed a square that the party estimated to be no more than three thousand feet on a side. Towers at each corner rose an additional twenty feet higher, and gatehouses were set in the middle, facing the slums, and in the back side, which faced south by Nesco's reckoning.

Patrols on top of the wall seemed numerous. Elrohir and Nesco looked at each other. Each could see an image of the hobgoblin stockade imprinted in the memory of each other's faces. They gave each other a small smile, and then returned their attention below.

They were high enough to look over the walls and down into the city. Unlike Highport, which sprawled out, Suderham as a confined city grew upwards, albeit not in an orderly fashion. Most of the buildings were made of stone, but many seemed to have upper floors that had been added onto an existing roof, and more often than not the result was not aesthetically pleasing.

The city seemed to be roughly divided into four quadrants, with a large amphitheatre-styled building in the center. Strings of moving lights indicated patrols of what looked like soldiers moving through the streets.

"I see at least ten," Argo mused, frowning. "They must like their law and order here. I hate places like that."

"I'm surprised you like Furyondy then," Aslan couldn't help but comment with a wry grin.

Bigfellow raised his eyebrows at the paladin. "You'll notice I don't live in a city there, do I?"

"There aren't as many patrols in that southeast section," Nesco observed. "Must be where the lower class lives."

"Looks like a mix of Suloise and Oeridian architecture," said Zantac. "I wonder… if the city never fell, does the line of King Olerak still rule here?"

"I'm pretty sure the Mad King did have a son, although I don't know his name," Nesco recalled. "Still, from what I understand, the Slave Lords are in charge here in reality, if not in name. I don't think we can expect any help from the official quarters."

Elrohir was about to join in, but noticed his wife taking a few steps down the path and turn around to get a wider view. He joined her.

More farmland seemed to be on the far side of the city, but it was hard to tell. A thick forest cut off most of their view to the south. The ground seemed to be highest behind them, towards the southwest, and sloped down to the plain upon which the city sat.

Elrohir was looking northwest, trying in vain to see how far the lake that surrounded this island spanned, but it was too dark.

Then he heard his wife gasp. Talass was looking towards the southwest.

There wasn't much to see, as they were looking up a small hill that sat on a much larger slope. But Elrohir could see vary clearly a dark shape rising a good mile into the night sky in the distance.

After what seemed like a very long time, Elrohir spoke.

"I don't suppose there's any chance that's not the same volcano you saw in your dream, is it?"

It was a weak jest, but Talass barely took notice of it. The priestess seemed almost in a daze as she replied. "It was daylight in my dream, but that's it. I know it is."

"That's Mount Flamenblut."

Nesco had joined them. "Did you say," the ranger continued, "that in your dream, the volcano erupted, Talass?"

The cleric nodded weakly, not taking her eyes off the mountain.

"If it's any consolation, Mount Flamenblut has been extinct for at least three hundred years. Perhaps longer. Do you really think it could come to life now?"

"Dao Rung."

Elrohir and Nesco turned. Tojo was standing by them, his blank white orbs facing the volcano as if he could see it as plainly as they could.

He said nothing else.

Talass closed her eyes. "The Earth Dragon," she whispered. There was more, but it was silent; the cleric's lips moving soundlessly- almost involuntarily, it seemed to her husband.

Elrohir knew how to read lips, though. He was the one who had taught Tadoa.

_One of us won't be coming back._

Who would it be?

The ranger looked around. Tojo, with his stain of dishonor and unbending code of _bushido_ seemed like the most likely candidate, but he wasn't the only one. Elrohir was always afraid that Argo Bigfellow's big mouth was one day going to get him into a situation he couldn't talk or fight his way out of. Then there was Cygnus, who so much wanted to be far away from here and back with his son, that he could easily make a distracted mistake at a critical moment. Aslan was usually a rock, but in the past few months the paladin had sometimes been dangerously erratic, although Elrohir wasn't sure why.

Nesco had joined after Talass' vision. That didn't mean her life was secure- hell, she had already died once- but if she did die again, that only meant she wouldn't be the only one.

Zantac? Perhaps. Elrohir was no expert on wizardry, but he knew the Willip mage wasn't nearly as powerful as Cygnus. Inexperience might mean his doom. It nearly had, back in Highport.

When Elrohir shook himself out of his reverie, he saw that Talass was now looking back at him. She managed a thin smile, and Elrohir knew that once again, his wife knew him better than he knew himself.

"Don't let it consume you, dearest." she said.

Silently, they stepped into each other's arms and held on tight.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aslan and Tojo were at the cave entrance. The others were setting up about twenty feet inside; out of line of sight of anyone who might come into the fields. Cygnus would set up an _alarm_ spell after the two had left.

"It should be daylight when we return, "Aslan was saying. "Maintaining secrecy is paramount, but see if you can learn any-"

"I'll handle things on this end," Elrohir said, with a light but deliberate note of impatience. "You two just don't go tavern-hopping. Get back here as soon as you can."

Aslan smiled to show he had gotten the point. "We will." The paladin turned to the others. "Be careful- all of you. We can't afford to let what happened in Highport happen this time."

Argo shrugged. "Well, I don't have my sling anymore, so we should be okay."

The paladin kept the smile a moment longer; then let it go as he clasped Tojo's hand firmly in his. "Ready, Tojo?"

By way of reply, the samurai turned so that his blank face was facing those who were remaining behind.

"Be wary, _tomodachi_."

He was trying very hard to avoid it, but they all heard the samurai's voice tremble.

"Dao Rung- it knows we are here."


	127. Chic In A Box

**15th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dockyards, Willip, Furyondy**

Aslan continued to ponder as he walked through the early morning streets alongside LaSalle Main, the Lord Mayor of Willip.

_-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_I hope coming here was a good idea_.

It certainly hadn't been planned. After leaving Tojo with an acolyte of the Valorous Church in Chendl, Aslan had retired to the guest quarters in the Royal Palace that had been prepared for him. Just as he had finished undressing, the paladin had been startled by the sudden sound of Monsrek's thoughts intruding onto his own.

_Aslan- Chic captured. Being held in Willip pending interrogation. Wainold assisted; he and allies here at Brass Dragon. Caroline is well. Any questions or instructions?_

Unprepared for the _sending_, Aslan had mentally stammered back that all was well, adding _proceed as you think best_. Afterwards, he had slowly sorted out what this meant.

Many events over these past months, the paladin considered, all seemed to bear the mark of relation, but these connections were nebulous. It had started off with Chic's reappearance, this time in conjunction with Atlanter. Although the latter, now exiled from Furyondy, was no longer an immediate threat, Chic had remained in the area.

Nodyath soon emerged as their new primary nemesis, and having allied with the Emerald Serpent, soon pulled them into the mix. The Serpent in turn had allied with Chic as well, who had no doubt been the group's source of information about the _Chams_ clothing; the whereabouts of which were still in question.

Sbalt and his fellow outlaws had attacked the Brass Dragon on orders from the Serpent. They were also very aware of who Nodyath was- Aslan still remembered the way Sbalt had stared at him from his cage being pulled through the streets of Willip.

Not far from where he was right now.

It was like a spider web with the center missing, the paladin mused. Nodyath continued to elude capture; the Emerald Serpent couldn't even be identified, much less apprehended, and Sbalt and his brigand band were still hiding out somewhere on the plains of southeast Furyondy.

_But_, Aslan realized with a start, _we've got Chic._

And it was this last thought that caused the paladin to _teleport_ himself to Willip after leaving a message for Tojo. Traveling back to Chendl was going to leave Aslan all but drained of his Talent; he was going to have to mindrest for a longer than originally anticipated. It was an acceptable change of plan because his friends down in The Pomarj were in no immediate danger.

Still, he'd feel better once he and Tojo were back with them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun was just peeking over the dark blue waters of the Nyr Dyv when Aslan and the Lord Mayor arrived at the building the latter had indicated. It was a small, nondescript warehouse marked _Chartrain Shipping_. The paladin and the aristocrat glanced at each other at the intermittent _thuds _and accompanying splashing sounds that were coming from within the open doorway.

Sir Charlt, standing guard just outside, greeted the arriving pair somberly.

"Forgive me, your Honor, but I must say this abomination should be destroyed at once."

The elderly man smiled benignly at the knight in return. "And so it will be, Sir Charlt. First though, we must amass whatever information we can obtain from it. It is important not only to Aslan here, but to the safety of our fair city, as well. This fiend may well be the link to the Emerald Serpent we have long been searching for."

Sir Charlt gave a nod that smacked of little more than obedience. Another dull thud, splashing and now the sound of men yelling came from within. The knight gave a doleful glance that way, and then cautioned the newcomers.

"It is not being very cooperative."

"I'd be surprised if it was," Aslan muttered as the two entered.

The scene within was chaotic. A large container, composed of what seemed to be sheets of glass fitted into metal grooves stood within a space that had been cleared for it by piling wooden boxes up against the walls. The box was about twenty feet in length, and ten in both height and depth. A ladder was leaned up against one end, and a guardsman in soaked leather armor was standing on the top rung, dropping what seemed to be dead fish into one of several holes in the top glass panel and shouting at Chic to be quiet. In response, the entire makeshift aquarium suddenly shuddered again, and water came shooting up out of the top holes, drenching the unfortunate guardsman again.

"You can starve then! To the Abyss with you!" he shouted, climbing back down and joining half a dozen compatriots who commiserated with their companion.

Chic was not visible. All that could be seen beyond the glass was brown water, with an occasional flash of darker brown whipping by. The creature had completely filled the enclosure with its own filth, and Aslan's nose gave him confirmation of that fact when he took a few steps closer. His sympathy increased for these poor guardsmen, one of whom turned to the arriving Mayor.

"Your Honor," he began, his voice visibly trembling with anger. "This- this _thing_ reads our thoughts and mocks not only us, but our families as well! It sends messages of the utmost perversity into our heads- is there no way of blocking it out?"

Lasalle Main's face showed his sympathy, but his expression remained resolute. "Sadly, no- not according to what I have been told. You are on shortened shifts because of this- I can do no better at this time but to remind you of your sworn duties. Rest assured, this creature will pay the price for its blasphemies."

The box shook again. More water sloshed out.

"I trust this container is secure?" Main turned back to Sir Charlt.

The knight nodded in reply. "So say the wizards who built it. I have not the experience to say otherwise, but this fiend seems determined to test its limits."

"Cygnus mentioned that he had seen this cage under construction," Aslan mentioned. "I'd say that if-"

_Aslan?_

The paladin suddenly stiffened up.

_My good friend has come to visit? Come closer._

Slowly, Aslan approached the box. The others, sensing that he was now in telepathic communicationwith their prisoner, followed several feet behind. More than one soaked leather glove clenched a sword hilt.

Aslan continued to approach. As an experienced paladin, he was immune to fear itself but he could feel the tension build inside and further, he knew that Chic could sense that as well.

And then the brown face materialized out of the cloud of filth. Chic's closed eyes opened, and the red glow from those eyes illuminated the feces and fish skeletons in the water nearby. Its mouth opened briefly, displaying longer and sharper teeth than should have been possible in its relatively small maw.

The two stared at each other.

_-----------------------------------------------_

_Your doom is nigh, paladin._

Aslan allowed himself a wry smile as he folded his arms across his chest. "That's very impressive, Chic. Did you rehearse that?"

The fiendish creature allowed his otter-like body to stretch out. _Such bravery! It could only be the arrogance of the righteous! More pompous than any yugoloth, you mortals be._

"Ironic you'd mention such masters of treachery, Chic. Did it ever occur to you that the Emerald Serpent has betrayed you, and that's why you were captured?"

_My deliverer draws nearer even as we speak, paladin. My knowledge in these matters greatly exceeds yours. Are you still trying to place the spider in your web?_

Aslan frowned. Chic was probing him even now. It belatedly occurred to the paladin that he might be giving up more than he was getting out of this exchange. He decided to try another track.

"Since everything is apparently going according to your plan, perhaps you'd care to humor your 'good friend Aslan,' and impress him with your superior knowledge?"

Chic seemed to consider that- or at least to consider something, as the creature vanished into the murky waters for a few seconds before reappearing and smiling its toothy grin again.

_You and yours will be caught unawares, paladin. The strands have been gathering around you for months- and all from a spider you thought long since squashed._

"Name this spider." Aslan spoke with as much ruthlessness as he could put into his voice.

_And spoil the surprise? I'd never do that to my good friend. Go back to The Pomarj, paladin. Triumph gloriously- and then come back and be destroyed._

Chic vanished into the depths again. This time, he did not reappear.

Aslan thanked the Lord Mayor and departed.

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_That netted me little_, the paladin cursed himself. _I pray upon Asgard that nothing goes wrong with his execution. I was a fool to think I could intimidate a telepath. I can only hope that whatever magical means they have planned to extract information out of him will yield some fruit._

He wasted little time in finding an unobserved spot in which to _teleport_ away.


	128. Suderham

**15th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir looked outside again, and then turned around impatiently.

"The sun's going down- they're going to close the gates soon. _Where the hell are they?"_

If the ranger's wife was worried, she was doing a fine job at keeping any traces of it from her voice. "I'm sure High Priest Heldenster would have contacted us via _sending_ if there had been any real trouble, dearest. Perhaps Aslan was able to secure additional materials for us."

"Or perhaps they're having more trouble curing Tojo than we anticipated."

Zantac's comment forced a sigh from Talass, but the cleric never had the opportunity to reply.

Aslan and Tojo suddenly reappeared, close enough to the priestess that she was forced to step back and nearly lose her balance in the process. The expected recriminations never materialized however, as she and everyone else instantly zeroed in on the samurai's face.

These clear, violet orbs regarded them calmly over a hint of a smile.

Elrohir was the first to regain his composure. He even remembered to bow.

"It's good to see you again, Tojo-sama."

"It is good to see you as werr, Errohir-san," the samurai responded while returning all of the bows that now came his way. Tojo's smile increased ever-so-slightly. "Of course, is good to be aber to see _anyone_ again."

"Oh, hi, Aslan. Had you left as well?" Argo asked, yawning as he did so. Aslan looked like he had a retort ready to fire, but Talass cut him off.

"He certainly has- and over four hours later than scheduled!" She finished by turning to the paladin with obvious expectations.

Aslan favored her with a thin smile. "My apologies, but I wound up having a little chat with our good friend Chic."

This ignited a barrage of questions, which the paladin only abated by relating the full story. Afterwards, there was a silence while the party digested this new information.

"I wish we knew who this _squashed spider_ is," Elrohir pondered, and then looked to his teammates. "Any ideas, people?"

"Can't be Iuz; he's certainly not squashed," muttered Cygnus darkly.

"The same goes for Nodyath," said Aslan.

"Or the Emerald Serpent," added Nesco.

"I'm thinking it's Valente," Talass put in. "Consider- we may have banished him back to the Lower Planes, but he's still alive. Chic is his minion; one of his hordling children, and so was Chams, whose set of magical clothing we're still tracing."

"But according to Chic, our destruction from this 'spider' is imminent," Elrohir said. "If Valente is behind this, we're woefully ignorant about whatever method he's going to use to destroy us."

Talass nodded in reluctant agreement, then turned to Argo, who was standing quietly apart some distance. "Well, Bigfellow? Any thoughts? _Relevant_ ones?" the cleric quickly amended.

She wasn't sure if the big ranger had heard her. Argo almost seemed to be lost in some kind of reverie, but before Talass could repeat herself, he looked over at Aslan. The lightheartedness had left his face again.

"You did say Monsrek reported that Caroline was all right?"

Aslan, expecting a different type of question, blinked in surprise, but even as the paladin then nodded in the affirmative, Elrohir felt compelled to speak up.

"Oh, come on, Argo- we're not going to go through _that_ again, are we? If nothing has happened to her all this time, why do you think it might now? By Odin, not only is the Dorbin party still at the Brass Dragon, but now Wainold and his allies are, as well! What more do you want? If you're that damn worried, I'd suggest you-"

Argo, seemingly unaffected by this outburst, held up a hand to silence his friend. His face retained its neutrality, and the ranger's auburn eyes continued to look inwards, rather than at any one of his teammates.

"Do any of you ever feel like… we've left something undone?"

That brought a thoughtful pause. "In what way?" asked Cygnus quietly.

Argo's pained smile made an appearance, but only for a moment. "I couldn't say. I'm not speaking of myself- I'm legendary for my lack of sensitivity- but Caroline has mentioned it once or twice to me recently. Nothing she could put a finger on, but it's been in the back of my head ever since."

Elrohir rolled the idea around. Nothing came to mind- yet the notion seemed, if not attractive, at least inclined to linger.

"We'll have to follow up on this quickly when we return," the group leader decided, "but we have to get our minds back to our current situation. Our opportunities for entering the city may be limited."

Aslan glanced over at the ranger. "Explain."

"It's hard to be sure from this distance, but we think permits of some kind are needed to gain entry into the city." The ranger motioned the paladin to look outside, and he and Tojo did so. "There's the far side of the lake- a good half league. There's a small mountain pass that I'm guessing is the only aboveground route to this island. Even then, you have to take a ferry over. There's no way an army could assault this place."

"Well, we're not here to take the city by storm, unless the situation has changed more than I know," Aslan stated.

Elrohir shook his head. "That's not what I meant. They're paranoid about security here. If we just let you _teleport_ us inside, we'd be in deep trouble the first time some patrol asked for our papers- and I daresay we'd stick out here."

"We may have an option, though," Bigfellow took over. "An idea Cygnus and Zantac have come up with. The guards opened the gates at sunrise, so I'm guessing they shut them at sunset. Look over there."

Aslan and Tojo followed the ranger's pointing figure towards the slums outside of the city walls. A little black smoke was still rising from what seemed to be the remains of a fire.

"That broke out earlier this morning when the tremor hit-"

"A tremor?" interrupted Aslan.

Argo nodded. "Scared the plate off me, I'm not ashamed to say. Dust and pebbles falling from the ceiling- not good." The big ranger shook his head in reminiscence. "Anyway, it looks like one of those rickety shacks fell down in a heap and caught fire. They put it out, but look…" and again he pointed towards the scene.

"What am I supposed to be looking at, Argo?' Aslan eventually asked.

"That shack was right in front of the main route that people coming in off the boats use to get to the north gate of the city," Elrohir took the reins of the conversation back. "They've rerouted it, so for now new arrivals are passing in back of that long, low building," he explained, indicating the largest structure in the slums.

Aslan couldn't see where this was leading. "So?"

"So," the ranger explained with a smug grin, "anyone heading towards the gate will be out of sight of everyone for about thirty seconds, except for the peasants farming in the fields."

"And they should be heading in with the sunset," Nesco added.

The paladin turned what they were saying over in his head.

"You're suggesting that an incoming party… is due for replacement?"

"I knew you weren't as thick as everyone says," said Argo. "We've already seen several small parties of merchants, each with a retinue of bodyguards, go past."

Aslan fixed Bigfellow with a cold stare. "You've forgotten something, oh brilliant one. Our targets will see us coming a long way off, even if no one else will. What's to prevent them from shouting out for aid before we even have them in bowshot?"

"My prayer of _silence_."

Aslan considered Talass' pronouncement. "I'd hoped not to have to fight in those conditions again."

"Tell us about it," groused Zantac and Cygnus simultaneously.

"We'll have to do this quickly," Aslan commented, as much for everyone else's benefit as for his own. "We won't choose any group that looks too tough, but even one slip-up could doom us all."

Tojo suddenly spoke out.

"This pran not work. It have fatar fraw."

The others looked at the samurai for elaboration. He raised an eyebrow in response. "Where are we to hide bodies of those we sray? I see no hiding spaces in area. Even with much time, this difficurt. With onry seconds, impossible."

Elrohir, Argo, Talass and Nesco looked at each other in alarm, and then over at their wizardly contingent. "You two hatched this seed," Elrohir warned. "I hope you have some spell that will save it."

Zantac shook his head. "I don't."

Cygnus followed suit. "Me neither."

Talass had to fight to keep from shouting. "Then _why_ are you two grinning like fools?"

By way of reply, Cygnus held aloft a tome that they all recognized.

"Because ol' Wimpy does."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alomovar did his best to hold his breath as he and his men skirted the scene of this morning's fire. "By Zilchus- what burned here? Smells like cabbage gone bad a month!"

Lieutenant Serkim threw a sour eye on his employer.

"We'll be inside soon enough."

Unmollified, Alomovar scowled. "Barely made it on time, too! It's sundown! That ferry captain took so long to get going; we might as well have swum across!"

Serkim tried and failed to suppress a grin at the thought of the fat merchant trying to swim across in the lake, his expensive but too-tight fitting silken clothes quickly becoming waterlogged and soiled. Alomovar saw the smile and guessed its cause.

"No cheek from you! I want you and your men to be on your best- I don't want to have to drag your drunken asses out of that place again!"

"Is that how it went down? I seem to recall you getting tossed out on your rear and us picking _you_ up."

"Like you'd remember," the merchant grumbled as the sextet headed around the back of the large building used for the storage of ship parts.

Serkim and the four men under his command exchanged quick smiles at the thought of the revelry to come. For such a claustrophobic, militaristic town, Suderham did have some mighty fine-

The sellsword abruptly stopped and frowned. His men did as well, but it took Alomovar a few seconds to realize that he was complaining to thin air. The merchant looked back and strained to see whatever it was Serkim was looking at.

Eight people were coming down the dirt path that led into the cave on the hill. Alomovar knew that the cave led to an underground tunnel that went beneath the lake. Some slavers used that route, but he never had. Alomovar was only here to negotiate contracts on behalf of third parties. It had been a long time since he had gotten his hands dirty himself. He looked again and tried to determine which of the approaching eight were the flesh peddlers.

Five of the eight were armored; three in plate and two in chain. _That must have cost a pretty copper_, thought Alomovar. He'd paid for nothing more than studded leather for his men. Frankly, if he was ever making that much coin that he could afford to buy platemail for mercenary bodyguards, he'd have thought of a better use for it.

The two in chainmail were women. That was a little unusual, as well.

One of the remaining three seemed to fit the bill. The man was about Alomovar's height and perhaps only thirty pounds under his own weight of two hundred forty. He wore a bright yellow tunic, white trousers and white, fur-lined boots, along with a red-and-black diamond design cloak. Those more ignorant might find the effect ostentatious, but to Alomovar it spoke of someone who had money and wasn't afraid to let others know it.

What ruined the effect though, was that most of the man's clothing looked _burnt._ Now that he looked, most of them- even those in armor- seemed to have been involved in a great conflagration recently. He was about to comment on this to Serkim when he heard saw his lieutenant out of the corner of his eye starting to pull his longsword out of its scabbard.

"Something's wrong, the mercenary said. "That woman; she's casting some kind of-"

Alomovar never heard the rest. In fact, he never heard anything else ever again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"All right, Scarecrow- don't blow it now!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Blubber Hulk."

Cygnus took a deep breath. He had never before tried to cast an unknown spell out of another wizard's spellbook. True, he had deciphered the magical writing, but it still wasn't his own. What non-mages found it impossible to understand were the subtle differences that made each arcanist's spellbook unique. The Aardian wizard concentrated, trying to wrap his mind around the sigils that seemed to peer up at him from the book's yellowed pages.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

And then Cygnus smiled to himself as he felt the mana start to flow…

The others looked on in amazement as the six bodies lying on the ground before them suddenly shrunk down to half their previous size, along with all of their clothing and equipment.

_I'm glad we never gave Frump the opportunity to use that spell on us,_ Elrohir thought.

With obvious distaste and some discomfort, Aslan was now laying himself down on the ground.

"That's what I like about you paladins- your dignity."

"Stuff it, Argo," the paladin replied. "Is that the thanks I get for picking you up a new sling in Chendl?"

The big ranger regarded the strip of shaped leather in his hand, and then over at Alomovar's corpse, which sported a now-miniature sling bullet buried a half-inch deep in his forehead. He then turned back to Aslan, smiling.

"What, you couldn't find a new suit of plate in my size, too?"

"They were all out of Extra Annoying. Come on- hurry up! Pile all of those bodies on top of me! Quickly!"

The paladin disappeared with his load mere seconds before a curious slum resident peered around the corner of the building at them. The party smiled at him, a gesture he did not return. However, he seemed unwilling to question such a formidable-looking group, so he simply withdrew.

"They're going to wonder why we're just standing here." A worried Talass pointed out.

"All of you," Elrohir ordered. "Get in kind of a loose circle around where Aslan was lying. We don't want anyone to see him coming back."

Fortunately, only a few additional seconds elapsed from the time that this was accomplished to the sudden reappearance-

Of Alomovar.

Aslan had not actually stated out loud that he had been planning to _polymorph_ into the dead merchant's likeness, so there was a tense moment of sword-readying before he hissed, "It's me, you fools!"

The paladin was waving around a sheet of parchment in his hand that seemed to have been coated in some kind of clear wax. He immediately starting heading towards the city gate while the others fell into a loose group behind him.

"His name was Alomovar," Aslan explained, indicating the document in his hands. "I have to show this to enter the city. Any group of five or more inside the walls has to present this on demand, as well. None of the sellswords had any such papers on them, so I'm assuming you'll be okay as long as you stick with me."

As he walked, Aslan rubbed his hand over his new face. Alomovar sported a beard as well, but it was much larger and bushier than the paladin's own, not to mention being a red so bright in color it was surely dyed. Aslan didn't like the feel of it- his chin felt itchy.

"I agree. It is an improvement," Argo quipped.

Talass stepped in before the paladin could retort. "Are the bodies out of sight, Aslan?"

"Call me Alomovar from now on," Aslan replied. "And they're about twenty feet back from the cave entrance. I wish I knew how often that passage is used. I don't know if we have minutes, hours or days before they're discovered."

"Think only happy thoughts," Zantac offered, smiling.

Aslan/Alomovar sighed. "I'd have to travel back in time to do that, Zantac…"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun had set, and the ambient light was fading rapidly as the party approached the north gate of Suderham.

A number of heads peered over the city walls down at them.

Two guards in chainmail standing by the gate beckoned the party forward impatiently. They wore unusual helms with a wide T-face design that was capped by gargoyle-like wings. On the brown tabards they wore over their armor was a crest consisting of three forearms grasping each other to form a triangle. Inside was the silhouette of a figure in chains.

_I am so not going to like this place_, Aslan thought.

The guard nearest them shifted his halberd into his left hand and held out his right. "Your permit," he intoned.

The paladin handed it over to the guard, who glanced at it.

"Suderham welcomes you," he droned, handing it back to Aslan without looking at him. He gestured back down the twenty foot passageway of the guardhouse. The sounds of chains moving on pulleys grated on the party's ears, and the massive portcullis at the far end began to rise.

The group had just started passing under the giant iron bars when the even more grating sound of a screeching metal hinge came back to them. The double iron doors at the front gate were being swung shut. Seconds later, the portcullis began to come down as well, a none-too-subtle sign for the merchant and his guards to keep moving.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Alomovar" and his retinue stood in the dying echoes of the _boom_ created by the shutting doors.

"I must say," Nesco felt compelled to offer while looking around. "This is quite impressive."

The ranger was referring to the width of the boulevards before them. All of the buildings seemed to be set back at least one hundred feet from the city walls, and the main thoroughfare before them, leading directly into the center of town, was at least as wide. None of them had ever seen anything like it.

Cygnus shook his head disapprovingly. "A massive waste of space, especially for a walled city of this size."

Argo seemed noncommittal. "Write a letter of complaint to the Slave Lords."

Cygnus felt his left hand involuntarily ball into a fist.

"I intend for all my grievances to be made in person. These monsters have-"

"_Eta,"_ Tojo suddenly uttered. "Beggar."

The party looked as a wizened old man, perhaps Frump's age, approached them, walking with a pronounced limp.

Most of her friends seemed unconcerned, but Nesco Cynewine felt uneasy in a way that made her feel embarrassed. Beggars were rare in the relatively prosperous Kingdom of Furyondy, and especially so in her home city of Chendl. They always made Nesco feel guilty in some way that she couldn't quite define and that feeling came back to her now.

It didn't help that the old man seemed to be focusing most of his attention on her.

He had a mop of white hair, as unruly as Zantac's or even more so. Despite the wrinkles on his face and his limp, the man seemed unabashed, almost confident, about approaching the heavily-armed group.

"Alms for the poor?" he asked. "The blessing of the Earth Dragon and all your gods be upon you good men and women."

Bigfellow smiled. "Pretty standard approach, my good man," the ranger quipped as he fished a gold piece out of his belt pouch and handed it to the beggar. "Try spicing it up a little. You hurt your leg fighting off an ogre single-handedly for the good of the city- something like that."

Elrohir was about to reprimand Argo for this- he'd had an experience years ago back on Aarde, when rude treatment to a beggar had come back to haunt him- but the man simply smiled back.

"I'll work on it," the old man replied. He gave the coin in his hand a quick glance, and then pointed down the main thoroughfare. "Past the Auction Arena is the only moneychangers still open," he explained. "Foreign money cannot be spent here. After you've done that, may I suggest the nearby White Knight Inn? Unless you have prior accommodations, it's your best choice- even if they do have a marked preference for those who make their living by the sword."

This last was clearly directed at Cygnus and Zantac. Nesco saw the expressions of concern of the mages' faces. She noticed then that Tojo was staring at the beggar with a clear expression of disdain. That troubled her. She didn't think that the samurai was-

The old man suddenly but unobtrusively seemed to slip between Aslan and Elrohir. He thrust his face to within a few feet of Nesco's.

"Tell the barkeep his establishment came _recommended_," he said calmly.

Without another word, the beggar turned around and slipped off into the twilight.

The group looked at each other for a moment.

"Didn't even thank me for the wheatshaff," Argo harrumphed. "Beggars must do all right here if a gold piece doesn't count for much."

"Not rike that man," Tojo nearly growled.

Talass seemed genuinely interested in this. "Why not?" she asked.

Tojo's eyes wandered. "Not certain, Tarass-san. Something about him seem fawse to me."

And for some reason Nesco couldn't explain, that comment from Yanigasawa Tojo cleared the uneasiness from her mind even as it was replaced by sheer confusion.

"I've seen that beggar before," the ranger uttered softly into the gathering darkness, "but I don't know where."


	129. The Exchange

**15****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

A man that would have been mistaken for Alomovar the merchant by anyone who knew him stood and stared up at the wooden sign.

It showed two pairs of hands exchanging old jewelry and worn gold nuggets for shiny new gold pieces. Two oil lamps, newly lit and protruding from brackets mounted above the door cast what seemed to "Alomovar" a warm but still sinister cast to both the sign and the door beneath it. Made of stout oak and banded with strips of iron, the door lent an air of security to the small shop that he knew was completely ineffectual. At least versus him, if he had been so inclined.

An image of Nodyath suddenly appeared in Aslan's mind. The paladin brushed it aside and looked around. The youth who had lit the lamps was moving away back north up the boulevard, his tall lighting pole held aloft like a lance burning at the tip. He crossed the street and began lighting two more lamps by a tavern sign that Aslan already knew showed a bound gargoyle having its tail pulled by a swashbuckler.

Back to the south, a line of ten torches announced a patrol slowly heading this way. Only a few townspeople were still on the streets, and most of them were entering or exiting the numerous taverns that lined the street.

_Not much to do here at night besides drink, I suppose_, Aslan thought as he pushed the door of the moneychangers open.

There was a little tinkling sound. Aslan looked up and saw that a small bell hung from the ceiling right by the door frame in a way that it jingled when the door opened.

"Good evening to you, friend! Alomovar, isn't it?"

The paladin turned his attention to the man coming out from the rear of the shop.

Aslan had to stifle a chuckle. The stereotypical caricature of a money lender was that of a small, beady-eyed man with thinning hair, a long nose that looked ready to start growing whiskers on it, and a habit of constantly rubbing his hands together.

_This must have been where that image got started_, was all the paladin could think to himself as he stared at the little man. Still, he himself was currently sporting a body that some would take for the quintessential greedy, fat merchant who cared for nothing but profits and pleasures.

"That's what's they call me," he replied cautiously as he moved up the counter. Aslan was again facing the unpleasant prospect of being in a position where he had to, if not outright lie, at least use his patented paladin manipulation of the truth. "It's been a while. With all the customers you get, you must have quite a memory there."

The moneychanger beamed at the compliment as he moved a small balance scale into position and fished a small key from his vest pocket. "I have a good head for faces, especially those sporting a beard like that." He gave a squeaky laugh. "My wife says all I can manage is whiskers. She's one to talk, that shrew."

Aslan gave a commiserating nod, then pulled his coins out of his belt pouch and laid them on the counter. He then took a step back and looked around at the single, heavily barred window as the lender unlocked something under his side of the bar and began to tare out his scale.

The flickering lights of the torches were almost visible now. A peasant hurrying past stopped outside and glanced in at Aslan.

"A paladin?"

Aslan whirled around, but the moneylender was merely referring to the platinum piece he held in his hand. He then sifted through the pile of gold and silver that Aslan had set down. "Wheatshaffs, sheridans? Whatever were you doing way up in Furyondy? I can't imagine that's the kind of climate you like to operate in."

Fortunately, Aslan had recomposed himself by the time the exchanger's questioning eyes had met his.

"You'd be surprised at the kind of people you'll find there if you look hard enough," the paladin replied slowly, and gave a hint of what he hoped was a meaningful smile.

The moneylender gave a knowing nod, and began weighing out the pieces.

The little bell jingled again, but Aslan kept his attention on the merchant and his work. He didn't care to interact with any other customers- he wanted to keep any questions that came his way tonight to a minimum.

The little man looked up. An expression that Aslan pegged as half fear and half revulsion flashed across his face, but the exchanger pushed it down like a bitter drink.

"Everything's fine," he muttered, turning his attention back to his work.

"Delighted to hear it,"came the deep, rumbling reply.

Aslan never had a chance. That voice snapped the paladin's head around. His eyes could not help but look up and up, and into that face which had already turned from the moneylender to him.

The grayish skin. That bulging forehead. Those perfect teeth. And those dark, dark eyes set so far back underneath that brow that they were barely visible.

And that smile.

"Greetings, friend," said Blackthorn. "Do I know you?"


	130. Captain Blackthorn

**15****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

The two _polymorphed_ individuals regarded each other.

_There's no barrier between you and your enemy this time, Aslan_. The paladin's thoughts raced. _You can't afford to let a single thing slip._

He put on an officious smile. "Only you can answer that question, good sir."

"Indeed," the gaunt humanoid admitted, tilting his head to allow his sunken eyes to sweep over Aslan's face again.

The paladin used this opportunity to take a quick look at the rest of Blackthorn. The patrol leader still wore his ill-fitting chain shirt under his new brown tabard, although his right hand grasped the shaft of an ordinary spear and not his naginata. If Aslan had harbored any doubt about the ogre mage's regenerative abilities, they were put to rest now.

_Even with my Talent, I couldn't reattach my own arm,_ he realized.

Then he started to gasp, and only half-managed to choke it off. Alomovar's brown eyes took in the two sheathed swords now resting on Blackthorn's hip.

_The daisho!_ Aslan mentally screamed to himself. _That's Icar's katana and wakazashi! By all that's holy, if Tojo sees that, he'll go berserk! Everything will be lost- thank the Aesir I came here alone!_

Blackthorn hadn't missed the paladin's new expression. "Something wrong?"

Aslan tried to recover. "I'd be less than honest if I wouldn't admit that your appearance… could give one pause, my good sir."

The ogre mage's brow furrowed. He was frowning now.

_He's not buying it, _thought Aslan. _I could just teleport away and create a new identity, but he'd make the connection for sure._

For whatever reason, at this point the moneylender seemed determined to contribute to the conversation. He cleared his throat and began. "This is Alomovar, captain. He negotiates contracts for the largest merchant houses in kingdoms all around the Wooly Bay area. This is his second or third visit here, I think." He finished with a questioning gaze at Aslan, who was all too happy to nod in confirmation.

_So that's who I am_, Aslan thought wryly. He let his body relax just a notch as Blackthorn seemed to accept this information.

The exchanger then held up a wheatshaff. "Hell, the man's even been to Furyondy!"

Blackthorn took the gold piece from the lender and examined it closely, and then returned to his study of Alomovar's face. "Indeed?" he repeated, more curious than ever.

_Thank you so much for mentioning that, you weasel_. Aslan fought to suppress snarling at the moneylender and instead put his smile back on to meet the little man's gaze. "Wherever potential people of interest reside, that's where you'll find me."

The paladin turned back to look Blackthorn straight in the eye. "Forgive me," he said calmly. "I believe our mutual friend here was introducing us, captain, but I didn't quite catch your name."

Blackthorn still seemed to be trying to make up his mind about the situation, so the exchanger jumped in again. "This is Captain Blackthorn. He joined us only about two weeks ago at the _personal_ behest of the Slave Lords." The man puffed up, sounding like he was trying to make the town rulers' reputation rub off on his own.

Aslan's forced smile abruptly became genuine. _By Odin, they demoted you, didn't they, Blackthorn? Punishment for letting the stockade fall?_

Realizing he was getting into still-deeper waters, the paladin suddenly turned off his smile. Blackthorn's own smile was clearly the false one now.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Alomovar. We welcome those who can contribute to our way of life here. Tell me," the ogre mage continued in a tone that seemed too casual to Aslan, "what do you think of that earth tremor we had this morning? What do you think it portends?" He again peered keenly at Alomovar's face, looking more for visual clues than listening to whatever his reply might be.

The moneylender however, jumped in first again.

"I heard a crier a few hours ago with a pronouncement from High Priest Mordrammo. He said it was due to enemies of the Earth Dragon being among us."

Blackthorn had turned to eye the little man for this, but now he turned back to Aslan. His smile was again genuine.

"A wise man, Mordrammo. Wouldn't you agree, Alomovar?"

Aslan kept his return smile just as intense.

"The gods choose carefully whom they pick as their servants."

Blackthorn nodded in agreement. "As should we all. Stay well and healthy, gentlemen." And with that, the tall humanoid left the shop. Aslan watched but could not overhear as the captain conferred with his men, and then they all continued north up the street.

Aslan waited until he had received his Suderham money in exchange, minus fifteen percent- ten for the town and a paltry five for an honest moneylender trying hard to support his family. The paladin nodded curtly to the exchanger's complaints as he replaced the money in his belt pouch and then left the shop himself.

_I've got to get over to the White Knight and warn the others,_ he thought. _Tell them not to let Blackthorn catch sight of any of them._

Another thought, uninvited, thrust itself to the forefront of Aslan's mind even as he began to head southwards.

_And above all else, I can't let Tojo know Blackthorn is carrying those swords. I can't even tell anyone who might tell him. Damn it- once again we're keeping secrets from those that we care about._

The paladin shook his head in frustration even as he picked up his pace.

_One of these days that's going to be the death of us all._


	131. The White Knight

**15****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

The wind was starting to pick up.

Minus Alomovar, the party stared at the swaying inn sign above their heads, which displayed a white chess piece.

Argo chuckled. "Should have known. That's the closest any real white knight would get to this place. Let's get inside quick and have some fun before Lord Killjoy shows up and starts giving the bartender a temperance lecture."

"You just love doing that, don't you?" Nesco interjected, her face suddenly hardening.

Bigfellow's look of puzzlement was genuine. It turned to something more akin to curiosity as Nesco took two steps towards him, her eyes blazing.

"I can see you have no idea what I'm talking about, Argo, so I'll fill you in- it's Aslan. Yes, that same paladin that you keeping running down all the time. He's given us faith when we've been in despair and hope when everything was hopeless more times than I can count, and I haven't known him a fraction of the time you have."

Everyone was staring at the two rangers now. Nesco continued, her expression becoming more animated every second, as if her face was a broken dam that a stream was pouring through.

"Why do you do it, Argo? Why do you constantly belittle and insult him? Don't invoke Zeus- there's nothing in the Thunderer's creed about being a jackass towards those radically different from you. And don't tell me it's just manly camaraderie- I saw plenty of that in the Azure Order, and it's not that either. No one grates on anyone here the way you do on Aslan. You must know it upsets him. You call yourself his friend. Are you? Are you really? _What's wrong with you, anyway? Why can't you just-"_

Nesco abruptly broke off and whirled around so neither Argo nor anyone else could see her battling for control.

But they could all hear it was a struggle she was losing.

Zantac leaned in close to Cygnus. "What did _that_ come from?" he whispered.

"Don't know," his peer whispered back.

It seemed to Zantac that Cygnus was about to say something more, but then he abruptly stopped.

Another awkward silence ensued. Inevitably, their team leader felt the pull of inertia the most.

"All right," Elrohir spoke up. "We're going to head inside now. We'll play it quiet until Aslan- excuse me, Alomovar- shows up with our money. That reminds me- if any of you haven't thought of another name for yourselves, do it now. We can't disguise ourselves like Aslan can, but every little thing that can give us a few extra days, or even hours, of anonymity will be immeasurably helpful. The mere fact that we weren't all arrested at the main gate leads me to think we still have the element of surprise on our side, at least for the moment."

Everyone looked at their group leader, and then at Nesco. She was still trying to tamp down the fire raging in her heart and did not return their gaze.

"Elrohir," she asked the ground beneath her feet, "I think I'd like to wait outside here until… Alomovar shows up. I could use the fresh air."

He nodded. "Okay, Nesco." The ranger placed his hand on the inn door and took a deep breath. Even from outside the clamor within was noticeable. It was probably deafening within- the clientele was apparently a lot rowdier than the average visitors to the Brass Dragon.

Just before Elrohir pushed the door open, Nesco, staring through blurry eyes at the few lit oil lamps that lined the boulevard, heard the sound of someone coming up close behind her. Whoever it was, they were clad in plate mail, and with Elrohir at the door and Aslan not yet arrived, that only left one possibility. Nesco clenched her fists. She really didn't want to-

"It's not really me you're angry at- is it, Lady Cynewine?"

The fire rushed out of Nesco's heart. It was replaced by a cold so intense, it made her body tremble, and her tears threaten again.

"As totally opposite as we may seem to you, Aslan and I know each other- and I happen to know he values honesty more than any other single human trait. Now that's foolish in my opinion of things, but that's how it goes."

Argo leaned in closer. "And so because I am his friend, I'm always honest with Aslan, Nesco. Good or bad, he knows _exactly_ how I feel about him."

Now even closer. Closer than the beggar had been. Bigfellow practically hissed in her ear.

"Can he say the same about you, Lady Cynewine?"

Nesco felt as if the cold had grabbed her heart and stopped it.

By the time she could force herself to start breathing again, Argo had already resumed his position in the rear of the group. Nesco just stared at his back as her friends entered the loud and smoky confines of the White Knight inn…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"By Boccob's staff," Zantac breathed. "This isn't an inn- _it's a factory!"_

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The place was gigantic Elrohir had assumed that the large stone blocks that constituted most of the streets of Suderham were carved up into innumerable tiny homes and storefronts, but that didn't seem to be the case; not if the White Knight was typical in any way.

The common room was larger than the hall of pillars they had battled Wimpell Frump in. It had to be at least two hundred feet long, and at least half that wide. Lanterns hanging from hooks high up on the walls gave adequate illumination, but the room was nevertheless bathed in pipeweed smoke. It was even worse here than at Grandien's back in Willip, Argo realized.

The center portion of the room was filled with long, rectangular communal tables, rather than the private ones at the Brass Dragon. The benches on either side of them were at least three quarters filled with people of all sorts, eating, drinking, laughing, talking, singing, shouting and smoking.

Servers, who were without exception girls and women ranging from barely out of adolescence to perhaps their late fifties were wending their way through a smoky gauntlet of groping, squeezing and pinching hands to bring food and drink to the tables. Their attitudes at this seemed to range from mild distaste to flat-out enjoyment.

Elrohir caught Bigfellow's eye, and the same thought passed between the two. Although this type of behavior was more the rule in taverns than the exception, never had they seen it practiced to such a degree here. The rangers could see a staircase leading up to a second floor balcony that lined the south wall. The wall upstairs was lined with openings, each one covered by a red curtain. Servers and townspeople could occasionally be seen coming in and out of them.

"Aslan is going to tear his beard out when he sees this place." It was Argo who put the communal thought into words.

Elrohir's expression was grim. "_Aslan_ would, but I'm hoping _Alomovar_ will hold his tongue. He knows what's at stake here."

Cygnus stared around in amazement, but soon caught sight of Talass' surprisingly bemused expression. "You don't take offense at this, Talass?" he queried.

The priestess gave the Aardian wizard what might have been almost a smirk. "It's you I can't believe, Cygnus. You worship Odin the All-Father, but clearly you've never been to one of his temples. This is nothing new to me."

"I came to his worship later on in my life, Talass." The tall mage looked around again. "I take it collecting tithes isn't much of a problem for Odin's priests."

Now Talass' expression did turn sour. "True. Revelry will always be more popular than justice, it seems."

The group continued to take in the sights. All the way across from where they had come in, on the east side of the room, was a bar that stretched nearly the entire width of the inn. The servers were constantly going to this bar and heading back to the tables laden with trays in a matter that reminded Elrohir of ants. At least a dozen men were working behind the bar, pouring drinks for the solid line of townsfolk who sat shoulder-to-shoulder from one end of the bar to the other. Other men- youths, generally- were moving in and out through one large archway that presumably led to the kitchens and storerooms.

By the northwest corner was another staircase leading up to the second floor. This balcony however, did not connect with the other one. Only one door on it could be seen, a stout wooden affair banded with strips of iron.

Tojo began to point towards the bar, but Elrohir made a motion for the samurai to lower his arm. "I see him, Tojo," he said quietly.

Portions of a large white mass could be seen intermittently between the mass of servers and customers. It soon became apparent that this was a startlingly white smock worn over an equally white sleeveless shirt.

The man clad in these near-blinding clothes had to be close to four hundred pounds, if not over it. He wasn't particularly tall- six feet at the most- but despite his obese build moved with purpose behind the bar, taking orders sometimes but more often directing other employees.

"I think that's the man we need to see," mumbled Cygnus.

"I can see him just fine from here, thanks," Zantac replied, shielding his eyes with his hand from a mock sun glare.

Cygnus turned to his fellow mage with an innocent smile. "You're quite right. Nothing worse than someone who dresses so loudly it hurts to look at them- is there, Zantac?"

The Willip wizard sneered back as he reached out to tousle the brown hood of Cygnus' frock robe. "Funny. Shouldn't you be penning scrolls in some monastery, Friar Toothpick?"

"Turn it down, you two," remanded Elrohir. "And keep in mind all of you that we don't have any money yet," he continued. "I suspect we may have to spread some of it around."

"Plus we may well need rooms for the night," added Talass.

Zantac shrugged. "What then- do we just stand around until Aslan gets here?"

Argo suddenly took a step forward. "Not at all."

And with that, the big ranger stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out the shrillest whistle any of his friends had ever heard from him.


	132. I'll Get You For This, Bigfellow

**15****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

The effect was not instantaneous, but it was fascinating to see. And to hear.

Only the first ten or twelve patrons closest to the party stopped their activities to regard Bigfellow. This mild drop in the overall volume caused the next closest dozen people to stop what they were doing and eye their now silent fellow customers. They then turned to see what that first group was looking at- which was of course, Argo.

A chain reaction of silence rippled outwards. In less than a minute, a good portion of the massive inn had completely or mostly ceased talking, and were now concentrating their attention on Argo Bigfellow Junior and company.

One of that company was just now coming to an even more horrid realization. As the beggar at the gate had implied, a good percentage of the White Knight's patrons were wearing armor and/or carrying weapons. Most of them bore the same insignia that the party had seen on the tabards of the gate guards. Elrohir did some quick counting. There were way too many soldiers here to be merely off-duty patrols and gate guards.

Suderham obviously had its own private army.

The team leader took a few what he hoped were innocuous steps to stand next to Bigfellow so he could speak to his fellow ranger out of the side of his mouth.

For his part, Argo looked immensely pleased with himself.

"Argo," Elrohir began, "please, please, _please_ tell me you know what on Oerth you're doing."

"Would it make you feel any better if I did, Elrohir?" asked Argo, without taking his eyes off the crowd.

"Immeasurably."

"I know what I'm doing, Elrohir."

"Are you lying?"

"Yes."

"I'll get you for this, Bigfellow."

At that point, one of the first soldiers- a man about Zantac's age- who had noticed Argo stood up. The man slowly took off his gargoyle-tipped helmet and laid it on the table in front of him. One hand smoothed his black hair while the other rested easily on the hilt of his longsword.

"If that's a song, friend, I hope it gets better. Or are we just supposed to stand here and gawk at your expensive armor?"

"Here's a tip for yeh people." A younger, ruddy-faced man sitting a few places down from the first speaker now stood up as well. This one wasn't wearing the standard Suderham leather armor, but rather a leather doublet underneath a black surcoat with gold trimming. He made a derisive gesture at the party's bedraggled appearance. "When an armorsmith makes ya a new suit, yeh're supposed to wait 'til it's _out_ of the forge before you try it on!"

This generated a small swell of laughter. Shouts of "Good one, Davis!" and similar proclamations made it clear that the ball was now in Bigfellow's court.

Argo took another step forward and spread his arms apart in a welcoming gesture. He had on his widest smile.

"They tell me Suderham's the best place in the Pomarj to have a good time. Was I told wrong?"

"Depends," replied the first speaker, who now boasted an easy smile to match Bigfellow's. "What's a good time to you?"

Argo played it safe. "What you were doing looked pretty good to me."

Davis scowled. "We'd jus' got started- all we 'ad time to do was be interrupted by you!"

Bigfellow assumed his wounded look. "A thousand pardons, my friend. Forgive my lack of manners- I was born in a swamp; what can you expect?" the big ranger bantered as he headed to join the soldiers. As he did, he turned his head around quickly to eye his friends.

For an instant, the smile vanished.

"The best way to keep quiet is to make a lot of noise. You've got your anonymity, Elrohir- use it fast."

His smile firmly back in place, Argo walked over to the table as the first speaker, clearly the leader of his group, waited for him with folded arms and a reserved expression. Elrohir thought he heard Argo introduce himself, but by then the ambient din of the White Knight had resumed. Whatever name Bigfellow had chosen for himself, the ranger didn't catch it.

Elrohir turned back to his group and motioned for them to follow him. "Come on- to the bar."

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Their anonymity was not total. The party's comparatively exotic appearance still drew more than their fair share of stolen glances, muttered asides and outright stares as they wended their way through the crowd towards the bar. Still, no one said anything directly to them.

Eventually, they made their way through a sea of mostly-unwashed humanity and a fog of pipeweed smoke to find themselves nearly opposite the huge man in white. He was currently writing down an order from a harried middle-aged server.

"Two flanks, one chicken stew, three house beers and three hands."

"Hands?" Elrohir couldn't help but wonder aloud.

The man in white looked over towards them while handing off the order sheet to a kitchen boy. Either he had hearing on a par with Tojo's, or he had already noted the approach of unusual-looking strangers and had kept one eye and ear open for them. As an innkeeper himself, Elrohir suspected the latter.

"Everyone who lays a hand on one of my girls gets one copper added to their bill," he explained.

Cygnus looked back at the chaos behind them and gave the innkeeper a grin. "Doesn't seem to be much of a deterrent."

Surprisingly, the man glared back at Cygnus with a noticeably unfriendlier expression than that which he had shown Elrohir. Sweat ran down his bald head, but it just continued down his white smock without slowing or being absorbed.

"It's not there for deterrent. It's there for profit. What do you want?"

Zantac made a motion indicating the man's garb. "Is that-"

Elrohir cut him off. "Good evening, my friend. My name is Samuel. Our employer is getting our currency exchanged- he should be here any minute. We'll order then, but we'll also need rooms for the night. What are your rates?"

Zantac eyed his group leader with some irritation. He was about to ask why the ranger had interrupted him like that, but then he noticed that the bar patrons closest to them had turned on their stools and were now staring at both him and Cygnus with the same unfriendly expressions that the man in white had used. He looked up at the taller mage.

Cygnus returned his gaze and bent inward. "I think we're not the favored type here, Zantac." He tried to keep his voice down, but the room was so loud it came out more of a stage whisper. "Remember what the beggar said?"

The obese man finished giving his prices to "Samuel" and then turned back to the two magic-users.

"I know you're strangers here, but you should have been warned anyway. I have a few rooms, but I won't rent to you spellslingers. We've had a bad experience with one here recently, and unless either Ajakstu or Lamonsten vouches for you personally, you're better off going elsewhere. The _Magic Missile_ is down the street and to your left. Should suit your ilk better, anyway."

Cygnus didn't need to be told twice. "Thank you, good sir," he nodded pleasantly, and then clamped down on Zantac's shoulder while turning to Elrohir. "Sam, we'll let Alomovar know where we're going and get our money from him. We'll contact you once we're settled. Come on, Zelhile, let's go."

_Zelhile? _Zantac fumed at the fact that Cygnus had chosen his pseudonym for him, and moreover that it was one he didn't particularly care for.

Still, there was always room for revenge.

"Sure thing, Cecil!" he exclaimed as loudly as he dared. Several drinkers nearby chuckled into their glasses, and the taller wizard glared at his fellow mage as the two headed towards the exit.

"Cecil?" Cygnus hissed.

"Pet ferret my brother used to have. Skinny, brown, and annoying as all the Hells. Don't know how that name just popped up like that…"

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Nesco Cynewine took long gulps of the last of twilight's cool air as the ranger let her body lean forward against the stone of the White Knight. She kept her eyes closed and rested her forehead on her forearm pressed against the building wall.

_My god! He knows! Argo knows! What if he tells Aslan? What am I going to do? He wouldn't- he must realize what that would do to him. I will tell Aslan, I promise I will, Lord Zeus, but not today! Why is all this happening now? Why can't-_

Nesco squeezed her eyes as tightly as she could, but the tears still escaped.

She might have let them flow longer, but she suddenly realized someone was watching her.

In some horrible, perverse way, she hoped it was Aslan. Maybe he would ask her what was wrong, and demand that she tell him privately. Then it wouldn't be her fault about what happened. She could-

"Nesco- are you all right?"

She sighed. Cygnus' voice.

The ranger wiped her eyes clear yet again and faced the Aardian mage, who along with Zantac was standing just outside the door of the inn.

"I'm all right, Cygnus," she managed.

The tall magic-user bit his lip. "Nesco- if there's _anything_ I can do- if you need to talk-"

"I'm fine," she snapped. There was only one person she wanted to speak with right now, and it wasn't Cygnus. She didn't want the rest of the party thinking she couldn't be counted on, least of all now here in Suderham. Besides, Cygnus sometimes made her feel uncomfortable.

The tall wizard couldn't keep the disappointment off his face. His eyes narrowed and his lips pinched together.

"I just wanted to help, Nesco. I don't know what Argo told you, but not _all_ of us are like him, you know."

Nesco felt a stab of guilt. Cygnus really did look hurt. She hadn't meant to be so perfunctory with him. It's just that now wasn't the time to-

"What are you three doing out here?"

Looking all business, Aslan was striding briskly towards them, not waiting for an answer. He didn't even look Nesco in the eye as he hurriedly counted off some coins in his hand and handed them off to her. For her part, Nesco just stared dumbly at the money until she realized Alomovar was still standing in front of her.

"Nesco," she heard him say. "Blackthorn is here."

The ranger's face shot up like lightning. Alomovar's brown eyes, so unlike Aslan's light blue ones but still with that sense of purpose behind them, were now boring into her own.

"I ran into a guard patrol; he's their captain. I'm pretty sure he didn't recognize me, but if he sees any of you, the game's up for sure. Remember, he can _polymorph_ just as I can- he may have other identities he uses here. You've all got to be on the alert _at all times!_ "

"We'll be careful," Cygnus replied. "And to answer your question, the White Knight doesn't seem to cater to us arcanists. There's another place down the street; the Magic Missile. We'll get back in touch with you once we're settled. We'll also do a little digging of our own, but don't worry- we'll be discreet."

Zantac spoke up as Aslan grunted and gave some more coins to each of the two wizards. "I'm Zelhile by the way, and this is my friend Cecil. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Alomovar."

The paladin raised an eyebrow at that, but still seemed too tense to make any frivolous comments. "Are the others inside?" he asked Nesco as the two mages started to head down the boulevard.

Nesco was just finished composing herself as best she could- this was _definitely_ not the time for distractions, she told herself- when they heard Cygnus' retort.

"Yeah. Argo's entertaining the locals while the others are getting rooms."

Cecil's next statement was surprisingly hostile.

"Someone needs to tell Bigfellow to keep his Big Mouth shut sometimes."

Alomovar looked curiously at Nesco for an explanation. The ranger however, shook her head.

"It's nothing, Aslan- I mean Alomovar. Just the usual problems. I, uh, decided to keep watch outside."

The paladin stared at her. "The usual problems," he repeated.

Nesco nodded dumbly. It looked to her for all the world like Aslan was just now noticing the fact that she had been crying.

Aslan seemed on the verge of answering another question, but then he seemed to revert back to being Alomovar, and just nodded in return.

"All right, then. Let's go inside."

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"So, Toar; what brings you to Suderham?"

Argo Bigfellow Junior carefully considered his reply. This was made more difficult than it might have been otherwise because he was being distracted by the copious amounts of liquor and ales being consumed by his seatmates. "Toar" was suddenly realizing how long it had been since he had had a real good drink, and his throat parched up just a little more with every swig someone near him took. No one had yet to offer him anything.

The big ranger wet his lips and eyed his questioner; the initial speaker of this group. The man had introduced himself as Ayres.

Toar kept his voice casual. "We're hired protection for a merchant named Alomovar."

Ayres frowned. "Fat? Bright red beard?"

Toar nodded. "That's the one."

"Man's a right jackass," sneered Davis. "He came barging in here once, yellin' at his men and tryin' to drag 'em outside." He shook his head, and then glared at Argo. "We don' take to tha' kind of behavior 'ere."

"Nor should you," agreed Toar.

Ayres was looking thoughtfully at Bigfellow. "Alomovar had a different crew with him last time he was here. Certainly not any of you. What happened to them?"

Argo favored him with a cryptic smile. "I'm sorry to say, they're no longer with us. It seems that while protecting Alomovar on the way here, they ran into some trouble they couldn't handle."

"What kind of trouble?" asked the soldier sitting next to Ayers.

Toar paused before answering. His smile turned from cryptic to predatory.

"Us."

That got the reaction Argo expected. The entire table tensed up, but Toar continued as casually as if he was discussing the weather.

"Alomovar's no fool. He doesn't carry large sums of money on him. He told us if we spared his life, we'd make more being his new bodyguards than we ever could through banditry."

"How so?' asked Ayers.

Argo shrugged. "We work on commission now. We get a percentage on every deal he makes. It's in our best interests to see that he stays safe, happy and successful." The ranger looked Ayers in the eye now. "Sorry if those others were your friends, but it's how we operate. There's nothing personal involved."

The men sitting at the table silently looked at each other, silently gauging each other's reactions. None of them really could formulate an objection that they would dare to air, so they remained silent.

Except one.

"So if a better deal came along, yeh'd stab Alomovar in the back, right?' asked Davis rhetorically. "Yer nothin' but a bunch of brigands."

Toar gave him a raised eyebrow. "I prefer the term _freelancers_, but in any case that's all in the past. We've honest and legal work now, and we're very happy with it. Doesn't every man aspire to that?"

Davis continued to glare back at Argo, but he spoke now to his friend. "I don' think this kind o' scum should be sitting wit' us, Ayres."

Ayres seemed to consider for a moment, and then turned to face Davis.

"He's done nothing illegal here on the Aerie, Davis. It's not our job to determine another man's character. There are people here who can do that just fine."

Curiously, with that remark Ayres lifted his eyes towards the ceiling momentarily. His seatmates did likewise and Argo followed, though he saw nothing except crossbeams and the building's peaked roof.

When he looked back again at Toar, Ayres had on a more serious expression.

"However, we come here to drink and be merry, and- to be frank, Toar- you've brought us down a great deal. We're always courteous to outsiders, but that hospitality must be returned in kind." The soldier folded his arms and gazed steadily at the ranger. "What do you propose to do about that?"

The table looked expectantly at Argo, who was thinking furiously behind his placid and utterly false thoughtful expression. His first instinct would have been to buy a round for everyone, but he didn't have a copper on him.

Amidst the general tumult, Bigfellow could just make out somewhere on the far side of the room a lute being played- rather badly. The music abruptly stopped amidst the sound of protesting, followed by the sound of breaking wood.

Toar smiled and tapped the rim of the nearest flagon. "How about a drinking song?"

This brought smiles and animated conversations amongst the table concerning the particulars. Eventually, Ayres signaled for quiet and returned his attention to Argo.

"All right, Toar. We're always up for a good song, but here's the catch- it's got to be one we've never heard before, and a majority of us have to approve of it. You win and it's a round of Galda brandy for you- on me. You lose…"

And here Ayre's own smile turned predatory.

"…and the drink is Orc Kragg."

"And we'll hold ya down to make sure ya drink every drop," added Davis with a sadistic grin.

Despite himself, Argo couldn't hide his reaction, which delighted the others immensely. "Oh, ho! He knows it!" shouted the soldier sitting next to Ayres.

_Of course I know it, you idiot, _Bigfellow thought. _It's where I got the idea for green goop from- and even after years of experimentation, our goop still can't hold a candle to the original. My stomach wouldn't speak to me for six months after that debacle._

Toar smiled and stood up. "Get that brandy ready."

The table erupted into hoots and hollers, which was apparently a familiar enough signal for the surrounding tables to turn their attention this way as well.

Argo eyed the table for a moment, and then with a mighty leap, just managed to jump straight up on top of it. It was a feat which never failed to impress- a man in plate mail jumping like that. It also never failed to bring a stabbing pain to both of Argos' knees, a fact which he didn't bother to hide.

"I'm really gonna need that drink now," he grimaced at Ayres.

"Sing first," challenged Davis. "Less see what yeh've got."

"All right," Toar agreed, and then looked at the men around him. "I'm originally from the Great Kingdom. Do any of you know _I Swear By My First Beer?"_

The men looked at each. No one had.

"It's a favorite in all the barracks halls in Rauxes." Argo began to tap his foot on the table and clap his hands to the rhythm in his head. His voice was not a trained one by any measure, but it was loud and clear. It was the voice of someone who was no stranger to singing. He started out the first chorus slowly, but by the end was building into a faster refrain.

Got a sad story to tell you folks

It'll make you tremble with fear

'Bout a simple man just lookin' for love

On nights like this with the moons above

Can't find no girl- that's why I'm here

I swear by my first beer

There was Vi the Thief Lord, met her in the city of Blue

She had no sword, but she cut my heart right in two

Then one evening, the city guard closed in

Vi held me close, then set me up

Now I'm doin' five to ten

A number of the table, including Ayres, laughed at this. A few men started tapping their feet.

Got a sad story to tell you folks

It'll make you tremble with fear

'Bout a simple man just lookin' for love

On nights like this with the moons above

Can't find no girl- that's why I'm here

I swear by my third beer

There was Ann who said, "Tore, my husband Bork- he's a dumb one

While he's at war, why don't you and I have some fun?"

Under the covers, she made me scream for more

Then in walked Bork; a full-blooded orc

I made straight for the door!

Argo had them. Nearly the entire table was now clapping along and joining in on the chorus.

Got a sad story to tell you folks

It'll make you tremble with fear

'Bout a simple man just lookin' for love

On nights like this with the moons above

Can't find no girl- that's why I'm here

I swear by my fifth beer

There was pretty Lucy; she made my loins seethe with pure lust

When we kissed I, thought my heart would just plain go bust

Didn't care if we were married; chastity she scorned

Push came to shove when we made love

I felt her tiny horns!

The table exploded with roars of approval and the banging of mugs and flagons. By the time Toar finished the final chorus, dragging out the last line with his "tenth beer," Ayres was already signaling the bar. Argo caught a brief glimpse of Elrohir and the others staring at him, but his attention swiftly returned to his immediate surroundings.

With every sip of the delectable, fruit-flavored brandy, Argo could feel his tongue _not_ tasting Orc Kragg.

_Double good_, the ranger thought to himself, smiling at his new friends pounding him on the back. Davis seemed to content himself with a polite smile.

"I had no idea my bodyguard was a bard on the side."

The table looked up. Alomovar was standing alongside them. Next to her was a young woman clad in chainmail who stood partially behind the merchant, apparently trying to avoid attention.

Ayres showed a stone face to the new arrival. "Good evening, Alomovar. I trust you'll be more highly mannered this time around."

Aslan looked at him puzzled, but Davis continued the thread.

"Aye, tha's right. Yeh're lucky this one and his friends didn' slit yer belly." The young man glared at the paladin. "Ya oughta be more careful 'bout who ya keep for company."

"Speaking of which," cut in the soldier sitting next to Ayers, _"Hello there, angel eyes!"_

The remark was aimed straight at Nesco, and she could feel Alomovar moving slightly away from her. It was obvious that hiding in the background wasn't going to be an option.

Nesco's nervousness spiked. The only other time she had been situations like this one was when she had been relaxing with other members of the Azure Order while out in the field. The remarks were risqué then to be sure, but she knew they were coming from males who were basically gentlemen at heart.

She was pretty sure that wasn't the case here.

Davis stood up, a little unsteady now. "So yer 'ol Fatso's protection too, eh, pretty?" He leered at the ranger. "Tell me lass, do ya sleep wit' tha' long sword?"

"Nah," the other soldier shot back, while indicating Alomovar. "It's probably only a tiny dagger!"

The table exploded with laughter at this one. Toar could see Aslan struggling to remain calm and in character. The big ranger frowned. That wasn't usual for Aslan. Normally, the paladin had as thick a skin as his alter-ego Grock the ogre.

Alomovar smiled a tight smile. "Have your fun, gentlemen. One never knows what tomorrow may bring."

_That made us no friends_, Argo thought with a sigh, as he watched his new-found drinking partners glare at the merchant. If Aslan noticed, he gave no sign as he withdraw some coins from his belt pouch and laid them on the table in front of Argo.

"Drink up, my friend, but behave yourself. The guard patrols here are not to be trifled with. In fact, I was just speaking with the leader of one of them- a particularly ghastly-looking fellow by the name of… now what was it… oh, yes. _Blackthorn."_

Argo of course had not been there for the party's battle with the ogre mage, but the tale had been recounted enough that the paladin hoped the name would still ring a bell. Apparently it did- Bigfellow's eyebrows scraped the ceiling, but the others seated at the table were too busy nodding in sorrowful agreement.

"By the Dragon, tha' man's a piece o' work," mumbled Davis.

"He mentioned being new here. Any idea where he's from?" Aslan ventured.

Ayres shrugged. "Somewhere in the hills. Rumor has it he's a half-orc outcast from one of the Flan tribes there. No one messes with him because it's known he's here on orders from the Nine, but Blackthorn won't have any part of being sociable."

"That's right," added the soldier next to him. "He never eats or drinks with us. We may have to work with him, but at least the Lords never said we had to be nice to him. I'm glad on not on his shift."

"Well, I'm going to check up on the rest of my men, "Alomovar said. "A pleasant evening to you all, gentlemen." He and Nesco turned to leave.

"We're right here if yer lady friend wants ta join us," Davis leered at Nesco again. "I've got plenty o' coin, sweet girl. Mebbe ya could _protect_ me later tonight?"

The new laughter at the table cut off abruptly as Aslan whirled around.

Neither Argo nor Nesco could believe what they were seeing. The merchant's face was flushing red enough to hide his beard, and his bushy eyebrows were drawn so low by his scowl, they were nearly covering his eyes. His fat, stubby fingers were clenched into fists.

_I've got to do something,_ Nesco thought furiously, seeing the bodies of those at the table tense up again. _He looks like he's about to use his Talent on them!_

"It's all right," she said as calmly as she could. She put some silkiness into her voice while smiling at Davis and his cronies. "Thanks for the offer, _boys_, but I'm here on business." She turned her back on the table nonchalantly. "Let's go, Aslan."

Even before the word left her lips, Nesco realized her mistake.

She whirled around, but the paladin was already glaring at her with an expression quickly moving from surprise to anger.

"Aslan?" repeated Ayers.

Argo stood up. "Don't _any_ of you speak Old Oerdian?" Toar asked, shaking his head in pity. "It means _sweetheart."_

Alomovar and Nesco gaped at the big ranger, who now walked around behind and between them and draped one arm over each of their shoulders.

"Don't take offense, gentlemen, but you can't blame Alomovar here for getting steamed," Toar announced proudly. "These two have had eyes for each other since they met!"

This sparked more crude comments from the table, but neither of "these two" heard them. They were both hurling daggers from their eyes at Argo, and one identical thought ran through both minds.

_I'll get you for this, Bigfellow_.

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"Here they come," Talass noted.

The cleric, her husband and the samurai watched as Aslan and Nesco made their way towards them. They both moved stiffly and had very tense expressions on their faces. Elrohir wondered if Argo, who still drinking at the table, had drunkenly blown their cover or something.

The duo joined them. Alomovar fumbled a good while with his belt pouch before managing to extract more coins and distribute them amongst the others.

"Is everything all right, Alomovar?" Samuel whispered to the paladin.

"Fine," was the mumbled response as Alomovar stared at the floor.

Tojo was eyeing Nesco curiously, but she too avoided his gaze, and threw her eyes all around the room- everywhere except at Aslan.

_I wonder if I really want to know,_ was Elrohir's only thought before he pushed it aside in favor of immediate concerns. He turned back to the bar and piled up ten gold coins on it in addition to the fee for their rooms. "I was told at the front gate that this place came _recommended,"_ Samuel emphasized the word just as much as he wanted.

The huge man's eyes came up to meet the ranger's and found them waiting.

Neither said anything.

Sam expected the innkeeper's eyes to dart to the left and right before replying, but instead they darted upwards and then back down. Slowly his obese body relaxed and a nonchalant look appeared on his face.

"You know," he said casually, while picking up and drying a glass runner he had just dried, "if you're tired from a long journey, you really need to relax, and Suderham offers the best _relaxation_ you'll find anywhere in The Pomarj."

His tone of voice made it evident what he was talking about. Alomovar sighed, but the others kept their eyes on the man's face.

"Now, nothing against my girls," the man in white went on, "but we've got three amazing brothels here. I'm sure _one_ of them can supply you with what you're looking for. Man, woman, human or no- it don't matter."

Again, they caught the emphasis, but there was nothing further. The man swept up his money, mumbled "You've got rooms four and five," and moved on down the bar.

The quintet looked at each other.

"That's it?" Alomovar asked.

"What did you expect?" retorted Talass. _"Here's the secret password to join the Underground movement against the Slave Lords?"_

"We haven't journeyed hundreds of miles just to go to a whorehouse!" the paladin hissed.

"Must be crue there," Tojo offered. "It may be that prostitute girrs have knowredge that can assist us. Even in Nippon, many powerfer peoper have been brought row by their desires. Tongues often wag. Srave Rords may be no different."

The others considered this. Elrohir spoke up first. "That's good thinking,To-"

He stopped and eyed his samurai friend. "You realize you need a name."

Tojo's eyes registered his displeasure at the idea. "Peoper from Kara-Tur very rare here, Sam-san, and samurai even more so. I do not think different name wirr disguise me very werr."

"That may be, but it's got to be all of us or none of us, and we're all already committed. So come on- give me something."

Tojo sighed deeply and considered for a few moments before giving a slight bow and responding.

"Tsugo."

Talass unexpectedly smiled.

"That's a beautiful choice, To- I mean, Tsugo. I believe it suits you very well."

Nesco spoke, but her voice was dull and she still wasn't looking anyone in the eye. "We should probably turn in. It's late, and we need to be fresh for the morning."

This was agreed to, and the five made their way towards the staircase on the northern wall. Before they reached it, Nesco felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up to see Alomovar looking at her again.

"Don't feel badly, Nesco. Anyone could have made a slip-up like that. None of us are accustomed to this kind of situation."

_That's not why I'm feeling this way, Aslan_, was Nesco's private thought, but she kept the conversation neutral.

"I know. It's all right anyway, I guess. Argo covered for us. It's a good thing none of them really _did_ speak Old Oeridian."

Aslan nodded and seemed about to drop the matter when words suddenly blurted out of his mouth.

"Nesco- what Argo said. Did that… make you feel uncomfortable?"

The ranger started to shake. She couldn't reply. She looked at Alomovar's face, but she couldn't tell if he had merely noticed her reaction or if he had guessed at the reasons behind it. Those damned paladin eyes, no matter what color they might be, never revealed any clues to Nesco. Never. She couldn't just-

She could only shrug in resignation and head up the stairs, brushing by everyone else.

Elrohir stared at Nesco's retreating back and told his wife and "Tsugo" to follow her to their rooms. He then went back down the stairs towards Aslan. When the paladin saw him coming, he turned his gaze back towards the common room.

"I think I'm going to scout out the city a little tonight in fly-form, Sam," Alomovar pre-empted his friend. "I- I don't feel much like sleeping, and I'll be fully mindrested by morning anyway. I'll make sure the mages are all right, eavesdrop a bit here and there, that sort of thing."

His eyes settled on Toar, still drinking at the table, and his features hardened.

"Cecil was right. Someone does need to teach Bigfellow to keep his trap shut. Maybe sooner than later."

"Aslan." Elrohir leaned in close to his friend while making a gesture of helplessness. "Aslan, I don't know what it is, but _something_ happened over there with you, Nesco and Argo, and if it's going to affect any or all of us, as team leader I _need_ to know what it is! Just what in the name of Asgard is going on?"

The merchant glanced over at his companion. His features didn't soften.

"Just the usual problems, Samuel."

Elrohir's reply never reached his ears- Alomovar was already moving off towards the front door. The ranger closed his eyes and clenched his fists in frustration.

_Whatever they are, we can't afford those kinds of problems, Aslan. I don't think we're going to get a second chance at this._

He turned and headed up the stairs.


	133. Fruitful Conversations

**15****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

_Damn, I'm glad we came here_, thought Cygnus as he sipped his drink and smiled.

The Aardian wizard couldn't believe his good fortune. He and "Zelhile" had gone from being pariahs to enjoying a delightful conversation with a local mage in a convivial atmosphere.

The Magic Missile was much closer in appearance to the Brass Dragon than the White Knight had been. It was small and fairly dim inside, lit with several _continual flames, _each of a different color; red, green and blue. Soft music from an audible _image_ of some type played in the background. Drinks seemingly floated from the bar to the tables, although both mages recognized the signs of an _unseen servant_ spell. The room sported private circular tables, just like they had at home.

Cygnus and Zantac had quickly struck up a conversation with the _Missile's_ only current occupant; a man in his late fifties in a dark red woolen jacket who had been sitting at a table studying what seemed to be a book filled with painting reproductions. The man had been eager to speak with outside arcanists, and had directed them to the bar first, where they had to prove to the wizard standing there that they were indeed spellcasters. A simple cantrip sufficed for each of them, and now they were chatting amiably with one Thellent, who had introduced himself as primarily a scholar, not a mage.

"Still," he had chuckled, "I've picked up a few scraps of arcane lore- enough to join the Guild, anyway. When you're as isolated as we are, beggars can't be choosers."

Cecil and Zelhile had insisted on paying for Thellent's next drink, which made the man even more talkative. The sage took an early command of the conversation though, nearly insisting upon the two newcomers telling him all about themselves. Zantac played it safe, stating that he hailed from Aerdy, which was the truth. Cygnus however, would only state that he hailed from beyond the Flanaess, which set off an intense grilling session from Thellent, who found the topic of extra-Flanaess lands and people fascinating. Eventually, Cygnus was forced to beg off, stating that the subject was painful to him because of personal reasons. Thellent had reluctantly accepted this, and then the three launched into shop talk, and time had flown by.

Eventually, Zelhile had managed to steer the conversation around, so that he and Cecil were now asking the questions. If Thellent minded this or was even aware of it, he made no sign. In fact, he seemed delighted to act as a sedentary tour guide for his fellow magic-users.

He'd started with an overview. "The island itself is called The Aerie," the scholar explained, making a grand, encompassing gesture that nearly knocked over his third drink. "Many eagles make their nests on the slopes of Mount Flamenblut," he added by way of explanation.

"I can understand how this city might have survived when the rest of The Pomarj fell," Zantac asked, "but why has there been only this very limited contact with the outside world since then?"

"Even that is only fairly recently," Thellent had replied. "Fifty years ago, when the humanoid forces marched on Suderham after the death of the Mad King Olaric, the king's son Cedric wisely chose to fortify Suderham rather than trying to evacuate the populace. As I'm sure you've seen, a siege of this city would be almost impossible to employ effectively. Not that the orcs and such didn't try, of course, but eventually they gave up and let us alone. We knew they were still out there in the hills of course, so no one ever tried to leave. We just made ourselves as self-sufficient as possible. Then, about nine years ago, shortly after Cedric had passed on and his son Rodric assumed the throne, one man did leave- the High Priest of the Earth Dragon, Mordrammo."

"Tell me more about the Earth Dragon," Cecil ventured.

Thellent shrugged. "Reputable scholars- such as myself- believe it was one of many nature spirits that the Flan revered back when they were the only humans living here. They had hundreds if not thousands of local nature spirits that they worshipped. They were all supposedly offspring of _Beory;_ the Oerth itself."

_Interesting. Very similar to Tojo's description of Nipponese theology,_ thought Cygnus.

"Most of these spirits were displaced, or at least removed from prominence, when the Suloise, and later other settlers arrived. The Earth Dragon- the spirit of Mount Drachenkopf, the largest mountain in The Pomarj, which is some miles west of here- survived, and even assumed a larger stature; similar to a god as we know them today. The Dragon demands little in terms of daily activities from its worshippers- only that the proper offerings and prayers be made at the appointed times. Those communities who made obeisance to the Sacred Scaly One have survived, even prospered. Those who did not vanished in earthquakes or underneath avalanches."

"You were saying about Mordrammo?" Zelhile put in, anxious to hear about this and not knowing when their host might decide to stop talking.

Thellent nodded and took another deep drink of his wine. Cecil immediately made a motion to the bar for a refill.

"You're too kind," Thellent said with a smile. "Now, uh… where was I? Oh, yes- Mordrammo. Well, the High Priest was gone for several years, but when he returned with news of the outside world, he was hailed as a great hero, as well you might imagine. Yet the very next day, hours after a private meeting with King Rodric, the king had been assassinated, and Mordrammo claimed that he had committed unpardonable blasphemies against the Earth Dragon."

"And no one questioned this?' asked Zelhile incredulously.

Thellent's expression darkened.

"We had no reason to. We have always obeyed the will of the Earth Dragon, and Mordrammo is his chosen voice."

The sage's eyes lifted momentarily to the ceiling before settling down again. They were looking a little bleary now, but when the newest glass of wine floated over, Cecil grabbed it and put it down in front of Thellent, who took a sip and was soon all smiles again.

"So, let's see… ah. Rodric had no heir, so Mordrammo appointed Duke Etenwulf as the new ruler of Suderham, but he's such a figurehead he won't even go to the privy without getting Mordrammo's approval." Thellent chuckled to himself again. "The High Priest brought in allies from the outside and one day- about four years or so ago I think- announced that limited contact with the outside world would begin again, with the permission and protection of the Earth Dragon of course, and that slaves were going to become Suderham's greatest export."

Thellent took another sip and shrugged. "And so they have."

The sage fell silent; his eyes half-closed. Zelhile jostled the table, which caused them to blink open again, and the Willip wizard decided this would be the best time to try his boldest question yet.

"Tell us about the Nine."

Thellent smiled drunkenly. "The current Nine or the original?"

Cecil and Zelhile exchanged curious looks. "They're not the same?" the latter asked.

The scholar waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, for the most part, they are. But a few have died here and there- and been replaced."

"Who could possibly have been powerful enough to kill off any of the Slave Lords?" Cecil asked with the proper reverence.

Thellent favored them with a smug smile. "Why, themselves, of course. It's an open secret that the Nine are their own worst enemy. They have their cliques and infighting." Here, he leaned forward, forcing his audience of two to do likewise. "We're not supposed to know this of course," he whispered, "but everyone does."

"Say no more," Cygnus nodded with a smile and a wink, and leaned back, reflecting.

_By all the fields of Valhalla- there but for grace of the Aesir go ourselves. I pray to the All-Father that we don't wind up like them someday._

"Well," Thellent began. "Let's see… there's Mordrammo, obviously. And then there's Theg Narlot. He's either an orc or a really ugly half-orc; I'm not sure which. He's the liaison to the orcish hordes in the Drachensgrabs. He keeps them away from Suderham's trade routes. Then there's Ajakstu."

His eyes again lifted to the ceiling and stayed there a little longer than last time before returning and eventually settling on Cecil's face.

"He's their security expert. In charge of scrying on the Nine's enemies; ferreting out traitors and so forth. He's no mean wizard, too."

"Is he the Guildmaster here?" Zelhile suddenly asked with some alarm.

Thellent shook his head. "No- that's a different Lord; another mage named Lamonsten- but a student of Ajakstu's recently rebelled. I don't know the particulars, but there was a spectacular chase through the city, which ended in a nasty fight at the White Knight. A number of people killed, as I recall." The sage's expression grew thoughtful before he glanced back over at his guests again. "That's why we're not particularly welcome there right now, but don't worry- it'll blow over eventually- although I never cared for that place anyway."

"Go on," urged Cecil.

The scholar took another sip of his wine and continued. "Then there's the ascetic from the Kingdom of Shar, Brother Milerjoi. Rumor has it he supplied the initial financing for the Nine's activities."

Cecil frowned. "Shar? I've never heard of it."

"Neither had I, to be honest. It's supposedly located on the Tilvanot peninsula far to the east, past the Vast Swamp.

Zelhile looked introspective. "Shar," he mused. "Isn't that Ancient Suloise for _purity?"_

Thellent smiled and pointed an unsteady finger at the Willip wizard. "Very good, my friend. That's entirely correct. They apparently espouse the old philosophy of the Suel Imperium; racial superiority and all that rubbish."

The scholar took a deep sigh.

"Then there's Ketta; Slippery Ketta, they call her. All the Slave Lords' contacts in other lands ultimately report to her. She helps the Nine to decide when and where to send their ships."

Zantac hoped Thellent wouldn't notice that he was in fact taking notes under the table, but the sage seemed to be focusing all of his energies on just staying conscious. "I'm rather tired, my friends," he suddenly said. We should be heading over to the Guild. You can stay there for only-"

"Just a minute more, good sir," Cecil injected a little obsequious pleading into his voice. "You should at least finish your wine," he added helpfully.

"That's true," Thellent agreed and drained his glass, belched loudly and then continued.

"Nerelas. He's a cold soul, that one. The Nine's assassin. If someone needs to be removed, Nerelas or one of his students does the job. He runs the Assassin's Guild here in town, you know."

"Really?" Cygnus and Zantac glanced at each other. That was not good news at all; they hadn't even been aware such a guild existed here.

Thellent was fading again. He propped one elbow on the table and leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand. His eyes half-closed, the two mages had to lean forward again just to catch his next words.

"And then there's Edralve. May the Dragon protect us- she's a fiend, that one. The worst of them all."

He suddenly bolted upright in his chair, trying to focus his eyes on the ceiling with little success. Fatigue soon returned him to his previous position.

Cygnus was suddenly struck by a realization. _He's looking for a scry sensor! Just like the innkeeper at the White Knight was! This Ajakstu must keep tabs on the populace to insure their loyalty._

"Why? What's so terrible about Edralve?" Zelhile pressed, still leaning forward.

Thellent's eyes were shut now, and not just from fatigue. It almost seemed as if the sage didn't want to see himself speaking his next whispered words.

"The cruelest, most sadistic example of elfdom you'll ever see."

"Worse than Markessa?" Zantac whispered in an aside to Cygnus, with an expression that made it clear he doubted the veracity of their host's words.

The Aardian mage didn't reply. He was so busy leaning forward to hear Thellent's last fading words that the two nearly bumped foreheads.

But he did catch them.

"A soul as black as her skin."

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Cygnus, the stronger of the party's two mages, was doing the bulk of helping to keep the semi-conscious Thellent steady, but it still took both of them to continually prod the scholar into blearily pointing a finger towards the direction of the Suderham Wizard's Guild. The two magic-users spoke to each other as low as they could, but it seemed unlikely Thellent was going to remember any of this evening's conversations by tomorrow anyway.

"What in the Abyss did _that_ mean- black skin?" wondered Zantac.

Cygnus shrugged as best he could while managing their load. "I don't know. Some kind of unique abjuration would be my guess. Perhaps a form of necromantic protection."

Zantac tossed that idea around in his mind, and then put it aside for another observation. "You do realize he only mentioned eight of the Slave Lords."

His peer nodded. "Yes, but we certainly can't complain. We landed a treasure trove of information tonight; more than we ever expected to and more than the others have, I'll wager. We should- damn it, Zantac! Hold your end up!"

"It's this blasted fly!" the older mage responded, trying frantically to shoo the buzzing insect away. "It won't leave me alone!"

"And you're lucky it doesn't," replied the figure who an instant earlier had been that self-same fly. "There's a guard patrol heading this way. It's not Blackthorn, but I'd just as soon avoid having to answer any questions. Speed the sot along."

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Thellent partially roused; at least enough to notice that two wizards were holding him upright. He looked around, seemingly surprised by the large stone building that now stood before them.

"Oh," he blinked in surprise. "We're here." A sheepish expression appeared on his face. "I'm sorry- I've been told I don't hold drink very well."

"Really?" responded Zelhile with some surprise. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Thellent," Cecil cut in while he had the chance. "This Slave Lord- the Guildmaster, Lamonsten- does he live here, too?"

Thellent gave as much of a derisive laugh as he could manage under the circumstances. "Lamonsten the Lazy? Hardly. He deigns to put in an appearance every now and then, but mostly you can find him at Drachen Keep with the others." He fumbled in his pockets for his key, but upon finding it and inserting it into the lock, suddenly turned his head around to address the person he just now realized was standing behind them. "Excuse me, good sir. Who might you be?"

Aslan gave a brief bow. "My name is Alomovar. I'm friend and employer of these two mages."

"They're generous people, Alomovar," Thellent praised. "You have good friends." He then frowned. "I am sorry though, Alomovar. Unless you're a wizard as well, and I don't think I'm that drunk to think so- you're not allowed inside."

Aslan smiled. "Not to worry, Thellent. I'm merely here to make sure you arrived safely. Cecil, why don't you go inside with our good host, while I speak to Zelhile for a moment?"

Zantac nodded and inserted Thellent's art book under Cygnus' armpit while the latter was struggling with the scholar, who had abruptly decided to try staggering on his own. Cecil glared daggers at the shorter mage as the door closed behind them. A faint sound of some type of furniture being knocked over came from within.

The merchant's smile vanished as he rounded on Zelhile. "Tell me anything of value you've found out."

Zantac did so, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the paladin at the sheets of paper the mage pulled from his cloak pocket and consulted. When Zantac was finished, Aslan gave an approving nod.

"Good work, Zelhile. I like to have at least some idea who we're up against."

In a low voice, the Willip wizard gave voice to the question he'd been thinking of for the past hour.

"Aslan, these Slave Lords- do you think we can take them?"

The paladin looked grim. "Not on their terms." He looked off towards the southeast and pointed. "That _Drachen Keep_ your friend mentioned is the citadel of the Slave Lords. It's located outside of Suderham, on a small plateau about ½ mile in that direction." He looked back at Zantac. "I scouted it around, but didn't try to enter- I'm sure they've got magical wards active, and I want all of us to be together when we make our move."

"What _is_ our next move?"

The merchant scratched at his bushy beard. "We'll continue our information-gathering activities tomorrow while continuing to keep a low profile. Tomorrow night, when the brothels open, we'll be there. I'm hoping whatever we can find out there will help us make a battle plan for how we're going to take on the Nine."

"I wonder which brothel is the one the big man was referring to," Zelhile mused.

"Don't know," Alomovar said. "There are three, all on the same street. The _Drunken Mermaid_, the _Rose_, and the _Alley Cat."_

"Don't worry, Alomovar." Zantac puffed himself up with a big grin. "I'll meet with every girl in all three houses if I have to! I have experience with houses of ill repute, you know."

The paladin stared at him, and then shook his head. "And you're bragging about it, aren't you?"

Zelhile shrugged, but kept a sly smile.

"It's all for a worthy cause, Alomovar. The right man for the right job. Besides, it's high time I made some sacrifices for the team."

Try as he might, a small smile leaked through Aslan's disapproving glare.

"You're a real martyr, Zelhile. Go on, get some sleep. I'm heading back to the White Knight myself. I suspect tomorrow's going to be an eventful day."

Zantac nodded and disappeared into the Wizard's Guild. Aslan looked around. There were still a few people on the street, so he decided to walk back to the inn. As he did, an odd image kept appearing in his head- an elf with skin as black as night.

_Elrohir knows more about elves than any of us,_ he thought. _I'll ask him about that tomorrow._


	134. The Rakes

**16****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

Alomovar, Samuel, Toar, Hilda, Cecil, Zelhile, Tsugo and Bretagne walked along the sidewalk in the gathering twilight. As was often the case with the group, each member was lost in his or her own thoughts.

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Alomovar had risen early and totally unrefreshed. He mumbled to the other three men sharing his inn room that he was going out scouting again and then he had literally taken off- flying out the window in the form of a raven.

The paladin had spent most of the day in one innocuous form or another, eavesdropping in on as many conversations as he could. Unfortunately, he had learned little of interest. It seemed that personal information about The Nine was either a topic of little interest to Suderham citizens or one they were too afraid to discuss.

The sole exception had been in _Scumslum_, the dock area outside of town. Two men were working on a small boat that had been dragged up onto the rocky beach for repairs.

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"Lacedons probably got him," one of the men mused. His hands expertly continued applying pitch to the keel while his rheumy eyes stared out over the lake.

"Who?" His companion, apparently interpreting this comment as sign of a break, asked while pulling out a thin pipe and a tobacco pouch.

The first man's eyes flickered upwards before replying, but it was only a reflex action. He clearly didn't seem to think their conversation was worth overhearing. He shook his head at his fellow worker's laziness, but then wiped his own hands on a dirty rag and leaned back.

"Feetla," he replied. "The Nine probably dumped his body in the lake after they killed him. Let those _things_ clean up their mess for them."

"Wouldn't that be The Eight, then?" the other asked, smiling at his own cleverness while taking his first puffs.

The first men shook his head. "Brains of a barnacle, you've got. You know they've replaced him."

The smoker shrugged in mild indignation. "Maybe, but we've not had the official announcement yet."

"We'll get it soon enough," the other man replied with little interest.

"What I'd like to know is just what he did to get killed. Feetla was their naval commander, and you just don't throw someone like that out to the ghouls for nothing. I hear a large part of the success of their slave raids was due to him. It mighta been something as dumb as being on the wrong side of some argument."

"Probably," the first man responded. He stretched and dipped his hand back in the pitch.

"Course," the smoker went on, none too eager to start working again, "Just 'tween you and me, not too many people gonna mourn all that much. Feetla was the worst son-of-a-mongrel ever to walk a deck."

The first man, just about to start applying pitch again, stopped and stared at his companion.

"Second-worst," he said grimly. "If the rumors I heard last night were true, they've traded up. Come on, get back to work."

"What'd you hear?" the other asked with intense interest.

Aslan never heard the reply. His vision was suddenly diverted by a bird diving straight at him. The paladin's current insect form had attracted hungry attention.

The two men had not noticed the _psionic blast_, but they heard the swallow's screech and watched in bewilderment as the bird's stunned body plummeted onto the beach. Aslan, his heart still pounding even in his bug's chest, had flown off and done no more spying that day.

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Alomovar rubbed his puffy eyes again. He was tired to the point of fatigue, but there was nothing for it. He was growing more and more detesting of remaining in the merchant's overweight form. While in theory Aslan retained his own excellent general health and constitution even while _polymorphed_, he could swear that his lungs were wheezing with every step he took.

The fact that the party's current destination was a whorehouse did nothing to improve his disposition. Contrary to what some- notably Argo- might have believed, Aslan had no moral qualms against prostitution. His Asgardian beliefs ascribed no particular shame to it. It was simply the fact that a brothel constituted a concentrated mass of potential problems, both for its customers and for its employees. Just as a tavern concentrated drink and drinkers together, often leading to unpleasant events, so too did houses of ill repute do with sexual desires.

Aslan had yet to even think to himself about whether he himself would enter the brothel when the time came.

Alomovar turned his bleary eyes away quickly. He hadn't even been aware he'd been looking over at Bretagne.

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Nesco Cynewine didn't know why she'd blurted out the name of her younger sister when Elrohir had demanded of her this morning that she furnish the group with her alias. More than likely it was due to her tremendous fatigue and even more titanic headache she was still battling even now. The ranger simply hadn't had the energy for any mental creativity, so "Bretagne" was what she had said. Nesco could think of no particular attribute her sister possessed that might have triggered some kind of subconscious identification or envy within her.

_Except that she got to marry the man she loved; the rest of the world be damned_.

"Bretagne" scowled and rubbed the sides of her head again, trying to brush the errant thought away along with the pounding in her temples. She almost stumbled, but caught herself. Lady Cynewine had arisen early and totally unrefreshed, having been unable to full asleep until perhaps an hour before daybreak. It had not been a productive day for Nesco. Her headache had precluding any meaningful activity on her part in the way of information-gathering, and she had nearly had a heart attack when she'd run into Elrohir again at midsun. The ranger had taken a quick look at Nesco's chainmail and shook his head.

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"Go buy some new clothes, Bretagne- and quickly. None of us are going to be armored up tonight."

Nesco had gaped at her team leader while the ramifications behind his statement sunk in.

"I… I thought I'd be standing guard outside. You want me to go into the brothel, too?"

"The man in white said they cater to women as much as men, and most whorehouses frown on customers waltzing in armed and armored. We're leaving all that behind in our rooms. Cygnus and Zantac will cast _alarm_ spells to deter robbery."

A thought suddenly occurred to Bretagne, and her eyes narrowed.

"Tsugo won't leave his swords behind. You know that."

Sam sighed. "Tojo will wait outside. He is the sole exception."

"He always is, isn't he?"

Elrohir stared back at Nesco. He could still see the hurt in her eyes. The pain she'd endured from Tojo's anger. But this was not a scar that could be reopened now.

"This is my decision, Nesco," he said quietly. "Get some new clothes."

Bretagne could feel herself trembling. "What exactly do you expect of me once we're inside, Samuel?"

The ranger bit his lip and eyed the floor. "I don't know precisely what we're looking for. It may be information, or it might be something of a physical nature. Or both."

He took a deep breath and looked Nesco in the face again.

"I expect each and every one of us to do whatever it takes to find it."

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Bretagne had brought new clothes as was requested- ordered- of her, but she would hardly be mistaken for a women who might patronize a brothel. She now wore a pair of undyed linen pants and a grey blouse, over which she wore a dark woman's coat. Samuel had frowned when she saw his fellow ranger's new attire, but has said nothing.

Nesco not only felt terrible about this whole affair, she couldn't even find anything to distract her. Even when she looked at Aslan, she saw only the fat Alomovar with his gaudy silk outfit.

As they walked on, she silently prayed to Zeus.

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Samuel could sense Nesco's unhappiness, but it really couldn't be helped. Most of them were not in a particularly good mood right now. Elrohir's mood had plummeted the previous night when Aslan had asked him if he had ever heard anything about "dark elves."

He had been about to reply in the negative when suddenly his knees grew weak, and the ranger had been forced to sit down in a nearby chair. It took several moments to realize that his subconscious mind had realized something his conscious mind hadn't.

A tale. A tale from long ago, when he was a boy.

When Elrohir finally spoke his voice was barely above a whisper, and Aslan was sure it was not merely from a desire not to be overheard.

"There are stories- the elves tell. They are not usually meant for rounded ears," Elrohir added, looking up at Aslan, Argo and Tojo. The three nodded to indicate their understanding.

"It is said, that after the Creator of the Elves, Corellon Larethian, shot out the eye of the orc-god Gruumsh, that he discovered that his consort Araushnee had betrayed him. She was cast out of the Elven Court to the furthest reaches of the Underdark. This goddess, who was said to have skin as black as night, took many elves with her; elves with souls blackened by evil. In time, they came to resemble her, and it said that they still live, nursing a terrible hatred against all who live on the surface- particularly the true elves."

He hesitated. "They are called _drow_."

There was a silence among his audience. Eventually, Argo asked, "Is there anything we should know about these drow, Elrohir? Anything of an immediate, tactical nature if this truly turns out to be what we're dealing with?"

His fellow ranger shook his head. "I don't know, Argo. The legends that I heard were not that specific- only that their cruelty surpassed anything seen in the other races."

Aslan gave a grim smile. "We've seen plenty of vileness and cruelty, Elrohir- even amongst elves." Samuel however, shook his head.

"Not like this. Some High Elves say that when one of their own turns to evil, it's due to contamination from those around them. Non-elven influences, so to speak."

"And they say elves aren't snobbish," Toar put in with rolled eyes, but Samuel ignored him.

"But not the drow. It's said that they are the very essence of elvendom- that innate kindness and goodness- turned to evil."

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Elrohir sighed as the party walked on. Like his fellow warriors, he hated being unarmed and unarmored in the midst of hostile territory, but it couldn't be helped. Samuel's new outfit consisted of black breeches, a thin silk shirt, and a sleeveless, soft black leather jerkin worn over that.

Samuel. Only Cygnus knew that was the name of Elrohir's uncle- his father's brother. He had been lost on Rolex, during the Devastation. Elrohir knew next to nothing about the man. He was originally going to give himself his father's name as his alias, but something had stopped him at the last moment.

He hadn't felt worthy of it.

Sam turned to catch his wife's eye. She favored him with a rare encouraging smile.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Talass had gone through no agonizing soul-searching for her new name. She never even considered using her sister's. Hilda was simply one of her best friends from childhood. It was a happy memory; one of good times, and Talass had had precious few such times lately.

The cleric kept her holy symbol of Forseti underneath her blue blouse, but her warhammer and chainmail armor were back at the White Knight. This didn't bother her as much as some of the others. Talass always knew her faith in the Justice Bringer was her primary weapon- and her best protection.

Likewise, going to a brothel didn't faze her. If Talass hadn't been married, she might even have looked forward to enjoying herself- but Forseti was not only the Justice Bringer, he was a god of contracts and oaths as well.

Including the oath of marriage.

This was one of the reasons her deity was falling out of favor amongst the Fruztii. Fidelity was paid no more than lip service by the rest of the Asgardians. Indeed, having many children by many different women was considered a mark of virility and strength among the men back home.

All of this was merely distraction, however. Talass had dwelled more and more on her vision ever since the party's arrival in Suderham, and had recently come to a private decision.

What was decided by the Fates would occur- but there was nothing that forbade their servants from taking whatever actions they could.

Hilda's right hand again went to her belt pouch. The two small circles she could feel through the thin leather gave her a feeling of security.

Noticing her husband's positive reaction to her smile, Talass slipped her arm inside Elrohir's as they walked on.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cecil and Zelhile were, as usual, a study in contrasts.

Cygnus was still clad in his worn brown frock, while Zantac had purchased a brand-new set of cherry-red robes, plus a bright orange chapeau, from the Wizard Guild's own clothing shop. While Cygnus trudged along morosely, his companion wizard was nearly skipping.

Zelhile caught Cecil's eye. "The ladies love a wizard, you know!"

The taller mage only shook his head, but Zelhile could see him struggle, if only for a moment, to keep from smiling.

It was odd, Zantac considered, that Cygnus seemed to deliberately court depression in himself. Especially since he among of all them today had scored the biggest coup in gathering any useful information.

It was in fact due to Cecil that they knew exactly where they were going.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been several hours after sunup. After a quick breakfast at the Magic Missile, the two wizards had returned to the guild. Zantac had set off on his latest fashion fiasco while Cygnus made sure they weren't leaving anything behind in their rented room.

"Ready to leave, eh?"

Cecil spun around. Thellent was standing in the open doorway.

Cygnus regarded the scholar. Thellent's eyes, still slightly bloodshot, were fixed on his. The Aardian mage nodded slowly.

Thellent hesitated. His eyes flicked upwards for a moment.

"I… I don't remember everything we discussed last night, but I do recall you and Zelhile were asking about the Nine."

_Uh, oh, _Cygnus thought. _I may have misjudged him._

Thellent tilted his head. "Are you seeking an audience with them?"

Cecil's throat went dry. It was a moment before he found his voice.

"There _is_ business that needs to be resolved."

The scholar stared at him a moment longer and then nodded. When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate.

"The standard procedure is to of course go to Drachen Keep and announce yourself and your business to the guards outside. As you might expect, not all who desire an audience with the Nine receives one. They are- and rightfully so- a cautious group; always mindful of security. Wherever they are, at any time, they never allow themselves to be boxed in. They always leave themselves multiple options."

Here he gave a short laugh that seemed forced to Cecil.

"So many in fact, that if they weren't The Nine, one might think they'd have a hard time keeping track of them all."

Abruptly, the scholar's posture seemed to relax.

"Well, that's all then. I wish you and your friends a pleasant and profitable stay here in Suderham. I must take my leave now. I have an item to sell, and I need enough time to get the best price for it."

It was then that Cygnus noted that Thellent was holding the art book he had seen last night, only now the older man was holding it open in such a way that one of the pages was facing Cecil.

It was an absolutely beautiful painting of a rose in full bloom.

"I hope you find what you're looking for," Thellent said quickly, then shut the book and left.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Argo Bigfellow Junior had feigned disappointment upon hearing the news.

"So we only get to go one brothel? Too bad- I was looking forward to checking out all three!"

The big ranger's smile dared a riposte, but none of his friends took the bait. Toar had shrugged and settled in with them as they begun their stroll towards their destination. Like Zantac, Argo was in a relatively cheerful mood.

Or at least he would have been had it not been for the dream last night.

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Strangely, there had been no sound at all in the dream. He had been sitting at one of the tables in the Brass Dragon's common room. Nameless and wordless worries were making the ranger tired. His cheek drooped down to rest on the polished wood.

A light tap on his shoulder roused him. Caroline was standing beside him holding a burlap sack of some kind. From the way it bulged, Argo assumed it was full of money, but it almost looked as if might be squirming on its own. He couldn't be sure.

His wife had reached inside and pulled out two platinum pieces. She held them in her hand and gave Argo one of those smiles that simply enveloped the ranger in love. His fatigue washed away, and he sat up straight. Their lips moved to touch.

From nowhere, a blast of cold wind knocked Argo off of his chair. Trying to scramble to his feet in the continuing maelstrom, he saw Caroline staggering backwards in the wind towards the open front doors of the inn. Outside it was dark- it must have been night- but there was a reddish glow of flames from beyond that suddenly made Argo very afraid.

And then it began to rain.

It began to rain rats.

They were everywhere. Black rats, brown rats, even some dire rats. All had glowing red eyes. They were at Argo's feet, his knees, his hips.

It was hard to make out through the falling curtain of vermin, but Argo was still able to see the sack fall from Caroline's hands as she was pushed out the door into the black. The ranger saw the most heart-rending look of terror and sorrow he had ever beheld on his wife's face.

And then she was gone.

The rats were unaffected by the wind, but Argo wasn't. Pain exploded at a thousand points in his lower body as the creatures attacked; gnawing, nibbling, and biting. He felt his legs giving way, but the rats were so high now instead of toppling over, he merely sank down into the sea of fur, teeth and red eyes.

And only at the end was there sound. Three sounds, intermingled.

His scream, a baby crying, and someone laughing.

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Bigfellow was long accomplished at pushing unpleasant memories away- he'd done it for most of his life. An hour after he had woken up, Argo had forgotten the nightmare completely, but it had suddenly come back to him as they walked.

"Are you awe right, Toar-san?"

In a rarity for Argo, he'd actually tried to give a regular smile for once, but failed at it.

"I'm okay, Tsugo."

The samurai was plainly unconvinced, but said nothing.

"There are the brothels," Samuel announced from up front.

"Seems there are already some regulars waiting for the doors to open," Hilda commented.

Toar looked at the group of five men who were loitering near the front door of the _Alley Cat._ The ranger frowned even as one of the five caught his eye.

"Well, well," Davis sneered. "Look who's come to call."

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Argo had suspected that Davis belonged to some kind of nobility when they had met the previous night, and now his suspicions were confirmed. All five men wore expensive looking doublets, gilded mantles or cloaks, well-made boots and gloves and sported a fair amount of jewelry. Longswords in elaborate scabbards hung from their hips.

Samuel turned to address his companions.

"Listen to me," he hissed. "I don't care _what_ these rakes say, we are _not_ going to get drawn into a fight here! We absolutely _cannot_ afford it now- do each and every one of you understand me? I don't care _what_ they say!"

He finished up staring directly at Tsugo. The samurai stared back, but made no response at all.

Davis nudged the man next to him. "That's them."

The young noble stepped forth. About Tojo's age, he seemed to be the leader, as the other four were watching him carefully. He wore a starched white muslin collar that splayed out in a circle around his neck. His expression was one that most of the party had come to know and loathe- that of contempt for ones lessers.

"And what have we here?" he queried. "The common folk hoping for a night's debauchery at one of our fine establishments?"

Samuel was about to reply, but Toar stepped forward first and bowed. "Greetings, my lord! A pleasure to be before you on such a fine night! And we do indeed seek to slake our desires within those walls." The ranger indicated Aslan and Nesco. "As you know, Alomovar and Bretagne there are an item, but they're both adventuresome enough to seek new experiences. As for the rest of us," and here Toar made a sweeping gesture to indicate them all and then turned back to the youth with his famous pained smile…

"Sadly, we find ourselves incapable of finding true love any other way."

Here, his tone and expression turned conspiratorial.

"But I'm sure you and your friends know what that's like, don't you?"

"_Goddammit_, Argo!" Elrohir muttered under his breath.

The nobleman's face grew livid and he stepped right up to Bigfellow, seemingly unconcerned about the six-inch difference in height between them.

"Are you wagging me, _peasant?"_ He paused. "Do you have any idea what my surname is?"

Toar abruptly looked serious and held out his hands in a placating manner.

"Please don't tell me it's Frump. We just ate, and I don't think my stomach would appreciate all the laughter."

"No," he spat out. "It's Etenwulf, as in my father- _Duke_ Etenwulf- the ruler of this town. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

"Indeed we have!' Now Cecil stepped forward and likewise bowed. "Forgive our insolence, oh son of Figurehead."

"_Cecil!"_ hissed Elrohir. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Really?" continued the young Etenwulf. "So, you think my father and all his peers powerless pawns, do you?" He smirked at his friends and then turned back, his brown eyes blazing. "Then it may come as a shock to you to find out that blatant disrespect to a noble such as you're showing is punishable by up to six months slavery."

The Duke's son folded his arms across his chest and let a smug smile appear on his face as the party looked at each other.

"Now, let's start this again from the beginning, shall we? I and my friends are nobility; you and yours are dirt-rabble. I command, and you obey. If I want something, such as your sword," and he gestured at Gokasillion, "or the company of that woman," and here he pointed at Nesco, "then you will give them to me, or I will have you all in chains before the moons rise tonight. Is that clear?"

Here Davis shook his head. "Not that one, Farris. Look at her taste in men- how good could she be?"

This generated hearty laughter among the other three rakes. Nesco however, fixed Davis with a noblewoman's glare.

It was her mother's withering stare.

"Well," she intoned, "despite all your pathetic begging last night, you'll never know, will you?"

"Et tu, Bretagne?" asked Elrohir wearily.

Now the laughter was directed at Davis, and the young aristocrat seethed while trying to find his tongue. Farris Etenwulf spoke first, though.

"Apparently you _do_ need to be taught a lesson. That's fine- the night is young, and the brothels yet to open. I know all of the girls in there anyway- I feel like some new blood tonight."

And he strode straight up to Talass.

The priestess could feel her husband's hand clasp hers- it was a warning to restrain herself.

"Are you listening to me, you cur?"

Samuel tensed, but incredibly Hilda did not only not strike him, she actually nodded.

Etenwulf smiled smugly. "Good. Now, you and I are going back to my manor. You will wait for me in my master suite whilst I make myself ready and attend to whatever other business I may have. Then when I enter the room, you will take these peasant clothes off, and then you will lie down on my bed, and then you will spread your legs apart and then-"

And then Elrohir's fist smashed into his face.


	135. An Untimely Brawl

**16****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

The impact of Elrohir's fist washed away all thought of his earlier warning.

Even as the son of Duke Etenwulf staggered back clutching his nose in agony, Argo stepped up to one of the other nobles, a short, thin young man with pox-marked skin.

"My lord," the big ranger smiled as he swung a lightning-fast fist into the young man's midsection. As the man doubled over, Bigfellow's arm rose up and the ranger's elbow smashed into the aristocrat's forehead.

Tojo glanced over at Nesco and raised one eyebrow.

"This must be time to go wired."

Lady Cynewine didn't even time to register whether the samurai was joking or not before Tojo had slipped past her and moved up to the noble who was standing next to Argos' unfortunate victim. This man- whose auburn eyes glared out at Tojo from underneath one large brow- at least saw his attacker coming, but it did him little good. Nesco was about to scream out to Tojo not to draw his sword, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The samurai's fist flashed through his opponent's blocking attempt and crashed into his jaw, slamming the youth's head back against the door of _The Alley Cat._

Elrohir was roaring wordlessly in rage. His fist connected again and again, forcing Farris to hunch over and shield his face with his arms. The party leader didn't seem to care- any portion of Etenwulf's body he could reach seemed to be fair target for his anger.

"Oh, what the hell," Zantac heard from beside him.

There was a brown blur, and then Cygnus was standing in front of the next young noble, who was stuck between Tojo's victim and Davis. Cygnus hesitated just enough for the rake to realize that he was facing a magic-user apparently intent on using nothing but his bare fists. The aristocrat actually began a cruel smile and was moving to use his shorter stature to effect by kneeing Cygnus in the groin when the wizard brought both fists down on top of the noble's head. The man buckled, crying out in pain, his own attack forgotten.

Zantac surveyed the situation. Argo, Tojo and Cygnus had their opponents back up against the building wall; Elrohir was wailing away on Farris Etenwulf, and one paladin and two women still seemed astonished that this brawl was happening at all.

That left Davis, and Zantac literally ran to stand next to Cygnus, so he could face Davis and complete the quartet.

"Don't insult my friends," the red-robed wizard said simply before jabbing his stubby fingers into the young noble's eyes.

Davis screamed and clawed at his eyes with his own fingers. Like most wizards, Zantac was not fond of melees, but he still grinned in satisfaction. He had nothing to worry about here. These nobles were all bark and no bite. In just a few seconds they'd all be-

"_Enough!"_ screamed Farris.

One of the younger Etenwulf's hands came back into view, now holding a black leather sap, which connected solidly with Elrohir's chin, stopping the ranger's attack from sheer surprise as much as the pain of the impact. Farris seized the moment to take a step back and regain his bearings. Talass took a swing at him on sheer instinct, but wasn't even close.

Farris' yell seemed to energize his companions, and they all likewise drew saps from under their jerkins or within the pockets of their cloaks. Argo, Cygnus, Zantac and even Tojo were taken unawares and suffered for it. None of the blows were debilitating, but they sure hurt.

Nesco snarled. No way was she going to sit this one out.

Although Argo's opponent was far closer to her, Davis was her emotional target of choice. The ranger moved behind the battling quartet of her group towards Zantac, intending to team up with him versus Davis.

Moving behind Zantac however, put her closer to Farris and the aristocrat lashed out suddenly with his sap again as Cynewine moved past. The leaden sack smashed into her right arm. Nesco gasped in pain, but Farris had already stepped back out of easy reach.

Davis leered out at her with newly-bloodshot eyes beneath the shield of his hands.

"Not as good as yeh thought yeh were, angel eyes?"

Nesco's reply was to kick Davis as hard as she possibly could in his right shin. The young noble's piteous cry of pain was almost enough to convince Cynewine to halt her attack.

But she didn't. Some part of Nesco's brain was trying to tell her that now this was started, it had to be finished.

Talass had moved forward as soon as she saw Farris strike Nesco. Etenwulf almost dodged her fist, but the cleric caught him on the shoulder at the last moment. The rake glared at her with hatred as intense as that which he had just evidenced towards her husband.

"Are you all insane?" Alomovar cried out.

"Very probably, but that's old news!" Argo responded. "Come on, Fat Boy- join the party!"

Aslan hesitated. These noblemen might be suspicious of an overweight, inoffensive merchant dropping them.

But even as he found himself shoulder-to shoulder with Toar, the paladin knew it wasn't really a decision. These men _were_ tougher than they had originally supposed.

Perhaps only slightly, but losing wasn't even thinkable, because that was going to lead to slavery. Alomovar's chubby fist found its mark.

_How do we get ourselves into these things?_ was Aslan's last regret before he concentrated solely on the fight.

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Elrohir came up next to his wife, his fist already in motion. He penetrated Farris' defenses once, but his follow-up swing was blocked. Argo, Tojo and Cygnus faired similarly versus their opponents, but Zantac's blow failed to make any kind of an impact.

Davis hardly noticed. All his attention was on Nesco now. The youth swung his sap with practiced ease, feinting and weaving. He struck Nesco on her cheek and then immediately afterward on her left arm. The first impact particularly brought shooting pains through the ranger's skull, as if her own headache and Davis were in league with each other.

For the first time she began to wonder if she could actually beat Davis without resorting to a weapon.

Argo's opponent began to slide to his left alongside the wall, apparently not liking his tactical position. In that split-second, Bigfellow's foot lashed out, but the youth twisted and turned with remarkable skill and the big ranger's kick hit only the brothel's wooden door behind him.

As the noble came alongside Alomovar, his sap lashed out and struck the merchant full in the chest. Aslan blinked in surprise. His fist came around too late in reflex and the rake now backpedaled off a good twenty-five feet, keeping a distance of about five feet between him and the building. His breaths came in great gasps as he attempted to catch his wind.

Tojo's opponent did likewise. That Cygnus missed him as he moved off was no surprise, but even Tojo's strike hit only empty air, which was worth another raised eyebrow from the samurai. The young nobleman grinned at his own combat prowess even as Argo's foot lashed out again-

- but not directly at him. Rather, the big ranger's foot stuck out to the aristocrat's left, preventing him from any further movement. As soon as the youth realized what was happening, the big ranger's left hand came sailing into his right cheek. It was only with a tremendous effort that the rake did not fall down. His sap still came around though, and Argo's leg took a nasty hit before he could withdraw it. The young man then actually managed a sideways leap- Aslan swung at he went passed and managed a glancing hit- and then sidled along side the wall, until he was near his pox-scarred peer.

Cygnus' opponent didn't bother with any fancy footwork. He simply swung again and again with the sap, striking the wizard once on the neck. Cygnus roared with rage and tried to fight back his left hand's increasing urge to dip into his spell component pouch.

Talass sidestepped between Farris and Nesco and then continued on so that she and her husband were now flanking the rakes' leader. She saw Etenwulf's eyes dart back and forth between his two foes, and then swung the moment they were off her.

Farris groaned and clutched his left side in fresh agony.

_A few more like that and this boy's out like a light_, thought the priestess. _Hopefully, his friends will cut and run then._

Davis did his best to dodge Nesco's incoming fist, and managed to turn a potentially staggering blow into a minor one. His face was still fixed in a mask of rage, though.

"Yeh _will_ pay fer that, yeh bitch," he hissed.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aslan had to fight hard to suppress the urge to _psionic blast_ the two rakes who had moved off. They were in perfect position for it, but that might lead to even more complications later. He sighed and lumbered off after them.

The youth with the scarred face seemed the worse off of the two so Alomovar concentrated his attacks on him, scoring a minor blow on the aristocrat's chest even as new and terrible thoughts ran through the paladin's mind.

_I wonder how long we have before a guard patrol shows up?_

_And what if it's Blackthorn's patrol?_

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Unaware of these concerns, Elrohir continued his assault on Farris, taking full advantage of his wife's distractions. He missed once, but then scored with a right hook that actually rocked the nobleman back on his heels.

Toar followed Alomovar, staying clear of the one-browed rake while pounding on the other. It was with some relief that Bigfellow noticed the nobleman was starting to weaken.

Tojo moved up to engage Unibrow, ignoring the other aristocrat's feeble swing at him. The samurai feinted with his fist, then spun around and launched a spinning back-kick into the rake's chin. Only the youth's pulling back at the last moment prevented a knockout blow.

Cygnus again landed a solid punch on his foe. Zantac, standing alongside him, was about to attack Davis when Nesco yelled, "I've got this slime! Help Cecil!"

"Lord knows he needs it," Zelhile agreed as his fist landed on his new target, although the older mage had to admit he wasn't nearly the melee fighter Cygnus was. He began to wonder if maybe a spell or two was in order here.

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Considering his weakened condition, Talass couldn't help but admire Farris' skill as the young nobleman dodged her latest blow and ran directly away from the building wall, striking at Elrohir as he went by and connecting on his left temple. The ranger bellowed with anger and swung again, but missed. Etenwulf ended up about fifteen feet away.

The pox-scarred youth swung multiple times at Argo, but only connected solidly once before springing backwards, out of Bigfellow's immediate grasp.

"They jump like rabbits," Toar grimaced to Alomovar.

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Tojo's opponent, showing remarkable courage, went toe-to-toe with the samurai again, and landed the better of their simultaneous blows before backing off a few feet.

Tsugo was unconcerned. He was still in much better shape than his attacker. He had no doubt over who would ultimately prevail. Part of him was even impressed that such an obviously inferior adversary was willing to stand fight like this.

Nesco and Davis both looked for their moments, but the nobleman found his first. The ranger cried out as the sap struck her again and again. Her headache and fatigue from lack of sleep was slowing her down, and her opponent was taking full advantage of it. She knew she was in trouble- one or two more good blows would finish her.

Talass had been about to set off after Farris when she saw Bretagne get struck. Instantly, she placed herself between the wall and Nesco. Now Davis was boxed in; his fellow rake blocking his only escape route. Talass' punch was not a daunting one, but his new tactical situation was not lost on Davis. The noble's expression grew more calculating.

Nesco landed another blow, but her opponent seemed maddeningly agile, as well as being able to take a lot more punishment than she had originally guessed.

Alomovar moved forward again, keeping the youth on the defensive. The paladin's fist found its mark again.

"We've got to finish this!" he yelled, ostensibly to Argo but also to let everyone knew that they were running out of time.

There were other people on the street; watching, gasping, pointing and yelling to each other. No one was making a move to interfere, but Aslan was sure a guard patrol was on their way.

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Samuel came charging up and he didn't miss. Farris was literally staggering now.

"Hold that pose," Elrohir snarled.

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Toar came up alongside Alomovar again and scored a solid hit. The pox-scarred aristocrat was now also staggering.

"Don't think this hasn't been a little slice of Heaven," Argo grinned while panting, "because it hasn't."

He prepared his knockout punch.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tojo moved up his opponent, but did not strike immediately. The samurai decided that one good strike would be worth many mediocre ones.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Both wizards struck home. The young aristocrat was starting to look scared now.

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"Damn yeh!" Farris screamed, launching his final attack. So intent was Elrohir on finishing Etenwulf off that he didn't even notice the sap strikes to his forehead had drawn blood. The ranger didn't even flinch.

"Move!" Davis abruptly shouted at the rake next to him. The other youth blinked in confusion for a moment before managing to dodge under Cecil's latest punch and step to the wizard's side. His sap crashed into the tall mage's thigh, eliciting a yelp of pain.

Davis caught Nesco one more time with his sap. The ranger's surroundings spun ominously, but Davis was on the move away from her, easily dodging Cecil and Zelhile's attacks. The rake skirted behind his peer and began to move away from the fight.

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Tojo's one-browed attacker eyed him steadily, perhaps trying to determine why the samurai was holding back. The rake's auburn eyes, searching, fell upon Tojo's scabbards.

"Those look interesting," he sneered at the samurai. "After you've been sold into slavery, I think I'll add them to my collection. In fact... why wait?"

And he suddenly darted forward and yanked Tojo's wakazashi out of its scabbard.

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"_Tojo- NO!"_

The shout came from many lips. All equally ineffectual.

With his blood-curdling battle cry, Yanigasawa Tojo drew his katana and stabbed the aristocrat through the chest. The youth had been preparing to leap backwards with his pize, so the blade did not impale him, but the wound was deep enough to matter. Blood spurted outfrom the hole in his jerkin, spraying the samurai as the rake collapsed.

"By the Dragon- someone call the watch!" a bystander screamed.

"Here they come!" someone shouted back.

And now it was Samuel's turn to yell. The ranger took one last, longing look at the doors of _The Rose _only thirty feet or so further on down the block; so close but now forever out of reach.

"All of you," Elrohir bellowed. _"RUN!"_


	136. Hiding Out

**16****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

Aslan, Elrohir, Argo, Talass, Cygnus, Zantac, Tojo and Nesco ran down the sidewalk in the deepening twilight.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was no time for the introspective musings that had occupied the minds of the group only ten minutes earlier. Now all their attention was spent scanning their surroundings for the city watch or anyone else that might attempt to attack or detain them.

It was Zelhile, huffing for breath while they ran, who spoke up first.

"Does anyone… have any idea _where_ in the Abyss we are? Because… I don't recognize a single… blasted building!"

"Southeast Quarter!" Samuel shouted back. "Fewer patrols here!"

The team leader slowed his pace down. The others followed suit.

"We need to find someplace to hold up," the ranger continued, his voice now closer to its normal volume.

"How about there?" Bretagne pointed.

The party approached a squat, run-down building located at the nearest corner of the intersection they were now approaching. An old, dusty sign swung by one remaining chain from a pole above the door. It showed what looked like a cow's hide being trimmed by several tools.

"Leatherworkers' Guild," mused Alomovar.

"It'd explain why it's not connected to the other buildings," Hilda wrinkled her nose even though the horrid odors of tanning hides and dyes were absent.

"Long abandoned from the looks of it," Cecil put in.

"Not exactly," Toar offered, indicating a parchment which had been affixed over a locked shutter. The big ranger peered close to make out the almost faded-out lettering.

"This Den of Thieves has been eradicated by the will of his Lordship, Duke Etenwulf," he read, and then looked at the others with a thoughtful expression. "Not a bad cover for such a place. Keeps away the casual visitors."

"I guess they were on the outs with the Slave Lords," Zelhile surmised.

Cecil grunted. "At least at the end."

Tojo had yet to make a comment.

Curious, Bretagne glanced over. Tsugo stood some distance apart from the others. The samurai's head hung down while his eyes intently examined the sidewalk flagstones. One hand idly touched the hilt of his wakazashi, which he had grabbed back from the aristocrat he'd stabbed.

_He knows he's ruined everything for us. It's funny- I should be furious with him, but what's the point? We all knew something like this might happen. If anyone's to blame, it's Elrohir. He's the one who insisted on taking Tojo into the city with us, even though Aslan could have left him behind at Chendl or even taken him back to the Brass Dragon. It's all pointless now. We should just leave. There's no way we can-_

"Locked." Elrohir's voice broke through Nesco's thoughts. The ranger gave the door's handle a useless yank.

"I've got it." Cygnus gave his leader an irritated glare as he shouldered him aside to work his _knock_ spell. As the door swung open, Nesco wondered if the tall mage's thoughts were mirroring her own.

"_The White Knight!" _Talass suddenly gasped. "All our possessions are there!"

Alomovar had been peering inside at the dark and dusty room within. "I'll _teleport_ back and get them!" he snapped. "The rest of you, get inside and lock or bar the door if you can."

"It'll take several trips to get everything, Alomovar," Sam observed worriedly. "Are you sure you have the strength for that?"

The merchant glared at the ranger.

"Of course," he eventually replied. "I was busy conserving my Talent during that fight _we weren't supposed to start!"_

He vanished, leaving Samuel with a very easy to read guilt-ridden expression on his face. Elrohir noticed everyone looking at him and wiped it off.

"Come in," he said quietly. "We need to check this place out."

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Later that night, all eight individuals sat on the floor against the walls of their new abode.

Everyone was again thinking, but very different thoughts from before.

Nothing remained in this place but dust and debris. There weren't even any chairs to be found. After ensuring that no light would penetrate outside, they had uncovered Cygnus' _continual light_ pendant, which now sat in the center of the group.

Everyone's personal possessions lay nearby. They were all armed again, but none of the warriors felt like donning their armor. They were too tired and too uncomfortable already.

There was no sound but the creak of the floorboards as someone shifted their weight, or the sound of someone swatting at fleas.

Elrohir glanced over at Alomovar and blinked in surprise. It took him a moment to realize that Aslan had resumed his natural form. The paladin caught the ranger's eye, but there was no levity in his explanation.

"I daresay all our aliases are useless now. I'm sure they know who we really are."

A cold silence descended again.

Elrohir looked around again at his companions; worn, tired, discouraged. As of this point, their mission looked to be a failure. They all knew Aslan would mindrest tonight to regain the full use of his Talent tomorrow, but there had been no indication from the paladin that about what they might do at that point.

The unspoken consensus seemed to be that they would leave Suderham and return home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It seemed like hours before anyone spoke.

"We should all probably turn in," Nesco mumbled, reaching out for her knapsack to extract her attached bedroll.

"Wait."

Everyone looked over. Elrohir had spoken the word at a normal volume but in the quiet atmosphere, it had seemed booming.

They all watched as the ranger stood up, his eyes on the _wizard-locked_ front door. He took a deep breath and began.

"I need to say a few things first. First off, I'm glad that no one has berated Tojo for his actions. Yes, they cost us a great deal, but I think we all know I placed him in that situation."

Tojo continued to stare at the floor between his knees.

"In fact, I'm the one who's responsible for what happened, and even though only Aslan has mentioned it, I'm sure we all realize it. No one- no one more so than me."

Elrohir's voice broke for a moment before he wrestled it back to normal.

"So be it. What is done cannot be undone. If any of you have lost confidence in me, you are free to respond as you see fit when we return home."

_There it is, _Nesco thought as she closed her eyes. _Defeat._

When Lady Cynewine opened her eyes again, Talass was looking up at her husband with a cold gaze.

"So ironic; I pushed my natural reactions to that Farris dog so far down, and then there you go- Mr. _We can't get into a fight_ slugging away." The priestess shook her head. "Yes, it was damn stupid of you, and it probably did ruin our mission here-"

"I know all of this, dearest," Elrohir responded impatiently. "Is there something new you can add?"

Talass looked at her husband with that expression he had come to know so well over the years- but then it faded away into a thin smile.

"Yes," she said softly. "It's nice to know you still care that much."

There was silence again, but a little warmer this time. Talass held out her arm.

Elrohir slowly walked over to his wife and grasping it, pulled her to her feet. He planted a long kiss on her palm, and they embraced, heedless of all eyes on them.

"We're not done yet."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That statement, out of the blue, caused all eyes- even Tojo's- to turn to its source.

Aslan did not stand up, but he folded his hands thoughtfully together on top of his knees as he looked over each of his companions as he continued.

"We can no longer walk about freely in Suderham. Between Blackthorn and the Earth Dragon, I'm sure the Slave Lords know that their worst enemies are here in town and aiming for them. They'll step up security and make every effort to find us. That's all a given. Well then- if we can't finish the job we started, we'll gave aid and succor to those who will."

"And who in the Nine Hells is _that _going to be_?"_ Cygnus glared at the paladin. "You planning on hiring mercenaries?"

Aslan shook his head. "No. Loyalty brought with money is no loyalty I'd trust. But remember- we've done good things for good people."

The others stared at him. Aslan's whole mien was becoming more animated by the second and despite their internal misgivings, they all could all feel themselves lifting slowly out of their lethargy.

"Yes." Their friend was nodding his head in acknowledgement. "I'm sure our enemies are indeed bringing up their reinforcements."

Aslan abruptly jumped to his feet and crossed his arms across his chest. Even in the dim light, they could all see his light blue eyes blazing with determination.

"Well," he announced. "It's time we brought in ours."


	137. Reinforcements

**17****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The tiny bone pyramids clattered as they rolled across the table. Six pairs of eyes followed their progress and studied the symbols that showed when they came to rest.

Sir Menn smiled. "My snatch."

The others groaned or snorted as the former Earl of Chesterton exchanged his pyramid for a cube and then took another deep swallow of wine.

"You're going to drain this poor inn dry," commented Arwald with a shake of his head. "Lady Bigfellow is going to be all over you for that."

"I think that's his general plan," Unru commented with a smirk, his eyes darting to the door behind the bar. "I've seen the way he watches her." When the illusionist turned back, it was in time to see the knight eyeing him sternly.

"I would never take advantage of our hosts' hospitality that way, Unru."

"Really? What way _would_ you take advantage of it?"

"May we continue, please?" Thorimund cut in, exasperated. "I'm down thirty wheatshaffs already, and I'll never make them back at this rate!"

On the far side of the room, several blanket-covered figures stirred where they lay near the glowing embers of the fireplace. A greasy-haired man propped himself up on one elbow and glared at the sextet. "By the Cudgel, would ya people shut yer gobs! It's not even sunup yet- some of us need 'ter rest!"

"I think technically it is sunup now," Thorimund replied without looking at the man while shaking his pyramid in his hand. "Are we ready to roll?"

"You certainly are- right out the door!"

Caroline Bigfellow threw a withering glare at the wizard as she crossed from behind the bar to the patron. She knelt by him and handed him a steaming cup of tea. "My strongest apologies, good sir. Please accept this tea on behalf of the Brass Dragon. I'll make sure you're not disturbed again."

She strode over to the table and addressed the group; the members of Sir Dorbin's party in particular. "Sitdale, Unru. It's bad enough you've dragged Sir Menn into this, but Wayne's men as well?"

Hengist shook his head, his dark curls cascading over his tanned face. "I must plead guilty, Lady Bigfellow," he confessed with a sheepish grin. "I was the one who actually taught them this game."

Caroline bit her lip. "Gambling is forbidden at the Brass Dragon on Aslan's orders, Hengist- whether he's here or not. I know you were unaware of this." She finished by rounding on the half-elf. "But _you_ weren't!"

Sitdale looked contrite. "A thousand pardons, Caroline. You are right. I am to blame."

"I think he cheats, too," snorted Thorimund.

"Why don't you play in your _shelterdome?"_ asked Caroline.

"_Shelterdomes_ don't come with tables and chairs, Lady Bigfellow," Unru said. The Aardian mage sported an easy smile, but his crossed arms made it clear he wasn't going to offer up an apology. He arced an eyebrow at her. "If I may say- and I always say what I may- you don't seem the type to bow under a paladin's repressive edicts. He's not here, so what's the harm?"

Caroline sighed. She could feel her body tensing up. "It's a long story, Unru. Please- just respect my wishes and take your game outside." She took a deep breath and looked towards the front door. "I know Dorbin wouldn't let you get away with this, either. Is he not up then?"

Sir Menn frowned. "Oh, he's up- in the stables; having a chat with your horses."

Caroline didn't bother to hide her surprise. "Again?"

The knight nodded. He was about to lift the mug of wine to his lips, gave a bit of a guilty start when he noticed Caroline gazing at him, and put it down on the table again. "When Sir Dorbin grabs ahold of something, particularly an idea- he's like a starving troll. He won't let go of it."

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Caroline's hand unconsciously brushed her stomach as she exited the inn and began to head around to the rear. Off about fifty yards she could see Fee Hall squatting down by a firepit that had been dug near the location that usually housed the Dorbin party's _shelterdome_, although the magical grey dome was not currently present. A pot balanced on top of several metal rods that spanned the pit. A faint orange glow from beneath indicated that the squire was cooking something. When Monsrek was absent, as he was currently, the teenager functioned as the group's impromptu cook. It was task he neither enjoyed nor was very good at, if the complaints of the others were to be taken seriously.

Sir Dorbin was exiting the stables just as Caroline approached. Lady Bigfellow was surprised to see the knight was still clad only in his flannel nightrobe. His face seemed positively pained with concentration, and he did not notice Caroline until she came within five feet of him.

"Oh! Lady Bigfellow- my pardon!" The knight instinctively pulled his robe tighter around him, a gesture that brought a smile to Caroline's lips.

"It's taken months for me to get Monsrek to call me 'Caroline,' she responded. "Don't make me spend that amount of time on you."

Dorbin gave a tight grin. "I will try- Caroline- but please bear in mind such things are contrary to my upbringing."

Caroline lost her smile. "I am no noblewoman, Sir Dorbin."

The knight raised an eyebrow in reply. "If I may- I have heard otherwise. Do not the Bigfellows belong to one of the great noble Houses of the Kingdom of Aerdy?"

Now Caroline frowned. "Garasteth. In name only now, perhaps. For many years now the Bigfellows have lived in the Lone Heath, refugees from the mad House of Naelax. In my upbringing, nobility has been the enemy, not an ally."

Sir Dorbin cast his eyes downward momentarily. "I understand, Lady Bi- ah, I'm sorry- Caroline."

Her smile returned. "That's quite all right. I understand you've been speaking with our horses again?"

The knight nodded. "If they would have me stop, I will do so, Caroline, but at the moment they seem content to tell me of their nightmares. I fear," and here he hesitated and seemed unable to look Caroline in the eye, "that they are becoming more frequent and more intense."

Caroline frowned again. "My own dreams have ceased these many weeks, even since I returned home. I would have hoped the same was true of our horses. Have you been able to glean anything from them that might be of relevance?"

Sir Dorbin's expression fell still further as he gazed out towards the slowly-brightening sky.

"Little. They are mostly images. Fire, darkness, rats, rain, swamps and caverns; things of that sort. It is the feelings they have which have been most disturbing. Terror- not for themselves, but for all those they love. They seem to feel a great darkness will soon engulf you all."

His voice grew softer as he stared down at the grass beneath his feet. "Two in particular will suffer. Suffer horrors that no priest, no friendship, no kindness, will ever be able to remove."

Caroline paused. "One of those is Aslan, isn't it?" she asked softly.

The knight nodded again. Caroline waited for him to say more, but Dorbin seemed to have fallen silent.

"Sir Dorbin." Caroline could feel her throat closing even as the words forced their way up. "Who is the other one?"

She thought of Argo, and of the others. Who knew where they were now- what trials they were undergoing? Elrohir, Talass, Cygnus, Tojo, Zantac, Nesco.

Although she'd move the Oerth for any one of them, Caroline thought she wouldn't be able to go on if something happened to her husband. Especially now that-

She forced her mind elsewhere.

She knew that Monsrek was due to return in a week or so from whatever secret mission Dorbin had sent him, Flond and Wescene on, but that might well be too late. If something were to happen to-

Caroline realized with a start that her own attention had wandered during her anxious reverie. She looked and saw that Sir Dorbin was staring back at her now.

And then he spoke the one word that Caroline never expected him to say.

"You."

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"It's settled then," Sir Menn spoke as the sextet stood up, Hengist began gathering up the bone dice and placing them in a small leather pouch. "Tomorrow morning we'll grab a table and chairs, move them out to the _shelterdome_ and finish the game there."

Unru eyed the Brass Dragon's two current patrons, who were now sitting at another table, eating some stew. They glared at him, but the illusionist merely smiled innocently, and then turned his attention back to the others.

"Amazing, isn't it, how paladins can ruin your fun even when they're not around?"

His hand moved to adjust the yellow chapeau atop his head. Sir Menn and Sitdale smiled. They knew what was coming.

Unru shrunk several inches in height. Plate mail appeared to cover his form; his beard grew longer, his hair receded from his forehead, his skin lightened several shades and his eyes turned from brown to light blue.

The false Aslan raised his fist importantly and shook it at Arwald, Hengist and Thorimund.

"Fun is forbidden! No enjoyment allowed! Don't you people know there are evils to be righted, injustices to be, um, _justiced_, and beautiful women to be totally ignored?"

Sitdale was having trouble staying upright; the half-elf was laughing so loud. The patrons at the table looked on in shock, but the others, enjoying the performance, ignored them. Sir Menn took his wine glass again and sipped at it.

"Such frivolity!" the illusionist continued. "Such tomfoolery! How can any of you sleep at night? Have you no guilt? Have you no shame? Have you no personal lives at all? Oh, wait- that's me."

Laughter swept through the common room. The _glamored_ Aslan spread his arms wide at his audience and beamed. "Well, what do you think, my friends? Did I do him justice?"

"Actually, I think you have me a bit short."

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Not everyone present shrieked in surprise at the voice coming from the door of the Tall Tales Room, but most of them did. Sir Menn blew a spittake from his wine and appeared to be choking on the rest. Hengist's belt pouch went flying, and dice scattered along the wooden floor.

The true Aslan slowly moved towards the others. His armor seemed quite a bit dirtier than its illusionary counterpart; perhaps even partially melted in places. The paladin looked more disheveled than he usually did. Despite his wry opening comment, Aslan's face was dead serious as joined the others. Unru, sensing this, resumed his normal form.

The paladin looked from one person to another. He said nothing further, but his eyes narrowed. He was frowning.

Unru, sulking a bit from the premature end of his fun, rebounded first.

"Taking a break from your Quest of Certain Doom, Aslan?"

The paladin's frown turned into a scowl.

"You might say that, Unru." He took another step forward, and looked down at the bone die that his foot had brushed. Then he looked up again at Unru, and a thin, tight smile appeared on the paladin's face.

"I suppose you're going to tell me those are caltrops?"

"No," Unru admitted, his face thoughtful. "But that'd be an easy glamour. I'll have to remember that the next time Caroline comes around."

"What have you come back for, Aslan?" asked Thorimund, his own face serious now. Are the others all right?"

The paladin nodded. "For the moment. But I've come back for something I desperately need."

"A sense of humor?" ventured Unru.

"You," countered Aslan. "You, Sitdale, Sir Menn and whoever else is available are coming back to Suderham with me and take up our Quest of Certain Doom."

There was a silent pause. Even the patrons at their table were staring at the group.

"Forgive me, Aslan," Sir Menn eventually managed. "You know we are very grateful to you for letting us stay at the Brass Dragon, but is your helm on too tight?"

"I'd stop the stupid questions and start packing your things if I were you. All of you."

The others spun around. Sir Dorbin and Caroline Bigfellow were standing at the open front door.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I promised these people months ago that we were at their command. Well, you've just received your first. You three start packing."

They hesitated. Sir Dorbin barked at them as he moved into the common room. _"Now!"_

The trio shuffled outside, with a few mutters. Dorbin ignored them as he turned to Aslan and clasped his hand.

"Always delighted to see you safe and well, Aslan, even if difficult times continue for you." The knight seemed troubled. "Those three I can offer you, but the others are not here, and I need to head out elsewhere when they do return-"

Aslan held up a hand. "No need to apologize, Sir Dorbin. They should more than suffice. Fear not, I do not intend to place them-"

At this point the paladin noticed that Caroline was still standing at the front door, gazing at him. She was trembling so badly, she seemed to be in shock.

He tilted his head at her. "Caroline?"

She slowly stepped forward, her legs wobbly. Then she rushed forward and threw her arms as far as she could around the paladin, ignorant of the cold hard steel of his plate mail.

Aslan could only hold her as Caroline Bigfellow burst into tears. He felt extraordinarily uncomfortable. He could still vividly recall this same Bigfellow slapping across the face in rage not that long ago. Now she seemed utterly terrified, but soon calmed down. The paladin shot a look over Caroline's shoulder at Sir Dorbin. It seemed to him that the knight's face contained knowledge, but he said nothing.

Aslan took his best guess. "Argo is okay, Caroline. Everyone is all right."

She nodded weakly and sank down at the table. Aslan motioned for Dorbin to do likewise. "Jack," he called over his shoulder. "Something to drink for all of us!"

The bartender smiled. "Good to have you back, sir, even for just a bit." He set to work while the paladin favored the knight with a knowing smile.

"Teleporting always makes me thirsty. Never have figured out why..."

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"Well, that's it," Aslan finished his story and his wine simultaneously.

"Aslan," spoke up Arwald. He and the others had joined them. The fighter indicated his two companions. "You know that Hengist, Thorimund and I will be happy to accompany you back to Suderham as well, but that is not our decision to make. That's up to Wainold, and he's in Willip right now. You can go speak to him of course, but he doesn't hold to the high, abstract ideals you and Sir Dorbin do. I know you've aided him in the past, but I wouldn't count on his agreeing."

"We'll just have to see," Aslan replied. "I'm told I can be rather persuasive when I want to be. If I can, I'd be honored to have the three of you along, as well."

"Cygnus might disagree. I don't think he cares all that much for my father," muttered Thorimund.

"Neither do you," said Arwald, frowning.

"That's beside the point," replied the wizard testily, but Aslan was no longer listening. He had shifted in his seat to look directly at Argo's wife.

"Caroline," he began hesitantly, "Argo specifically forbade me to bring you back-"

Unexpectedly, Caroline smiled and clasped the paladin's gauntleted hand in her own. "That's all right, Aslan. I know he'll be all right. Hopefully, you'll all be home soon."

Aslan peered at her. He couldn't see any sign in her eyes that her feelings for her husband had lessened. If anything, they seemed stronger than ever. Yet she seemed perfectly content to nursemaid an inn while he-

Caroline saw the confusion in Aslan's face. She stood up to leave, but as she walked by she bent low and whispered in the paladin's ear.

"It's all right, Aslan. When this whole slaver business is finally over, it really is going to be all right. For both Argo and me."

He turned his head around to peer at her again. His utter confusion remained, but then Caroline bent low again.

"Promise me, Aslan, that you will take care of yourself. You mean so much to us."

"I promise, Caroline," he whispered back, unsure of what else to do.

Mingled joy and grief flooded Caroline Bigfellow's face as she walked quickly- very quickly- out of the inn.

Sir Dorbin raised an eyebrow but offered no comment. "What's your first course of action, Aslan?" he asked.

The paladin considered. "Well, I was going to mindrest, but with the opportunity to take Wainold's men along, I'll forgo that and _teleport_ straight to Willip."

The druid's men seemed pleased. "Try either the Lord Mayor's office or the Wizards' Guild first," Thorimund offered. Aslan nodded. "Thanks," he said as they all rose from their chairs, but before Aslan could say his goodbuys, Sir Dorbin grabbed his arm.

"Aslan," the knight said, his voice grim. "Before you leave, go and speak to your horse. She- she misses you."


	138. Allies And Enemies, Friends And Traitors

**17****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Willip, Furyondy**

Aslan could not stop being preoccupied with errant thoughts as the paladin strode down the Land Leg's Road towards the Willip Wizard's Guild.

_Has it only been two days since I was here? Seems like a lifetime._

He noticed several people staring at him as he walked by. Aslan had enough local renown that some of them might have recognized him. Or it might have been the paladin's damaged plate mail that attracted their attention. He gave them no more than a passing glance as he headed towards his destination. Aslan certainly didn't feel like stopping to chat with any of them. He'd had plenty of talking already this morning, with much more still to come.

First had been the business at the Brass Dragon, of course. And then he'd gone out to check on his faithful steed, feeling rather guilty he hadn't thought to do so until Sir Dorbin had suggested it.

_Perlial's large brown eyes had been even more expressive than usual. White Lightning stepped respectfully back a few paces as Aslan removed his gauntlets and stroked his horse over her neck and face._

"_I am here, my old friend," Aslan said softly with a smile that he couldn't keep from being infected with sadness. "Please forgive me for my absences."_

_She whickered softly and nuzzled against him. "Always, Aslan. But can you ever forgive me?"_

_The paladin frowned in confusion. "Why would I ever need to do that?"_

_And Perlial told him. She told him of the nightmares she and White Lightning were still experiencing and how they had initially decided between them not to tell anyone, even Caroline, that they were continuing. Sir Dorbin however, had seemed suspicious, and eventually they had confided in them._

_Perlial's head hung low in a purely human gesture of shame. "Will Caroline ever forgive us? We should have told her, but she seemed so happy. We could not bear to sully that with vague warnings with no details."_

_This had peaked Aslan's curiosity. "What's Caroline so happy about these days, anyway?"_

_Perlial had turned back to White Lightning. The two exchanged a look that the paladin couldn't quite read and then the latter horse stepped forward._

"_We do not know. She said if she told us, one of you would worm the secret from us." The steed's expression almost seemed to show fear, and her great frame trembled slightly. "Will Elrohir forgive me, Aslan? Can any of you… ever forgive us?"_

_The paladin stepped forward, made an enveloping gesture with his arms and said, "Come here. Both of you, and listen to me."_

_They gingerly stepped forward, and Aslan gave each one as gentle a hug as he could while still armored up._

"_There is nothing to forgive, so the question is moot," Aslan said. "Even though we do not ride together as we did before, you two are symbols to each and every one of us."_

_The horses looked at each other in confusion and then back at Aslan, who smiled._

"_Symbols of what can be. So often evil seems to surround us or worse yet, the specter of corruption- weal turned to woe. Yet you remind all of us that even the greatest of evils can unknowingly spawn forth hope, worthiness and love."_

_The paladin's voice was calm. "You are all these to us, and the dearest of friends. We shall stand proudly together until the very end of our days."_

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Aslan had felt better after that, but his next conversation sucked the comfort right back out of his mind again. Sir Dorbin had been waiting for him when he exited the stables, with his own warning, this time about the three members of his party who would eventually be accompanying Aslan back to Suderham.

"_Aslan, heed me. It is foul fortune that I can spare you only Sir Menn, Sitdale and Unru." The knight held up a staying hand. "Now do not misunderstand me. They are all men of great courage, valor and ability. If not, they would not be a part of our band. Yet, they are the- how shall I say this- the ones most rough around the edges."_

_The paladin had smiled at the knight. "I've suffered Argo Bigfellow for years, good Sir. How bad could they be?"_

_Dorbin did not smile back. "They can be a handful. I speak of Unru in particular. Tell me, Aslan, have you spent any time with gnomes?"_

_Aslan had to admit he hadn't._

_Sir Dorbin nodded sagely. "Unru has. He is, as you've seen, a prankster supreme, and furthermore lacks the good sense to know when to stop. More than once, we've all become embroiled in a brawl caused by our illusionist friend." _

_A memory of Elrohir's flashing fist popped into Aslan's mind. "That can happen to all of us, Sir Dorbin."_

"_True," the knight admitted, "but to some more frequently than others, it seems. Now, Unru is a brilliant battle tactician, but even there he carves his own way, often making decisions on the spur of the moment. Outside of battle, you must keep a tight rein on him. Unru's attention span is short and his instinctive desire to tweak the nose of almost anyone he encounters could be disastrous, given the particulars you've told me of your mission. Sir Menn and Sitdale will fall into line if you can control Unru, but I can almost guarantee you he may resist your authority at first. You have my leave to use any measures you deem necessary towards this end."_

Aslan had thanked Sir Dorbin and departed, but despite the fact that he had gotten the reinforcements he had come back home for, the paladin had an unsettled feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with teleportation.

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His first stop upon arriving at Willip had been the City Hall, which was bustling with activity even this early in the morning. The paladin had been forced to wait almost an hour to speak with the mayor, which irritated him, as much as for the fact that he no longer bore such delays as unemotionally as he once did as for the actual wait itself. He supposed it a side effect of his long association with people like Elrohir, Argo and Caroline, who were all notoriously impatient with such things.

Still, the white-haired aristocrat gave a genuine smile of relief when he saw the paladin, which Aslan appreciated. The Honorable LaSalle Main had filled the paladin on the latest doings as quickly as possible.

"_We are done with Chic, and I must say, it gave me great satisfaction to see the tables turned on that monster. Wizards from the Guild used arcana to peer into the fiend's mind. It was not easy. He resisted the spells of the first two mages they used, but then the Guildmaster himself was able to succeed. Chic does not know if the Emerald Serpent truly betrayed him or not, but the creature oddly seems not to care. His promises of a 'deliverer' are only empty words that came to him from, he claims- his new master, whose identity we could not divine- who will save him via a proxy. Yet there has been nothing to date, security is at its height, and the creature is due to meet its doom tonight."_

_This gave little comfort to Aslan. _

_LaSalle had continued. "We have additional information, gleaned from other sources. Nodyath continues to associate with Sbalt's brigand band, which is still somewhere within the Barony of Willip. They are forced to move constantly to avoid raids from our churches or the Wizard's Guild, and this hampers them from gaining any additional strength. Baron Chartrain has spared no expense in his efforts to bring these fugitives, particularly Nodyath, to final justice. However," the mayor admitted, "we do think it likely that the Emerald Serpent has managed to deliver that 'Chams clothing' you spoke of to him. I shudder to think what fell purpose he may have in mind for it."_

_Aslan had turned back to Main once the aristocrat had finished speaking. "If the authorities are done with Chic, why has he not been dispatched already?"_

_The Lord Mayor grimaced._

"_There was… a dispute over matters of jurisdiction. Both the Valorous and Cuthbertine churches wished to be the ones to deliver the death blow. The Guildmaster wizard didn't care one way or the other, but he insisted on the creature's corpse undamaged for study, and then there was…_

_LaSalle Main shook his head and favored Aslan with a wry smile._

"_Well, in the end it was all worked out. Both High Priests will be present tonight, as will Baron Chartrain himself and many other notable personages. It will be a public execution. Very instructive for the masses, or so they say." He stopped speaking with an air of distaste, but then seemed to remember something else. "Your druid friend will be there as well."_

"_Wainold? Do you know where he might be right now?"_

"_I am not certain, but I do know he spent a great deal of time with the Wizard's Guild while they were attempting to capture the beast. It'd probably be a good place to start."_

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The stone cylindrical tower of the Willip Guild of Wizards came into view as Aslan finished his reverie. He didn't have a good feeling about this. To him, large concentrations of arcanists carried the same potential for trouble as did taverns or brothels.

Worse, actually, Drunks and prostitutes couldn't fling _fireballs_.

He knocked on the door and waited. After only a few seconds, it opened.

It was all Aslan could do to keep his right hand from reaching for the hilt of his sword. A half-orc, larger than Argo, was gazing calmly down at him. It was probably the placid expression on the half-orc's face that reminded the paladin that first impressions could often be deceiving.

That, and the silver wizard's robes he was wearing.

Steel grey eyes peered down at the paladin from underneath a heavy brow and thick but well-trimmed eyebrows. He said nothing.

"Umm," Aslan managed after a moment. "Good morning to you, good sir. My name is Aslan. I am seeking the druid known as Wainold. Is he perchance here?"

"You're expected," the half-orc responded immediately in an unexpectedly quiet voice. He turned his back on the paladin. "Follow me."

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Aslan followed the wizard around a short sloping corridor and then up two flights of stairs to a corridor that seemed to encircle the interior. Numerous paintings adorned the dark grey stone walls, but Aslan didn't recognize any of the portraits or tableaus.

The half-orc pushed open a door to reveal a large room that apparently took up the entirety of this floor. It featured a thick, bright red wall-to-wall carpet and a half-moon shaped table made of dark wood, possibly ipt. The mage gestured Aslan inside, then closed the door behind him.

Seated at the table was Wainold. An unopened decanter of wine and two glasses were nearby. The druid looked up, and gestured towards one of the other chairs scattered around the room.

"Grab a seat, Aslan. I'd give a cheerier welcome, but you don't make purely social calls, do you?"

The druid's hazel eyes raked the paladin over. He wasn't smiling.

"It's been known to happen," Aslan replied as casually as he could while pulling up a chair and easing his armored bulk down upon it. "How'd you know I was coming?"

Wainold snorted. "The natural world is all around you, paladin. Animals, plants, wood, stone, sky. Unstick your holy head from your sacred ass. Look. Listen. Become friends with what's really out there, and you'll know things even your Talent could never tell you."

"Then you know why I'm here, as well?" Aslan forced himself to concentrate on the druid's face as he unstoppered the decanter and poured two glasses of wine.

Wainold shook his head. "Only that I'm probably not going to like it."

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There was a long silence after Aslan had finished his tale and made his request.

Wainold did not look at the paladin. He drummed his fingers on the table, apparently lost in thought. Then he took his vine-wrapped oaken staff from where it had been leaning against the table. His right hand grasped it firmly while his left squeezed his ball-shaped beard. His eyes seemed clouded and dim, and Aslan had to fight back the urge to ask if he was communing with nature; perhaps with the wooden table.

Suddenly, the druid replaced his staff. His eyes snapped back into focus and he looked over to Aslan and shook his head again.

"No. I'm sorry, Aslan, but no."

The paladin took a deep breath. "May I ask why?"

"Those three have been with me for years; particularly Arwald. Despite their shortcomings, they've served me well in that time. This quest of yours really has no bearing on me. I see no reason to risk their lives on it."

Aslan leaned back as far as he dared in his chair. "Come on, Wainold. You're not going to give me that old "Balance" horse dung again, are you? You're a good man-"

The druid cut him short. "No. No, I'm not, Aslan. I'm just _a_ man, and as a man I'm part of nature. We all are, but most of humanity is just too stupid to realize it."

Really?" Aslan shot back. "So, you don't bother with abstract ideals like freedom? Let me give you a few names besides mine who might have disagreed with you."

Wainold looked at him sharply.

"Bar. Wanda. Huey. Pherat. Kolum."

There was another silence.

Wainold swallowed hard. One hand fingered his braided hair. His eyes seemed to have lost focus again.

"The Council of Ten," he breathed.

"Exactly," the paladin said. "Wasn't that long ago, was it? Only three or four years? Aside from Tadoa, you're the only one of the Council still alive. Now sit there and tell me the Council's work had nothing to do with the cause of goodness."

The druid seemed to be mustering up for a counterattack. "We plotted against the machinations of the Prince of Undeath himself, Aslan." His hazel eyes bore into the paladin's light blue ones. "Orcus is no friend of the natural order."

Aslan shrugged. "And Kar-Vermin? The Council aided us against him, as well."

"All of the undead are perversions," Wainold mumbled.

"That's not the point!" The paladin slammed his gauntleted hand down on the table, causing the druid to start. "You helped create the Council even though you were already a member of the Old Faith! But you never told your fellow druids about it, did you? If your work on the Council was so balance-based, why not? Was it because they would have accused you of putting the welfare of a part of nature- humanity- above that of nature as a whole?"

Wainold stared at him. His lips tightened and his fists clenched, but he said nothing.

"Like it or not, Wainold," Aslan continued, more softly now. "That part of you that cares about the fate of the innocent is very real. Sometimes it's closer to the surface than others, but it's never gone away, and Odin willing it never will. But whether you acknowledge it or not, it's there. We can see it."

The druid's eyes seemed to register something. Aslan nodded.

"That's the part of you that Argo calls _Wayne_."

Wainold harrumphed. "You think mentioning Bigfellow is going to sway me towards your cause? That alone makes me want to aid these Slave Lords against you!"

Aslan let his face break out in a big smile.

The druid snarled, waving his hand in front of the paladin's face. "I haven't changed my mind, Aslan! You also need to consider-"

Running footsteps from outside broke off the conversation. One of the four doors to this room swung open and a woman rushed in.

"Hogeth! I've just heard from Duplos! There's been a-"

She broke off, seeing that her quarry was not present. Wainold she took in with a quick glance that was evidence she'd seen him before, but then she stopped and stared at Aslan.

The young woman was astonishingly beautiful. Even Aslan, who all his life had made a conscious effort not to dwell on such things, couldn't help but see it. She had an enchanting heart-shaped face, lustrous raven-black hair, dark brown eyes and a curvaceous body clad in revealing golden robes. It all set off a long-standing instinct in the paladin to tense up.

The oddest thing of all was that this woman looked familiar. Then it hit Aslan.

_Marisee! Zantac's slave girl from Highport who turned out to be a doppelganger! Zantac_ _said she claimed to be the sister of a mage he knew back in Willip!_

The paladin's eyes suddenly narrowed.

_Which means this is Aimee. The one he suspects of being in league with the Emerald Serpent._

With a start, Aslan realized that he had completely missed several seconds of time. "You have a raven familiar?" Wainold was asking Aimee.

She nodded. "Something's gone wrong at the docks, where Chic is being held!" She shook her head in frustration. "I had a feeling something was going to happen- that's why I stationed Duplos there! But aside from Hogeth, there's no one else here now! Zelhile has taken everyone currently on active duty outside the city limits for a magic demonstration that he said was too dangerous to hold indoors."

_What an auspicious time for an escape attempt_, Aslan thought.

As if reading his thoughts, Aimee suddenly turned her eyes on him. "Well, _hello_ there," she purred. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

Aslan couldn't believe it. Aimee was suddenly as casual as if they had met by happenstance while strolling in a park.

Wainold jerked a thumb in his direction. "This is Aslan."

The magic-user's eyes grew wider. "Not the famed _Aslan the Paladin_?" she queried.

"Just Aslan will do fine, thank you," he replied, crossing his arms to get his point across.

Aimee seemed undeterred. In fact, as Aslan watched, her black hair turned a lighter shade of brown- an exact match for his own hair color. "Really? I'd always heard that being a paladin was an integral part of one's being- that you couldn't separate yourself from it."

Wainold growled at the paladin. "You and she ought to get together and discuss philosophy sometime." He then turned back to Aimee. "Hogeth, that's the half-orc, right? Have him contact Zelhile." The druid then stood up. "I guess you and I are heading off there now, eh?"

Aslan kept a slight smile on his lips as he stood up. It was easier facing the druid than Aimee.

"Ready to re-join the fight against evil, are we?"

Wainold snorted. "We're talking about a fiendish creature, Aslan! How much more of an affront to nature can you get? By the Shalm, there's no intelligence test to become a paladin, is there?"

"Oh, I don't know," put in Aimee. "I'd suspect he's very intelligent, indeed."

Aslan turned again in astonishment, but Aimee was already starting to close the door behind her. "I'll notify Hogeth. Oh, and Aslan… I hope we can meet again later under better circumstances."

The door shut but a moment again it opened and Aimee's face reappeared. "Oh. If any of you planning on casting any spells before you leave, I'd go outside first."

Her eyes dipped downwards before settling back on Aslan. Her lips curved in a predatory smile.

"We've had some trouble with the carpet."

The door closed behind her.

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Seconds later, the duo was also back out in the corridor. Aslan turned to Wainold. "You do realize that Aimee is probably in league with the Emerald Serpent, and by extension Chic as well? This could all be one horrific trap, you know."

The druid gazed down the corridor. "Figures," he grunted at last. "The evil ones are always the most beautiful, aren't they?'

"Not necessarily," Aslan countered.

Wainold stared at the paladin, but no elaboration was forthcoming.

Because Aslan had absolutely no idea what had made him say those words in the first place.

The druid dismissed this with a shake of his hand. "Hold out your arm."

"What?"

"Common your second language, is it? _Hold out your arm!_ Fast as I can be, you're faster. Come on, let's go!"

When the paladin lifted his gaze from his outstretched arm he was taken aback to see that Wainold had disappeared. A red-tailed hawk settled serenely on his arm with a flutter of wings.

Aslan could have sworn the hawk was sneering at him as they teleported away.


	139. Aslan Versus Chic

**17****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dockyards, Willip, Furyondy**

The first things Aslan heard when they appeared at the docks were the screams.

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The paladin was standing about twenty feet off to the one side of the entranceway to the _Chartrain Shipping_ warehouse. The large dock doors had been torn from their hinges. A smell of wood burning and a faint orange glow came from within, although he could see no smoke. Screams and shouts continued to issue from inside, along with what almost sounded like… the beating of wings.

The hawk took off from Aslan's arm and flew inside. The paladin was just starting to follow when he realized that not all the noise was coming from inside the warehouse.

He glanced off to his left and gasped. The warehouse sat only about fifty or feet or so from one of the lakeside piers.

Halfway between the warehouse and the pier was Chic. The monster was battling a sword-wielding warrior armed in chainmail and a shield. A similarly-clad man sprawled dead or dying on the ground a few feet to their rear.

This was worse than Aslan had hoped for, but given his battle plan he realized he had no reason not to expect it. Indeed, Chic might have already escaped back into the waters of the Nyr Dyv by now. The creature was certainly making an effort to do so, but his opponent was either suicidal or stubborn in his determination to prevent that.

What the man wasn't going to be, Aslan thought frantically as he drew his longbow and notched an arrow, was victorious. His sword swings were bouncing off the fiendish creature's wet brown fur. He'd already been clawed or bitten once himself, and it seemed that-

The man screamed in rage as he attacked futilely once again and with a start Aslan recognized him.

"Quthfor!" the paladin yelled. "Fall back! Get your companion out of there! You can't hurt him!"

He let loose his arrow. He was not surprised to see the steel-tipped point bounce off Chic's backside.

But at least he had both of their attentions now.

Quthfor shouted back, "Don't let him make the lake!"

It was an unnecessary warning. Aslan was well aware Chic was more powerful in his home environment and was just as determined as Quthfor had been that the monstrosity wasn't going to reach it.

And as the Journeyman began to edge his way back towards where either Mr. Not or Mr. Right- Aslan had forgotten their real names- lay motionless, Chic's red eyes seemed to glow even more brightly as they regarded the paladin. His whiskers twitched and his mouth opened, revealing his long, needle-like teeth.

_I spoke the truth, Aslan, though you did not believe. Has my good friend come to see me off?_

"No," Aslan replied through gritted teeth as he moved forward and to the right, turning Chic's attention away from Quthfor. He drew another arrow and notched before shouting the rest.

"Your good friend has come to see you die!"

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Chic was already in motion towards him as he released the arrow. The shaft shattered as it struck the creature's shoulder. The Child of Valente's smile grew still wider as it charged. Chic's back legs were longer than his front ones, so his land-bound gait was somewhat awkward, but the creature still covered the distance between the two in an instant as Aslan dropped his bow. There wasn't even time to unsling his shield before the beast was on him.

Aslan sidestepped to the right and ducked as Chic's jaws plunged towards him. One of the teeth pierced a leather donning strap next to Aslan's shoulder and as the beast reared and snapped his head back, one of Aslan's pauldroons- the plates covering his shoulders- was ripped completely off.

A mental giggle sounded in Aslan's brain. _So much work to reach the soft meat underneath. I do hope the taste is worth the effort._

The paladin did not reply, either mentally or otherwise. He kept his mind as neutral as possible while keeping his attention focused on his foe.

The jaws came at him again, but this was merely a faint. As Aslan evaded the monster's teeth, he saw too late the claw coming at him.

The neck covering stopped some of it, but two nails still slashed the paladin from his chin all the way up his face. Worse, the impact sent him reeling several steps, barely able to keep his balance. Blood dripped off Aslan's face to the ground, and his heart pounding in his chest overwhelmed all other sounds but his own cry of pain.

The paladin backpedaled several feet, his fists clenched in agony. Chic started to follow, but then glanced wistfully back over his shoulder at the water. When he looked back again at the paladin, he saw Aslan, both hands on his knees, slowly rise to face him again.

Aslan's right eye was closed, and blood splatters covered a good portion of his face. Curiously to Chic, he had made no attempt to heal himself.

"You… you should have done it, Chic," the paladin gasped.

The fiendish creature tilted its head._ What- swam away? Soon enough, my good friend, soon enough._

"No," Aslan responded, before taking one last deep breath and suddenly lunging straight at Chic, one hand already reaching for his sword hilt.

_"You should have read my mind, you abomination!"_

Chic screamed as the cold iron blade sunk deeply into his flesh.

The Child of Valente scrabbled backwards and rearing up, and the blade slid back out, but the agony was enduring. Chic tore into Aslan's mind. The paladin's trickery was laid out there for him to see plainly, but in those few seconds, Aslan had struck again, drawing a long gash along Chic's left flank.

Chic snapped his head around and vomited a reddish ichor in a pungent stream directly into Aslan's face.

The smell was literally too fiendish to endure. The paladin gasped, suddenly unable to breathe. His left hand clawed at his throat, which was desperately trying to find some air; any air that wasn't poisoned by this ghastly smell.

The monster did not hesitate to press its advantage. He lunged at his stricken foe with both front claws out. Aslan was knocked backwards and landed flat on his back. Instantly, Chic pinned him there.

Blood- whose, he couldn't say- dripped from between those teeth and landed on the paladin's chest plate. The smell was starting to fade, but Aslan's sword arm was completely immobilized.

Chic leaned in close.

_Goodbye, Aslan, my friend._

Aslan's face, considering the circumstances, grew remarkably calm.

"Actually, the name is Grock."

A left fist roughly the same color and shape of a very large rock slammed into the side of Chic's head. The beast shrieked with pain but then its head lunged down, the jaws clamping down on the ogre's right hand. With an effort that saw at least one of its own teeth being ripped out of its mouth, the fiendish creature forced Aslan to let go of the cold iron sword. Fresh blood spurted from the paladin's right wrist.

Grock grabbed Chic around the throat and the two of them rolled over and over, locked in a death grapple.

Sky and dirt spun around each other with dizzying speed. The remnants of Chic's vile fluids were still preventing the paladin from thinking clearly, but that by itself wasn't the real problem. A well thought-out battle plan was merely a plan Chic could uncover with _telepathy_ all the easier. Aslan was going to have to not only fight like an ogre, but think like one, to win.

He tried to tuck his feet underneath him so as to be able to kick the monster off him, but Chic kept his sinuous body too close for that. He continued to bite and claw at Aslan's neck, arms and sides.

The paladin fired off a _psionic blast, _but Chic shrugged it off.

The fiendish creature sunk his teeth into Grock's left shoulder and held on tight. Blood welled up around the monster's mouth.

Aslan cried out in pain again.

There was no doubt about it. He was _not_ winning this battle.

Aslan healed himself via his own paladin's grace, rather than through his Talent. His left shoulder still hurt, and for a horrible moment he thought his flesh might have healed up with Chic's jaws still embedded inside, but the giant otter-like thing raised its bloody snout to stare at him. Chic had apparently never seen magical healing so close-up before.

Both combatants were panting heavily from the strain. Aslan tried to crane his head around to see where his longsword might be, but he couldn't. He was about to _polymorph_ into a fly in order to escape being pinned and give himself some breathing room when something caught both his and Chic's attention.

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A ball of fire nearly as wide as a man came rolling out from the warehouse. It bounced along the dirt street and came to rest about ten feet from Aslan and his foe.

Chic peered at Aslan again, but the paladin's mind could offer him nothing. He honestly had no idea whether the flaming sphere came from Wainold or from something the druid was fighting in there.

But Grock acted before thinking.

The ogre wrapped both arms around Chic and lumbered to his feet. The beast squealed and thrashed about. Chic's oily skin, mixed with his blood, made it impossible for Aslan to hang on for long. He could already feel his grip loosening-

With a shout, Aslan toppled forward, keeping Chic in front of him. They landed right next to the fiery orb. Using his weight to keep the fiendish creature immobilized for as long as possible, Grock grabbed Chic around the neck with both hands and shoved the monster's face into the fire.

Chic screamed. His whiskers caught fire. His skin began to smoke. He bucked, he twisted, he roared.

Aslan's warty ogre's hands began to blister and burn. He was dimly aware of another figure approaching, but he couldn't make it out. The combined smell of burning flesh was horrible; it was squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't hold on, he couldn't-

Chic slipped free. The beast bolted from Grock's grip and turned back towards the water. The Child of Valente paused only to sneer at the paladin from a half-melted face.

_I will return, Aslan! From myself or from my master, you will suffer a thousandfold for this! Know that-_

At that moment, Chic screamed, and his agony crashed directly into Aslan's mind through the telepathic link. The paladin was blown down on his back again from the mental force. He threw his arm over his eyes, but tidal waves of pain continued to crash against his brain. It was just like being psionically attacked.

Then the waves became surf, which became ripples, which became nothing.

Aslan opened his eyes.

With a grunt, Quthfor yanked Aslan's cold iron longsword out of Chic's unmoving body. The Journeyman looked so fatigued; he seemed barely able to avoid dropping the blade. He glanced at it silently, and then looked up at the ogre again.

"So," he panted, "how much do they charge for a blade like this?"

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Aslan wanted to get away from this area, but it wasn't easy. Arriving guards were quickly followed by wizards, priests, Sir Charlt and then an uncounted mass of people, all shouting questions and demanding explanations that the paladin didn't have to give them. He'd finally have to nearly beg the Lord Mayor that he would return later and give him a full report.

He had healed himself fully as soon as the battle had ended, and had then managed to save Robert, aka "Mr. Right." Quthfor refused any healing for himself, as did Wainold, who snorted he could heal himself later just fine.

Inside the warehouse, Robert's brother Bertram, "Mr. Not," had serious but not life-threatening wounds, which Aslan healed anyway. But of the nine city guards who had been stationed inside with him however, Aslan had been able to save only one.

The paladin sighed and tried to shake away the sight of all those corpses lying inside the warehouse next to the shattered remains of Chic's cage. He was walking alongside the druid and the Journeymen.

"So what was that in the warehouse?" Aslan asked Wainold, in an effort to distract himself.

"Mephits," the druid replied grimly. Wainold was limping slightly, but using his staff for support, could still keep up with his armored companions. "Elemental spirits," he added tersely, seeing the uncomprehending look on Aslan's face.

"Evil?" asked Aslan.

Wainold shook his head. "Not as such, but summoned for evil purposes."

Quthfor filled in some more of the story. "I'd managed to have Bertram and Robert here hired on opposing shifts for added protection." The sellsword grimaced. "They wouldn't hire me, though. Tightwad bastards," he muttered, and then looked over to Bertram, who picked up the thread.

"I'd had the overnight shift, and I knew my brother was coming to relieve me- I'm glad Quthfor was walking with him- so I was getting ready to leave. I'd been in the far back of the warehouse, um, taking care of business in the privy. As I stared to head back towards the front, I could hear the guards arguing with someone there. I don't know who it was, but they were angry with him, hurling all sorts of vile curses at the man. Not at all their usual behavior, but I guess Chic's constant telepathic tormenting had them all on edge." He shrugged.

"Then I heard it- a chiming."

"A chiming?" repeated the paladin, frowning.

The young mercenary seemed to struggle for the words. "That's the best way I can put it. Like the sound you'd get if you struck a pair of wind chimes, or maybe it was some kind of musical instrument- I don't know."

The sellsword's expression suddenly hardened and he stopped walking.

"Then I heard the flapping of wings, and as the chiming sound continued, I heard more and more of them. Then there were shouts and screams and the sound of breaking glass. When I came around the corridor, there were at least five of those… _things…_ there. They looked like devils, only they were made of things like fire and steam, ice and water..." Bertram shook his head. "they'd already smashed the cage. I saw Chic start attacking the bay doors, but those mephitis weren't leaving. They had started attacking those men. I joined in- I suppose keeping Chic from leaving was my highest priority, but- I wasn't going to leave them to their fate. I…"

The sellsword rubbed his eyes furiously, looking down at the street beneath him.

"You did right, son." Quthfor's voice was firm but gentle. "You don't leave your fellows-in-arms."

"For all the good it did them," Bertram muttered without looking up.

Robert laid a hand on his brother's shoulder from behind. They all stood there for a moment and then continued walking on in silence.

"Lieutenant Daxen- the one you saved," Bertram eventually continued, his eyes flicking momentarily to Aslan. "Once he's rested up a bit, I'm sure he'll be able to tell you more about the man who'd been there. He had fled out the personnel door- I never saw him."

The silence resumed. This time it was Quthfor who broke it, with a gesture towards Aslan's sheathed sword. "That's not the same sword you had the last time we met, Aslan."

The paladin smiled, embarrassed. "You're right. I lost that one to a rust monster, but the one I replaced it with was another ordinary steel sword. "When I was ready to _teleport_ here with Wainold, I decided at the last second to make a little detour."

The druid snorted but couldn't keep a small smile of admiration off his weathered face. "I'll say. When we appeared in that weaponsmith's shop instead of at the docks, I was about ready to peck your eyes out."

Aslan nodded. "I had seen this blade hanging on the wall the last time I was there, but I hadn't been able to afford it at the time."

The paladin suddenly stopped, his eyes widening. "Ye gods! I told the smith I only needed to borrow this, and that I'd be right back with it!" He drew the sword and inspected it.

Quthfor shook his head with a wry smile. "I don't think he's going to want it back now, Aslan. Fiendish blood doesn't wash off so easily, and I hardly think he's going to accept the sword you left him as a substitute."

"I know," Aslan replied sourly, looking now at his own blood-stained body. He glanced over at Wainold. "The problem is- I still don't have the money to buy it."

The druid rolled his eyes. "Great. You not only want my cohorts for your pointless quest, but now you want my coin as well? Tell me, Aslan; aside from the fun of being constantly attacked, is there any benefit to being associated with you at all?"

"Quest?" Quthfor interjected, his eyebrows raised. "What are you involved in, Aslan?"

The paladin regarded the mercenary leader. Quthfor's hazel eyes regarded him keenly from under his shock of curly blonde hair.

Should he tell him? Should he ask them to join? His party back in Suderham had more than enough gold to hire the Journeymen for the duration; he was sure, and yet-

_Loyalty brought with money is no loyalty I'd trust. _Aslan's own words echoed in his ears, and while he was sure Quthfor would never sell them out for a higher offer, he was equally sure these three sellswords would not join them if they were not paid for their efforts, and for the kind of trouble they were in, Aslan wanted more than battle prowess. He wanted _devotion_.

Of course, at this point he wasn't sure if he was going to get that from Unru or his associates either. Still, if he could still convince Wainold to part with his three men, that'd be more than enough. It was going to take a long time to _teleport_ back with them all as it was. Adding three more would add too many days to their deadline.

Aslan, stopped walking again, as did the others.

"I will tell you about it when we meet again, Quthfor," the paladin said, smiling. "Know for know that we have all the manpower we need. Thank you again for coming to my aid back there. You said last time that you wished we could have stood in battle together. I hope this satisfied that desire."

Quthfor grimaced. "Next time I'll know to keep my big mouth shut." The Journeyman stuck out his hand. "All right, then. We're still staying at the Billet, should you change your mind. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Aslan."

The paladin shook Quthfor's hands, and then those of Robert and Bertram as well. "Stay well and healthy, you three."

Wainold and Aslan watched as the sellswords moved off. The druid then turned his gaze back to Aslan.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You tell me, paladin. Was that a trap or not? Are you going to go back to the Wizard's Guild and give that Aimee a paladin smiting, or spanking, or whatever you call it?"

Aslan threw the druid his best version of Argo's pained smile. "Very funny." He reflected. "There's no sign that this was a trap _per se_, but it was no coincidence either. Chic gets his promised breakout at the precise moment the Willip wizards are unable to quickly respond? Aimee knew that. All she had to do was make a big concerned show to Hogeth and fret about how no one could _possibly_ get to the docks in time to stop Chic."

Wainold grunted. "But she didn't plan on a wild-shaping druid or a teleporting paladin being there. Still, that's hardly a basis for placing her under arrest. You said yourself that the Emerald Serpent had abandoned Chic, although we don't know if Nodyath has, as well." The druid paused. "I guess all we have to go on is your own perception."

Aslan glanced at him. Wainold noticed and scowled back.

"You know what I mean! Those abstract paladin powers of yours that are supposedly so useful! Was there an aura of evil around Aimee or not?"

Aslan started, and then a deep sense of embarrassment hit him. He could feel his face turning red from shame.

He'd been thrown so off-kilter by Aimee's appearance, he'd never even scanned her.

The druid read all this in the paladin's face. He threw up his hands in despair.

"By the Shalm, the man's a moron!" Wainold shook his head fiercely, causing his braids to whip around his weathered face, one actually wrapping around his projecting beard. The druid didn't seem to notice as he started counting off on his fingers. "I'll need to make sure Galgia is safe- black bears are favorites of hunters. I'll need to heal up first and then pick up my armor, more weapons and some other supplies as well. Here," he muttered, pulling three small pearls from his belt pouch and plunking them into Aslan's hand. "Go and pay that poor smith for that sword of his you stole, _paladin_." He seemed to enjoy stressing that word.

Aslan couldn't hide his confusion. "What are you talking about, Wainold? Are you saying you're going to let your men come back with me, after all?"

Wainold's laugh of derision sounded remarkably like a bark.

"My men, under your leadership? Ha! They've never failed me so badly as to deserve _that_ kind of punishment!"

The druid took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his staff. He glared at Aslan and gave what sounded like a sigh of defeat.

"I guess I'm coming along, as well."

A bright smile spread all over Aslan's face. "I knew you were a good man, Wainold."

"Don't start that again." The druid frowned at a thought. "That lout, Unru- as soon as he knew Argo liked to call me- that name- he wouldn't stop doing it. By the Hidden Wood, I won't be responsible if I wind up clawing both of them to death, Aslan."

His expression softened momentarily. "Still, I suppose there's the chance, that in their bid to outdo each other in an effort to exasperate me, they'll wind up destroying each other."

"Don't worry, Wainold," Aslan said with as much reassurance as he could possible cram into his voice, feigned or otherwise. "Everyone knows our mission is more important than personal agendas. I'm sure we'll all get along splendidly."

Another bark.


	140. Boiling Point

**20****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

Elrohir was glad that their quest was going to resume tomorrow.

One more day cramped up together like this, and tempers might hit the boiling point.

The team leader sighed and looked around again at the large number of people crammed into the remains of the Leatherworker's Guild. It was late in the evening, but no one particularly seemed in the mood to retire. They sat in small cliques talking, or alone in silence.

There were other, smaller rooms than the one in which they all currently sat, but the ranger had discouraged anyone from using them other than as a privy. It was distasteful in the extreme, but their options were limited. With one exception, no one could dare risk going outside.

Wainold was not able to assume so small a shape as Aslan could, but as a hawk he could easily slip in and out through one of the holes in the ceiling of the building's upper levels for his scouting forays. The second story was not structurally safe for the most part, and only Aslan stayed there, sleeping in polymorphed form. He had originally intended to sleep downstairs with the others, but Unru had started laughing so loud at the paladin's snoring that it was the only place he could find peace.

Now Elrohir watched as long-time friend finished up the last of his evening meal- assorted fruits created via Talass' faith. It was no secret that whatever food the priestess of Forseti created always tasted like a pale imitation of whatever form it assumed, but it was sustaining, and that was the important part. The water at least was always clear and fresh; better than wellwater by far.

Aslan was staring into the center of the room now, a somber expression on his face. Around Cygnus' _continual light_ pendant was scattered everybody's armor; a huge jumble of leather and metal. Greaves, gauntlets, pauldroons, breast plates, sabatons, gorgets and helms lay in a heap like the scavenged pickings of battle. Sir Menn's full plate was conspicuous by its relative cleanliness and by its visored helm.

Elrohir could see that the paladin wasn't looking at the armor pile. He was lost in thought, although the ranger didn't know about what. These days Aslan seemed to have enough worries, concerns and troubles for several men, and Elrohir wasn't sure how to comfort him.

Aslan noticed Elrohir watching him. The paladin brushed the dust off his cotton green shirt and brown trousers and favored his group leader with a wan smile that nevertheless spoke volumes to the ranger. It was a smile of encouragement

Elrohir was about to try and think up something encouraging to say back to Aslan when he noticed Argo and Cygnus, who had been huddled together nearby, stand up and approach the ranger. As they squatted down beside him, Elrohir could see that their expressions clearly indicated they did not wish to be overheard.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Cygnus looked over at Argo. "You go first," the mage said. Bigfellow nodded and began.

"This is how we see it, Elrohir. You know we've done some sparring with our new allies, to test their capabilities; as often as your good wife can afford to send a _silence_ our way, anyway."

Elrohir nodded his understanding.

"Well," Bigfellow continued. "Sir Menn's and Arwald's fighting skills are on a par with our own- perhaps slightly less, but not by much. Sitdale's skills are rudimentary, but since he's also a wizard and a priest-and I think he cobbles shoes on the side, too- I'm not that concerned. It's Hengist that worries me. It looks like he's no more experienced than he was the last time we met- and that was years ago."

"Argo says Caroline could still probably beat him in a fight," Cygnus added. "And there's more. We had a little wizardly get-together earlier; swapping notes, organizing what spells we're going to prepare for tomorrow and so forth. Well, it turns out Thorimund, son of the great Thormord of Willip, is still the same neophyte he was the last time we met; a first-tier wizard."

The ranger shrugged at the phrase. "Give that to me in layman's terms, Cygnus."

The tall wizard sighed. "He's significantly less powerful than Zantac. His spell inventory is probably less than half of mine."

"Can't you give him some of your spells to copy?"

Cygnus shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Elrohir. He couldn't grasp how to use them."

Elrohir looked over. Hengist was sitting with Wainold and Arwald. They had been playing a dice game, but now appeared to have abandoned it. Wainold was talking to his cohorts; perhaps giving him some instructions for tomorrow.

"Any suggestions?" Elrohir asked."

Argo shook his head. "Not really. If we suggest Wayne leave them behind, he'll erupt worse than Mount Flamenblut ever has. He's made it plain he's not happy to be here in the first place. We'll just have to watch over them as best we can."

"We're not planning to get into a massive free-for-all with the Slave Lords, anyway," put in Cygnus, "so hopefully it won't become an issue. When you come up with the new marching order, stick them in the middle- they should be a little bit safer there."

The team leader nodded. "All right. Thanks for the heads up." Cygnus nodded back and rejoined Zantac, Unru and Sitdale, but Bigfellow's auburn eyes flashed to a darkened corner of the room before alighting again on Elrohir.

"Any change in Tojo?" he asked quietly.

Elrohir glanced around as well, even though he knew full well what he would see.

"No," he whispered back.

Argo bit his lip. He seemed about to say something more, but then just nodded and moved away.

Elrohir looked over- not at Tojo again, but at Sir Menn.

* * *

Even out of armor, Sir Menn dressed better than anyone else. Currently clad in a ruffled silk shirt of navy blue and matching cotton trousers, the knight was folding up his blue traveling cloak, presumably for a pillow. He glanced over at Elrohir, but the ranger quickly turned his eyes away.

It really wasn't his fault, Elrohir knew. Even among his closest friends, inadvertently trampling on the samurai's sense of honor- or worse, his own perceived lack of honor- was a mistake they all seemed to make sooner or later.

_No one had paid any attention earlier the previous day, when Sir Menn had been sitting together with Tojo and talking. The topic had apparently come around to the fistfight with the rakes that had sent them all into hiding._

"_I don't understand," Sir Menn had said. "If everyone, including you, had been engaged only in fisticuffs, why would you risk ruining your mission by-"_

_And Yanigasawa Tojo had leapt to his feet, his eyes ablaze. His shout was undercut with pauses between each word, in which he seemed to continually renew the urge to resist drawing his katana on the spot._

"_Daisho… are… for… samurai… ONRY!"_

_He'd then stalked off to a corner, lit only by the very fringes of the continual light. He'd sat in lotus position, facing the corner- and had not moved since except to curl up there and go to sleep._

_It had not helped that when Elrohir and his friends described the general nature of bushido and the status of a samurai's weapons, Sir Menn would only partially apologize._

"_Look, I am sorry for upsetting your friend," he huffed. "But he's not in Nippon now, and he's going to have to learn to adapt. I'm an easy-going fellow, so I don't mind. But look what happened earlier. You're all fugitives now because of him. There's a time and a place for everything, you know."_Elrohir rubbed his eyes, thinking. He had to admit; sometimes he shared Menn's sentiments. Even before Tojo's dishonor had been brought out into the open, they'd all had to make adjustments for the samurai, rather than the other way around.

* * *

But what was the alternative?

When he looked up again, it was to see Nesco Cynewine stand up and head on over towards the samurai. His fellow ranger was still clad in her grey blouse and long pants, but she had her overcoat slung over one arm.

* * *

Tojo still sat in the half-darkness, unmoving. Nesco could see several pieces of fruit laying nearby, untouched. She could hear his deep, consciously regulated breathing.

She took a deep breath and squatted down to his left and slightly behind.

"Tojo-sama?" she whispered.

The samurai did not respond.

Nesco held out her coat where she was sure Tojo could see it in his peripheral vision. "The temperature is dropping again, Tojo. I've already got a blanket in my bedroll. I thought- I thought perhaps you could use this to help keep you warm."

Still nothing.

Trembling slightly, Nesco laid the coat down next to him. "Well, it's here if you want it."

Tojo continued to stare at the wall.

Nesco was about to murmur a good-night and head back to her spot when she stopped.

No matter how difficult the words might be for her to say, she felt she owed them to him.

"Tojo-sama," the ranger said quietly. "Sir Menn and the others- they think you're feeling guilty, but I- that is, us; we know that's not the case. Guilt implies you're sorry for what you did and if you had the chance, you would have acted differently. We know that's not it- you'd do the same thing a hundred times over, because you are samurai. We know it hurts you that holding to your honor as you must do sometimes hurts the feelings of your friends. People you care for."

She hesitated. "People you love."

The samurai's breathing lessened. The ranger had the impression his eyes had started dancing around.

"I know sometimes… it's hard to share things like that. Confessions. Experiences."

Tojo turned to look at her. The striking color of the samurai's eyes was not visible in the dim light, but they looked directly into her own.

Nesco was suddenly frightened, even if she didn't know why. She held his gaze though, and even managed a tentative smile.

Tojo nodded to her once, and then turned back to the wall. His utterance was so soft, Nesco barely heard it.

"_Domo arigato gozimas, Nesco-san."_

Nesco wasn't sure what that meant- an acknowledgement, perhaps even an expression of thanks. It seemed clear that, whatever it was, it was all Yanigasawa Tojo had to offer this evening.

She rose back to a standing position. "Good night, Tojo-sama," she whispered again, and then walked away.

The samurai resumed his meditative breathing. His left hand, seemingly of its own accord, moved slowly along the floor next to him until it was touching the woolen overcoat.

* * *

"Hey, flagpole. You still with us?"

Cygnus started at Zantac's voice. He hadn't even realized his attention had wandered. He looked back to his companion. He, Zantac, Unru, Thorimund and Sitdale were all sprawled out on the floor around a pile of spellbooks and stray pieces of parchment, vellum and paper.

"I was thinking about Thellent. I'm worried about him."

Zantac looked confused for a moment, and then nodded over towards Wainold.

"You mean because of that announcement he overheard?"

Cygnus nodded. Even now, he could recall Wainold's report from his scouting forays into the city.

* * *

The initial news had been bad, but no less than they were expecting. Their true names, along with their aliases had been posted up on several announcement pillars around Suderham, complete with sketches. There were also proclamations about the discovery of the bodies of the real Alomovar and his bodyguards, as well as the assault upon the rakes. Apparently, the youth Tojo had stabbed had survived.

It was the next thing of importance that the polymorphed Wainold had seen that worried

Cygnus. A young priest of the Earth Dragon was making a proclamation in front of the slave amphitheatre in the middle of the city. He was quickly gathering a crowd.

"_Heed me, citizens of Suderham, for my words come from the Voice of the Sacred Scaly One! These invaders must be rooted out and destroyed, for their presence in anathema to our Lord! You all remember his displeasure several days ago- that is but the merest taste of what may come if they are not found! If this happens, do not bemoan your fate, for we are not blameless. The strangers have found aid from within!_

_The crowd, which had been muttering during all this, went silent._

"_It is the truth! Traitors, perhaps from the highest levels of our society, have been giving succor to those who would destroy us! The fate of these vermin, once unmasked, shall be no better than the intruders themselves- they shall be cast into the caverns to be devoured by the Earth Dragon!"_"I'm sure Thellent will be fine." Zantac sounded confident. "From what you told me, he was extremely careful not to do or say anything which could be deemed treasonous."

* * *

"But not the night before," Cygnus replied, frowning. "We got him drunk as a skunk."

Zantac was resolute. "I don't think just _talking_ about The Nine is illegal, Cygnus. And Thellent is just a sage, anyway. That's hardly 'the highest levels of society.'

Cygnus narrowed his eyes. "You're thinking of someone in particular?"

"No," replied Zantac after a short pause. "But the Slave Lords are."

The tall wizard pondered this. "Then why not just name-"

"Excuse me, people."

Everyone turned towards Elrohir.

* * *

"I'd like your attention, please."

The ranger got to his feet and walked towards the center of the circle, stopping only when he reached the edges of the armor pile. His blue eyes swept around the room, meeting each face in turn.

Even Tojo's. Elrohir knew that he was still the samurai's commander, and he was honor-bound to obey any order given. Tojo remained where he was, but he turned his body around so that he now faced towards the room.

"All right, people. We need to turn in soon. Now aside from the two who will actually be going to _The Rose_, the rest of us will still be waiting here."

There were a few groans at this, but the ranger ignored them. "However, I want all us ready to move out at a moment's notice, and to be prepared for battle, if need be. Therefore, all warriors will don their armor once our brothel-goers depart. Now, each and every one of us should have two vials filled with potions of _invisibility_. Does everyone have theirs? Check again, and I want a verbal acknowledgement!"

There were more groans and mutterings. Backpacks and belt pouches were gone through. Slowly, a chorus of "yes" filled the room.

Elrohir stared at Tojo, who had slowly fingered his belt pouch without taking his eyes off the ranger. The samurai nodded.

The group leader continued to glare. "I want to hear _yes_, Tojo."

Even from here, the samurai's jaw could be seen clenching.

"Yes, Errohir-san."

Elrohir nodded. "Thank you." He then returned his attention to the room at large. "Hopefully, these will give us just enough time to reach any destination we might need to reach, be it the brothel or someplace else. We'll probably have to hustle though, so be prepared to do some running."

"I'll do one last reconnaissance before the mages leave. I don't want them falling afoul of any last minute preparations the authorities might have set up."

Elrohir stared at Wainold, who his met eyes without flinching.

The idea certainly seemed tactically sound to the ranger. He only wished the druid had broached it to him beforehand. Now it sounded like Wainold was merely attempting to assert his independence. And at the wrong time, as far as Elrohir was concerned.

"Talk to me about that in the morning," the ranger replied, trying hard to keep his voice level. Before Wainold could protest, he moved on. "Has our arcane contingent decided on which members are going?"

The five wizards looked at each, and then at the others. It almost seemed to an exasperated Elrohir that they were making a game out of it.

Then Zantac and Unru clambered to their feet.

Elrohir asked the obvious question. "How will you disguise yourself, Zantac?"

By way of reply, Unru stepped back from Zantac, took his yellow chapeau off his head and offered it to the Willip wizard with a formal bow.

"I can glamor myself, oh fellow mage. I offer you the loan of my _hat of disguise, _my most prized possession."

Zantac smiled and took the proffered hat with elaborate formality. "And I thank you, Unru, for this magnificent gesture of generosity on your part." The magic-user tossed his orange chapeau aside and donned the yellow one. He turned to smile down at Cygnus. "Jaunty, no?"

"No," responded Cygnus truthfully, but Zantac's attention was already diverted by Unru, who had laid a friendly hand on his shoulder.

"And know this, Zantac. Should you lose that hat, I will slay you with a_ phantasmal killer."_

The room went quiet. Unru was smiling broadly as he said this, but Cygnus felt he detected something serious in the illusionist's brown eyes. He glanced over at Sitdale, who shook his head at him with a smile.

"Don't worry. He always says that."

"But has he ever done it?" Cygnus hissed back. _Phantasmal killer_ was a powerful spell by Cygnus' standards, capable of literally frightening an enemy to death. He had never learned it himself, although it was in Wimpell Frump's spellbook, which lay in the pile by them. Unru had already offered to buy the tome from them, but Cygnus had insisted that all matters of treasure would be deferred until after their mission was over, to which the illusionist had grumpily agreed.

Cygnus did not hear the half-elf's reply. Zantac was making elaborate promises of protection to Unru, which the latter seemed to accept gracefully.

"Remember," Unru added, pointing at the chapeau, "the hat won't disappear when you change, but it can become any form of head adornment you want- hat, helm, comb, ribbon, barrette, even a headband."

Zantac nodded in acknowledgement, and then turned back towards Elrohir. "Anything else, oh most thorough leader?"

There were few chuckles, which Elrohir didn't appreciate. "Just one," he said, frowning now. "I want you two to remember _why_ you are going to this place. Do whatever it takes to get us a lead on The Nine, but time is against us. Sooner or later we're going to be found out if we just sit here. I don't want you two spending a single second there longer than necessary!"

Zantac merely smiled in return, but Unru's face hardened. He crossed his eyes and stared back at the ranger.

"My, my. Such jealousy. One would almost think you're not a married man, Elrohir- or at least not a content one."

Talass shot to her feet, her warhammer instantly in hand.

"One would think a wizard couldn't be such a jackass either, but obviously such things can happen!" She turned back to her husband. "I think dear Unru here needs a gentle reminder about which parts of his anatomy are more important than others." She tapped the hammer's head into her cupped palm repeatedly while blowing an icy cold at the illusionist with her eyes.

Elrohir's eyes flickered to her, and then back to Unru. He kept his voice even.

"You will do _exactly_ as I tell you, Unru. Otherwise, someone else will go in your stead. Is that clear?"

The illusionist smiled, but his features remained hard.

"I only agreed to come along in the first place because there was a brothel involved, and if you think I'm going to deny myself an opportunity for a brief interlude of enjoyment just to satisfy your prudish morals, Elrohir, than you're sadly in need of some _fox's cunning."_

Elrohir didn't understand the reference entirely, but he was certain it was an insult. He could feel his own temper rising now. "You are here because Sir Dorbin _ordered_ you to come!" he shouted.

"He ordered me to _come_, not to _obey_!" Unru shouted back, all friendliness gone from his tanned face. "Once again, you're mistaken if you think that I dance to Dorbin's tune. We have an understanding. He lets me go my own way, and I help him out. Ask Aslan there if you don't believe me," he finished, pointing at the paladin.

Elrohir turned to his left, just in time to see Aslan slowly rise to his feet.

"Unru," the paladin said in as level a tone as his team leader had first used. "You will do everything Elrohir commands of you. No more, and no less."

"And if I don't?" the illusionist asked, rolling his eyes.

"I will make you," the paladin replied calmly.

Unru stared at Aslan in genuine astonishment for a moment, and then burst out into laughter.

Zantac stared at his fellow magic-user in horror. "This isn't funny, Unru!"

"Oh… but it _is_, Zantac... it is!" Unru was holding a stitch in his side from laughing so much, he had difficulty speaking. "Imagine… me… kowtowing to _him!"_

"Would you care for a demonstration?" Aslan asked quietly.

Unru instantly stopped laughing. He tilted his head and regarded the paladin. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Aslan nodded, his light blue eyes hard. "Oh, yes."

Unru's smile returned, but it was now cold and mirthless. "What are you going to do, Aslan? Turn into an ogre and smash me flat? Even if you could- and trust me, you couldn't- how would that gain you my trust; my respect?"

"There will be _no_ fighting here!" Elrohir yelled.

"Keep your voice down!" Talass hissed, pointing towards the wall, and by extension, the outside. She then looked at the others. "I'll throw a _silence_ over the lot of you if you don't-"

"Not to worry, dearest Talass," Unru cut in. Both Elrohir and her wife turned red from the adjective, but the illusionist quickly continued. "I have no intention of hurting anyone. Physically, anyway."

Aslan stared at him through narrowed eyes.

"Why be so crude when what's in here is so much more vulnerable?' Unru continued, tapping his temple with his finger, and then placing his hand over his heart. "Or even better, what's in _here_."

Sitdale's eyes widened. "By the Glades," the half-elf whispered. "The Revealing Duel."

Sir Menn frowned. "Aslan," he said. "You may wish to reconsider this. I don't condone what Unru is doing," the knight added with a fierce glare at the illusionist, "but he can be-"

"I'm not afraid of him," the paladin replied quietly. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"You think so?" Unru leered at him. "Think being a paladin makes you immune to all that? Poor, poor, deluded Aslan. You're the _ideal_ subject to have one's own hypocrisy, failings and embarrassments splattered all over the floor for all your friends to see! Without giving you so much as a scratch, I can have you curled up on the floor, crying like a baby!"

"And what about you?" Aslan responded. "Can _you_ handle being torn down like that?"

The illusionist laughed again. "Me? You know _nothing_ about me, Aslan- and even if you did, what powers do you have to bring such things to the fore? Your Talent? I've been around a Talent for years, remember? You have nothing I need fear, paladin."

Very slowly, Aslan raised his right arm out, and with his fingers beckoned Unru closer.

"Come on then, illusionist. Let's see what you've got."

* * *

Everyone rose to their feet-even Tojo- as the certainty of the situation became real. The circle was vacated as Aslan and Unru began to move slowly along the perimeter, keeping each other at about a forty foot distance.

"Aslan," Elrohir hissed. "Don't do this! As leader, _I_ should be the one to-"

"I'm sorry, Elrohir," Aslan replied without taking his eyes off his opponent. "I don't mean to co-opt your leadership, but Unru needs to be put in his place, and it's going to require my special powers to do it."

"Watch and learn, everyone!" Unru cried out like a carnival barker. "See what a phony the mighty Aslan really is!"

Silence descended over the room again. Unru's hand hovered by his spell component pouch, his fingers twitching.

The two men regarded each other.

"Your move, Unru," whispered Aslan.

Unru smiled.

With lightning speed, the illusionist's fingers dipped into the pouch and came out holding a bit of fleece. His left arm was already in sinuous motion as arcane symbols flowed from his lips. He pointed at Aslan-

And the Revealing Duel began.


	141. The Revealing Duel

**20****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

A naked woman appeared in front of Aslan.

* * *

He gasped. He couldn't help it. It was only partly from surprise. The rest was from-

The paladin tore his eyes away, ostensibly to check the reactions of those around him. Elrohir, Talass, Cygnus, and Zantac looked almost as shocked as himself. Nesco, in fact, had averted her eyes, but seemed to be forcing herself to turn back to the scene. Even Tojo's inscrutable screen had been disrupted, but the samurai quickly returned his expression to its usual blank mask when he noticed Aslan looking at him.

Perhaps most surprising of all, Argo Bigfellow hadn't done more than glance at the woman. His gaze was fixed firmly on Aslan's face.

The paladin couldn't read Argo's expression at all, which was a rarity for him. It almost seemed as if the big ranger was trying to tell him something with those auburn eyes.

After a brief moment of surprise, Wainold and his allies all had faint grins on their faces now. Their gazes shifted between the woman and Aslan, curious to see what would happen next.

Sir Menn and Sitdale seemed to be sporting identical smiles, but when they looked at Aslan, the paladin could see pity in their eyes.

Unru burst into laughter.

"Is she that ugly, Aslan? Come on, look at her! You fear nothing, remember?"

_He's right. You have to look at her. You started this, and you're going to have to see it through._

As the paladin steeled himself, trying to fight off a feeling that he knew should be impossible for him to be feeling, his eyes slowly turned back towards the woman.

_Beware the temptations o' the flesh!_

Aslan gritted his teeth. That voice had not been his own, but he knew it so well. It was ingrained in him like no other. He shook his head to clear it out. Unru laughed again, and this time one or two of Wainold's men joined him.

The woman was beautiful, there was no denying it. She was quite tall, a little over six feet, putting her at least seven inches over Aslan's height.

_He did that deliberately._ The paladin's mind struggled to maintain a dispassionate, analytical tone. _It's going to look more humorous to everyone to see her towering over you._ He considered. He could utilize his Talent to grow a few inches, to be even with her-

_No! Unru will be looking for that! All that would do is confirm to him how insecure you are about your height._

Trying to get his breathing under control, Aslan looked at the image again- _that's all it is,_ he tried to tell himself.

The woman was lithe, long-legged; athletic but still with supple curves. Her skin was absolutely unblemished. Her eyes were a brilliant deep blue, with long lashes. Her teeth shone white and perfect. Her hair was golden blonde, and there was a lot of it. It cascaded over her shoulders in bountiful waves, capturing the paladin's eyes and drawing them down to her magnificent breasts.

Aslan couldn't look away.

There was laughter again. More of it, this time.

_It's an illusion. That's all it is. She isn't real._

Slowly, the woman began to dance.

She stayed in her position, but her hips began to sway. She raised her arms above her head and her torso began to move in synch with some unheard rhythm. There was no part of her form that wasn't beguiling, no part of her that-

Sweat beaded up on the paladin's forehead. His breathing was getting faster, despite his best attempts to slow it down.

_Not real._

His eyes moved down further. His mouth opened uselessly. He had never even _seen_ a grown woman's-

And then the sorrow hit. Sadness and anger.

_You could have had this! _His mind screamed at him. _There was never anything stopping you! With your Talent, you could have had any girl you ever wanted! Becoming a paladin didn't change that- Svorlin knew women! You could have, too!_

A strangled sound came from Aslan's lips. His eyes bulged, and the sweat began to pour down his face. His beard grew damp from moisture.

_It was her! SHE did this to you! She made you stay away from all this, but SHE never did! She was a hypocrite! You had left- you were free of her! Why didn't you-_

The paladin's eyes grew moist with tears.

* * *

"Stop it!" Nesco shrieked. She drew Sundancer and pointed the weapon at Unru. "Stop it, or I'll-"

"No!" Argo shouted.

Nesco looked over at her fellow ranger with disbelief. "Argo, tell me you hate Aslan so much that you want to see him suffer this way!"

"I don't hate Aslan, Nesco," Bigfellow replied quietly. "But this is his duel. To win or to lose."

Slowly, Nesco lowered her sword, but she kept a tight grip on the hilt.

"Not to worry, Lady Cynewine," Unru said cheerfully. "I'd gladly make her go away if Aslan just concedes defeat. What say you, oh holy one? Shall we stop this now?"

Aslan's light blue eyes moved to his opponent. Somehow, that seemed to give the tiniest respite. It was easier to focus on the illusionist than the woman, but it still took several deep breaths until he could focus on getting the words out.

"You… can go to Niflheim… do you know where that is, Unru?"

The illusionist nodded, a new smile curving the edge of his mouth.

"Have it your way, then. Or should I say, have it _her_ way?"

* * *

Unru gestured and the woman stopped dancing and walked right up to Aslan.

The paladin thought he might actually faint. His knees were threatening to buckle.

_My Lord, I can SMELL her!_

And he could. She was wearing some kind of mild, flowery scent in her hair- honeysuckle, perhaps, but her skin had a naked scent that was new and yet familiar. He couldn't focus on Unru anymore- the woman was blocking his view. She was filling his whole world now. He couldn't think of anything or anyone else.

"Aslan."

The paladin's eyes jerked upward to meet those of the woman.

Surprisingly, they were kind eyes. Her face was that of a lover, not a predator.

"Aslan," she whispered, so no one else could hear. "It's all right. You don't have to be afraid."

He could feel her breath on his face.

_All-Father, I'm going mad. Please don't let her touch me. It's a figment; there is no reality here-_

The woman slipped her arms down around Aslan's neck. The soft skin of her forearms brushed by Aslan's cheek.

He was completely lost; looking up into her eyes, in her arms, in the feelings that she stirred in him. Feelings gone so long, he'd told himself they were dead.

* * *

Elrohir heard a slight sound that made him glance over to his right.

Nesco had turned away from the scene again. She was sobbing quietly.

* * *

"Don't worry, Aslan," the woman said softly. Every movement her lips made seemed the most important thing in the world to the paladin. His eyes drank it all in. "Don't pay attention to Unru; to any of them. I 'm not- I don't care about any of them. All I want is you. If you'll let me, Aslan. I'll teach you how. Will you have me?"

So soft, so safe. He felt his lips moving forward-

"She's evil, paladin- a temptress! Destroy her!"

Unru burst into laughter again, and half the room joined him.

But even as the laughter tore through his heart, the shock of it snapped Aslan back to reality. He couldn't see Unru- the woman was blocking his view; but just for a few moments, the paladin's mind started to think again.

_You can't give in, even if you want to. It will show them all that you regret the choices you've made in your life. Even if you do submit to her, you'll be clumsy and inexperienced, like a young boy. They'll laugh all the harder, and once she vanishes, you'll feel emptier than ever._

Aslan tried to run through his options. Unru having noticed the paladin's hesitation, the woman had stopped where she was.

_Destroy her, _Unru had said. That was certainly easy enough. His cold iron longsword was lying on the floor near him, but he didn't even need that. He could change into Grock the ogre and-

_No! That's the worst thing you could do! That will show everyone just how scared you really are of women!_

Panic was setting in again. Fresh tears were welling up in the paladin's eyes. Rage at what he truly was inside was making his fists clench. He wanted to reach down and grab his sword- not for use on the woman, but on himself.

"There's nothing I can do." The whispered words trickled out involuntarily through clenched teeth.

Unru not hearing those words, the woman did not react to them.

"Whatever I do, it's going to play into Unru's hands," he continued, as the tears rolled down his cheeks again. "Why did I agree to this battle? I can't-"

Aslan stopped. It was as if an invisible hand from above had gently grasped him and stopped him from shaking. He glanced around quickly, seeing Nesco's tear-streaked face once again looking at his. Argo too, stone-faced, glaring at the paladin.

_Battle. That's it! That's what Bigfellow was trying to tell you, you fool! This isn't a moral drama. That's what Unru wants you to think, but it's not- it's a duel!_

The pieces started to fall together. Aslan's eyes narrowed and he straightened himself up to his full five-foot, six-inch height and took a deep breath.

Unru looked wary. The woman changed expression similarly, but she kept her arms around the paladin.

Aslan considered. _This is still going to take more courage than you've ever shown in these matters._

"Have to start somewhere," the paladin muttered to himself.

He had to hurry. The woman was starting to excite all of his senses again. If he didn't act now, he would-

Aslan smiled broadly- if a little shakily- reached back behind him and gently removed the woman's arms from his neck.

_Here goes nothing._"My dear lady!"

* * *

Aslan's deep voice rang out clearly. He shook his head sadly at the image.

"You don't want a stuffy, inexperienced paladin! A creature as beautiful as yourself deserves only the finest specimen that mankind has to offer! The man no woman can resist- and here he is now!"

And Aslan used his Talent.

* * *

The tan skin. The brown hair and eyes. The mustache and goatee. The dark trousers and multi-pocketed yellow shirt.

There were now two Unrus in the room.

Following the involuntary lead of its creator, the woman took a step backwards in confusion.

Aslan plunged on ahead.

"Let's not waste time on the preliminaries, shall we?"

And with that, the false illusionist grabbed his trousers and pulled them down to his knees, exposing his linen undershorts.

* * *

Gasps sounded from around the room. Elrohir looked around at his friends. Everyone looked equally shocked. Even Tojo seemed transfixed by this display.

"Elrohir," Argo said, his eyes wide at the bizarre scene before them. "I think he's finally cracked."

"Behold!" the paladin shouted to the woman. "The true measure of a man! My dear creature, _gaze upon the mighty Unru and be awed!"_

And he yanked the undershorts down.

* * *

Nesco shrieked again and tore her head away.

She was just starting to cry again- it seemed that all her thoughts about Aslan and herself were irretrievably polluted now- when she heard gasps, and then titters.

And then the room exploded with laughter.

The ranger couldn't help but look.

* * *

Confusion was her first reaction. Aslan, or Unru, or whoever it was- seemed to have… _nothing_ there between his thighs. Nothing at all.

Then she saw them. What every man had.

And despite herself, a broad smile spread across Lady Cynewine's face.

They were so _small. _She could have fit all of it in the palm of her hand.

* * *

Aslan looked down and assumed a shocked demeanor.

"Oh, blast! I forgot! I do apologize, my dear lady," he addressed the image. "I'm usually quite careful to have something adequate prepared."

And here the fake Unru's face twisted into a guilty grin, like a small boy caught in mischief and trying to talk his way out of it.

"After all, I **am** the master of illusion!"

If Nesco thought the laughter couldn't get any louder, she was mistaken. Now Wainold and his men, and even Sir Menn and Sitdale were howling at the real Unru.

Nesco Cynewine let the laughter wash over her. It cleansed the sorrow from her and made everything all right again. She let out a loud whistle.

"That's the way! Go on, Aslan! Show him what you've got!"

Her ears turned unexpectedly turned red. Nesco glanced over to see Bigfellow looking at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

She shrugged, assuming a faux-guilty expression of her own. "In a manner of speaking, of course."

Argo smiled.

* * *

The woman vanished. Unru looked around at the room. The tide had completely turned against him.

He did not lose composure, however. The illusionist simply let the laughter go on until it subsided.

"Well, well," Unru declared. "So the paladin has a pair, after all."

"More than you, apparently," muttered Sir Menn, who leaned against the adjacent Sitdale in a renewed fit of chuckling.

A scowl flashed across Unru's face as he glared at the knight, but was then replaced by a tight grin as he looked back at his duplicate, who was pulling up his pants now.

"The game's not won yet, Aslan! Here's a little something for you- this is a conversation I overheard a few years back. I know you weren't there of course, but tell us all what you make of it!"

Reverting back to his own form, Aslan watched warily as Unru strode over to Zantac, yanked his _hat of disguise_ off the other wizard's head and slapped it on his own head before turning to face Aslan again.

_Be careful,_ the paladin's inner voice warned him. _Unru's no fool- he isn't going to throw something else at you that you can simply turn back on him this time_.

Unru waved the fleece around, and he wove his magic again.


	142. Goliath

**20****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

A tavern table and two stools materialized inside the circle. Scattered pine needles appeared on the floor by them.

Sounds began to wend their way through the room; glasses clinking, indistinct conversations, stools being scraped along a wooden floor.

Wisps of pipe smoke hung in the air.

A man appeared in one of the stools.

He was a large man of middle age, with a mane of tangled, dark red hair and a heavy beard, all of which contrasted heavily with his pale skin. He wore a snug-fitting garment of black fur and a brown cloak fastened with a silver brooch about his neck. A small axe hung from his belt, and on his head was a short conical helm from which two horns protruded.

The man did not move. As motionless as a statue, he stared blankly straight ahead of him.

Unru walked over so that he stood on the opposite side of the table from the man.

The illusionist's hat transformed into a similar helm. His clothing changed into a long woolen tunic, dyed a lima bean green. It covered him from his neck to his knees. Unru's new appearance sported fair skin, blonde hair and a full beard, although it was shorter and neater than the first man's.

Unru made a gesture with his left hand, and a boy materialized at his side. Perhaps about fourteen years old, the resemblance to Unru's current form in both features and dress was instantly recognizable, although he wore no helmet. He seemed a little short for his age.

Like the man, the boy stood stock-still; he did not even blink.

Unru turned and smiled at Aslan, and then snapped his fingers.

* * *

Instantly, the man at the table came to life. With a roar of delight, the image sprang from his seat, walked around the table and nearly crushed his creator in a great bear hug.

"Corrigan!" the man yelled as he thumped Unru on the back repeatedly. "By Thor's hammer, 'tis a pleasure to see ye! What's it been, seven years?"

"'Boot tha'," Unru replied, as they finally disengaged. "Yer a welcome seet, Eric. First familiar face we've seen since we got back."

The man's dark eyes switched over to the boy, who had now also become animate, if only to stand there shyly. The child's eyes lit up with nervousness as Eric came over to him.

"And this strappin' young lad?" he proclaimed. "Can't be Hoslin! Hoslin was just a wee bairn when las' I saw him!"

Hoslin seemed to be able to do little other than nod and mumble, "'Tis me, alreet," as Eric nearly knocked the poor boy off his feet with a hearty back slap, and then returned to his stool. "Corrigan" took the other one, leaving Hoslin to stand next to the table.

Eric turned his head and shouted, "Ales!"

Elrohir started- it looked like Eric was looking directly at him- but a moment later three drinking horns had materialized on the table, each held upright by a small wooden frame. No one seemed to think anything of this, but scooped up the horns and drained them.

As the trio drank, Elrohir used the pause to check out Aslan.

* * *

The group leader suspected the locale that Unru was depicting, if not the exact place. It was the rugged land of Rekamifoke, on Aarde.

One glance at Aslan confirmed his suspicions. The paladin was watching the scene with an almost frightening intensity. His lips were pressed together, and he was trying hard to keep from trembling.

Rekamifoke was where Aslan had been born.

Movement out of the corner of his right eye drew the ranger's attention. Sitdale had walked around the circle to come over to him.

"I don't know what Unru's up to," he whispered, "but I do recognize this. This was about four or five years ago, perhaps a year or so after we'd met you the first time. We were in Rekamifoke, and had stopped at a country tavern." The half-elf grimaced. "I didn't know he'd been eavesdropping, but it doesn't surprise me. Unru makes it a habit of listening in on any conversation he can. Claims it helps him tell his stories better."

* * *

"So, Corrigan, wha' brings ye back tae Glencorraid?"

Everyone heard Aslan's sudden intake of breath.

"Seein' me brother again," replied Unru, who jabbed a thumb at the illusionary youth next to him. "His aunt and uncle's neh seen him fer so long, they won' ken him!"

Hoslin stared down at the floor. "They'll ken me all reet," he muttered. "I've neh grown but a few inches all these years."

"Dinna be feelin' sorry fer yerself, young man!" Eric spoke with such conviction that Hoslin raised his eyes to meet the man's. "Ain't how far yer head's off the floor what's important. By Hel, yer no smaller than Lady Mercy's son was at yer age, an' say wha' ye will 'boot tha' boy, there's no sayin' he was a weak 'un!"

The youth tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "Lady Mercy… tha' was the priestess who'd taken the Vow o' Nonviolence, reet? She lived by herself on the hill by Loch Arlou."

"Aye," Eric nodded. "But neh queet alone."

"I ken," Hoslin responded. "Her son. Meet even a seen him once or twice, on top o' the hill."

Eric looked thoughtful. "He'd be just past twenty or so, if he's still alive."

Corrigan raised an eyebrow. "Ye don't ken? Never came back, did he?"

The larger man shook his head. "Neh a word o' him I've heard. I think he left Rekamifoke fer good; headed tae Rolos, I'd guess."

"Was he famous?" asked Hoslin.

Eric's eyes widened in surprise. "Never told yer bairn the story o' Lady Mercy's son, Corrigan?"

Unru shrugged. "He was too young then, an' I've neh thought 'boot it since. But yer reet there, Eric. 'Twas a strange lad, tha' 'un. Still canna believe he heard the Callin'…"

The boy was nearly hopping from one foot to the other with impatience now. "Please, father. Tell me the story! Wha' was the boy's name?"

And here Unru/Corrigan broke character to turn around and look directly into Aslan's eyes before he spoke.

"His name," he said, "was Goliath."

* * *

_Goliath?_

Nesco Cynewine frowned so hard it hurt her jaw muscles. She would have bet her life they had been talking about Aslan, and yet-

A knot suddenly formed in the ranger's stomach. She remembered that night- that very first night in the Pomarj- and Aslan talking to her from across a campfire.

"_I had... a personal crisis... I... fell from grace... for a while. I had to... sort things out... decide if I wanted to continue following my Calling. In the end, I decided I did, although I had to give up a part of my past to do so… I served no king at the time, so I rechristened myself __Aslan__ and let Elrohir assume the sole leadership role."_

Nesco nearly gasped as the realization struck her.

Goliath. Nodyath It all made sense now.

Or did it?

Lady Cynewine returned her full attention to the scene unfolding before them.

* * *

"Well," Eric began. "Lady Mercy- I meet o' heard her real name once, but I canna recall- was always thought a bit odd by some. Neh so much as she never married, but 'cause o' her Vow. Tae folk here in Glencorraid, she was a blessin', tho. Much closer than the nearest temple in Aug Rondon. She was always willin' tae help out with her prayers; never chargin' more than wha' someone could pay. She'd take a chicken or a pound o' flour, if tha's all ye had."

"Now Lady Mercy, as ye ken, had a son," Unru continued, addressing Hoslin. "No one kenned who the father was, an' Lady Mercy would never talk 'boot it. Fact is, tha's the only way ye could get on her bad side- by askin' her. But folk talk, and folk look 'round, and see wha' man look like he meet be the father." Here Corrigan looked back at Eric, who nodded and resumed.

"And some folk said," the image intoned in a voice so low that the assembled audience had to strain to hear it, "tha' the father meet be neh other than Bjorn Drew himself."

Hoslin gasped. "The Laird o' Glencorraid?"

"Aye, the same. But- and here's the rub- a year or so 'fore the lad was born, a new High Priest took over in Aug Rondon. Name o' Father Tyvold."

His father nodded. "Well, there were as some said it was him- tha' he'd had an affair with Lady Mercy. Now the Laird was widowed, as ye meet ken, but neh Tyvold- he had a wife at home. So some tongues were waggin', but no one knew fer sure. Boy took more after his mother in looks, he did."

"But," Hoslin struggled to comprehend, "Father Tyvold was a priest. Couldna he ask the gods tae ken fer sure?"

Eric smiled at the question.

"He did boy; an' he said they told him no, he was _a_ father, but he wasna _the_ father." The large man chuckled at his own joke. "Of course, who's gonna ken whether he ever did ask or neh? Wha' ye think his wife said 'boot him even havin' to ask?"

"But… if he said it wasna him, did he say who the father really was?"

Eric's smile grew deeper. "No. Said the gods told him 'twas neh fer him tae ken."

"Think, son," Corrigan cut in. "Aug Rondon's the seat o' Glencorraid. Laird Drew owns all tha' land, including tha' bit the church sits on. Wha' do ye think meeta happened if Father Tyvold were tae go pointin' fingers?"

Hoslin nodded.

"So," Eric went on, "things continued leek tha' fer 'boot a dozen years or so, an' then one night…"

For the first time, the man's expression grew dark.

"One terrible night, both Laird Drew an' Father Tyvold went tae Lady Mercy's home. Some say she summoned them; others say they went o' their own accord, to solve the mystery once an' for all."

Eric hesitated, and it seemed to the audience that the man had to literally spit the words out through his teeth.

"But all they found was death."

Unru/Corrigan turned around to look directly at Aslan again.

"And there was some that said they died by the hands of her son."

* * *

Aslan closed his eyes.

_No._

They didn't understand. All they knew were rumors; half-truths, whispered gossip.

Unru didn't know the whole story, but he knew just enough. Just enough to hurt Aslan.

Just enough to hurt a boy named Goliath.

Just enough for the worst night in his life to come back.


	143. Birth Of A Talent

**9****th**** Day of Mitalacue, 5537A**

**Glencorraid, Rekamifoke**

The clouds had been moving in from the west. From where he stood at the bottom of the hill, Goliath could see a large ring around the full moon. It slowly rose above his home like a silver eye, casting its cold glow on the structure's stone walls. A warmer light from the _continual flames _within suffused through the two frosted glass windowpanes.

The six horses paced nervously in the small corral. Steam burst from their nostrils, a silver fog that quickly vanished in the chill evening air. His mother had sent him here when the men came, to tend to the horses while she, Laird Drew and Father Tyvold spoke of things he knew not what.

He could guess, of course. Goliath was no fool. Whenever his mother would grow silent and terse, it was always when the subject of his father was raised.

_Whoever he might be._ Sometimes Goliath thought she knew, other times-

The boy turned and stared out over the dark surface of Loch Arlou. The moon painted a white streak across the black, placid waters. The boy loved it when he could go out swimming or fishing on the loch, which wasn't very often. He sometimes dreamt he was a giant fish, swimming wild and free in those deep waters. When he was six, half his life ago, he'd asked his mother if she could turn him into a fish.

"Now wha' ye be wantin' tha' fer?" she had asked, and then she laughed. Mother almost never laughed, but Goliath was not happy for it. He had been in earnest, and the laughter had cut him.

The youth sighed and picked up the two water buckets, attached on either end of a long pole. Hoisting the yoke over his shoulders, Goliath trundled over to the loch's shore.

* * *

He'd just finished filling the buckets and was dawdling; he hated the heavy feel of the full yoke on his neck and shoulders and wished again that he were taller and stronger. Yet the horses weren't going to get fed and watered on their own, so he-

The boy let out a yelp of surprise and jumped back, the yoke falling from his hands. Terror mingled with each deep breath as the child peered around him and then slowly moved to look down upon the water again.

For a moment, Goliath had thought he'd seen the reflection of a dark shape standing over his shoulder as he'd looked at his reflection in the water; a man wearing a large, floppy-brimmed hat. No other details had registered in his shock at the split-second vision, which now, as the boy again looked around him fruitlessly, seemed more like a trick of the moonlight and the water's ebb and flow than anything else.

But when Goliath turned to look back at his house, he froze again in fear.

Laird Drew's guards weren't standing outside it anymore. And the door was now ajar.

The yolk was left behind as the youth ran for home as fast as he could. His legs pumped and his toes dug into the grass to keep him from slipping as he ascended the hill, the cold air filling his lungs to what seemed like bursting with every stride.

He could hear yelling and screaming coming from inside the house now.

* * *

The men were not allowed inside with their chainmail shirts and hand axes. Lady Mercy never permitted anyone bearing arms or armor to enter their home, and for that Goliath had been grateful. From his mother's influence, the youth was less enamored with fighting and violence than any other boy he knew. Yet one more reason for his not being popular among the neighborhood children. They called him a coward.

It occurred to Goliath just before he reached the open door that none of the other village boys would ever have dared to hurl themselves unarmed into a battle such as he could see was unfolding inside.

Goliath was no coward. This he knew with certainty.

But years later, he'd sometimes catch himself wondering if things might have turned out better if he had been.

* * *

Of Laird Drew's four men, three were currently in battle with two bears. Beasts who stood as tall as they did, with golden fur, silver eyes and ivory claws. They roared in rage, slamming their paws into their opponents even as the men's hand axes chunked again and again into their fur, gouging angry wedges of crimson.

Goliath knew immediately they were celestials- beasts of Asgard- summoned by his mother for her protection.

The next sight that registered on the child's reeling brain was that of Laird Drew and Father Tyvold- locked in mortal combat with each other.

Goliath knew not how, but the Laird of Glencorraid was now clad in his plate mail and wielding his ancestral claymore. He'd had neither with him when he arrived, although like all the local children, the lad had heard tales of the Laird's great adventures when he had been a younger man- and of the supposed horde of magical treasures he'd accumulated.

Father Tyvold dodged under the arc of the huge sword's swing.

The priest looked even older than his supposed sixty years- there was hardly an unwrinkled inch on his bony frame, and his gray hair was all but gone- but he was surprisingly supple as he ducked and weaved. A glowing spear appeared in the air in front of him and thrust itself at Bjorn, but the Laird backed quickly off, and the _spiritual weapon _did naught but punch a hole in his armor.

They were yelling at each other- in fact everyone was either yelling or screaming, but Goliath couldn't make out any clear words. The boy added his voice to the din, shouting at everyone to stop fighting, but no one paid him any heed. Then he saw Laird Drew's fourth man.

He was attacking Goliath's mother. Lady Mercy, backed into a corner, was surrounded by her glowing _shield of faith._ She had her holy symbol of a silver chalice clutched in one hand, and was casting another prayer even as she tried to ward off the constant blows of her assailant's axe.

Goliath watched in horror as the axe blade cut through the shield and into his mother's side. She screamed in agony once, her prayer lost, and then again as the warrior yanked it clear.

The youth's shouts for restraint turned into a mindless scream of rage as he ran at the man. He had no weapon, no plan, not even a coherent thought. Only an instinct that engulfed him suddenly and totally in the space of a split second.

An instinct to kill.

But as he launched himself at the guard, something changed.

And that something was him.

* * *

A terrible pain in what seemed to be every muscle in his body shot through Goliath. In his adrenaline-fueled fury, he barely noticed, but he couldn't help but notice his sudden change in perspective.

For the briefest of instances, it seemed like the guard had shrunk suddenly, so that Goliath was now actually taller than he. As the youth swung at the man's head, his fist went sailing over the top of it.

His fist was larger, with a dark orange skin tone and large, thick nails. Goliath's legs didn't seem to be working right either, and his wild swing overbalanced him. He stumbled past his opponent and crashed into the wall.

Stunned, it took all of Goliath's effort just to remain on his feet. Then he heard his mother scream again.

But this time, she was screaming at him, her light blue eyes opened wider in fear than her son had ever seen them.

"_Goliath!" _she cried. _"What's happened tae my bairn?"_

The fighter also turned to look. His face showed fear as well- but also disgust.

"_Hobgoblin!" _he shouted. "He's a monster!"

Without thinking, Goliath's hands shot up to his face, feeling his flattened nose and chin, and the hair that now seemed to be everywhere.

It was true. The guard hadn't shrunk- Goliath had grown. Somehow, he'd become a hobgoblin; the fiercest creature he'd ever seen. How had this-

A powerful blow slammed into the boy. He looked down to see the warrior's hand axe buried in his chest nearly up to the hilt.

Her mother screamed again, but all sound seemed to abruptly fade away into a dull roar at the edge of his hearing.

_Am I dying? _

The guard yanked his weapon free with a grunt, but Goliath didn't even look up at him. Almost idly, he touched the gushing wound with his finger-

-and it closed up completely.

Now he looked at his mother again. Her look of astonishment indicated that she had done nothing. Although she certainly had the power to heal, she hadn't touched him.

And then the killing rage returned, and he didn't care.

With an inhuman bellow, Goliath- or whatever he was now- lunged at the guard and tried to wrest the axe away from him. The two grappled, both eventually toppling to the floor.

Goliath managed to straddle his opponent. He had the man pinned, but he still couldn't pry the weapon out of the man's hands.

The youth gasped. Immense blows were now raining on his back. He craned his head to look.

Lady Mercy's bears had vanished- either slain or returned to Asgard. The three guards, all heavily beaten and bruised but still standing, were attacking him from behind now. Their axes rose and fell like a rain of steel hail. Each blow opened a new wound and although Goliath could feel himself healing up again, he knew the men were slicing into him faster than his new-found power could save him. He had to flee; he had to-

Goliath's perspective suddenly changed again; far more radically than last time. His vision was suddenly much poorer; everything seemed blurry. His field of view was distorted too; he could see further to his sides than before, but not as well right in front of him. Odd, high-pitched squeaks were coming from somewhere nearby, but he couldn't pinpoint them.

He could not only see leathery wings flapping in his vision, he could feel them.

And as Goliath flew away, three descending hand axes inadvertently sliced instead through a chainmail shirt and buried themselves deep into the chest of their fellow bodyguard. The man gasped, spouting blood from mouth and chest, and went silent forever.

More yells. More shouts. More screams.

And then something large and dark whizzed by Goliath, followed by a loud _thunk_. One of the men had retrieved his axe and hurled it at the bat that was now flapping madly by the far wall. It had missed and embedded itself into a space between two mortared stones.

Instantly a hobgoblin again, Goliath yanked the weapon free and hurled it back at its owner.

The man gaped down at the weapon protruding from his chest. His mouth opened in a silent "O," and then he crumpled to the floor next to his fallen brethren.

The two remaining guards looked between themselves and then over towards their lord, who continued to battle Father Tyvold. They then glared at the hobgoblin again, and seemed to be gathering up the wind to charge at the boy.

Goliath glared back at them with an equal hatred.

No. A far greater hatred.

A hatred that suddenly flung a piece of itself out of his mind and cast itself out in a great cone that Goliath could not see but nevertheless sense with great clarity. The two men stood bathed in the power of the child's mind for a moment-

-and then one of them turned and ran shrieking out the door.

By the time his companion had recovered from his shock, Goliath had rushed forward and picked up a hand axe from the floor. The two engaged in furious hand-hand-combat.

Goliath knew he was going to win. He'd never had any combat training in his life, but now he was as strong as this warrior, if not stronger.

And unlike his opponent, Goliath's wounds continued to heal.

* * *

He had no idea how much time passed, but the guard lay dead at his feet.

And once again, he was himself. He was only Goliath, son of Lady Mercy.

His mother still stood pressed against the far corner of the room. Her _shield of faith_ expired, the cleric continued to hold her holy symbol out in front of her as if she was trying to keep out the whole world with it. Her eyes, wide with either passion or madness, darted from it to her son to the one battle that was still going on, from which an explosion of sound suddenly swelled.

Father Tyvold, now bleeding from numerous wounds, had thrust out his holy symbol of an eye at Laird Drew and incanted. A horn blast that sounded as loud as if Heimdall himself had blown _Gjallahorn_ enveloped both men. Goliath could literally see Bjorn's plate mail bend inwards slightly from the sound. The Laird dropped his claymore and sank to his knees, clutching his ears; his scream lost in that unimaginable noise.

The first voice that Goliath could hear after the horn blast had faded was that of his mother.

"_Stop!"_ Lady Mercy screamed. _"Stop it! 'Twas neh suppos' tae be this way! Stop it, both o' ye!"_

Father Tyvold spun around. The priest's face, which Goliath had so often seen filled with a grandfatherly kindness, now contorted with rage.

"Ye started this, Mercy! Ye are tae blame! Accursed ye are, for what ye've done!"

And then he turned his eyes on Goliath.

"An' for what ye've borne," he muttered.

* * *

The youth stared back at him. The cleric's words punched through his gut, leaving a wound that no power could heal.

Father Tyvold took a deep breath. His face flushed even redder.

"Ye are no bairn. A demon ye are, but ye'll neh prevail! May the power o' the High One burn yer flesh tae ash an' send yer soul back tae the Hell from where it came!" he finished with a screech.

The cleric incanted again and his right hand began to glow white. Paralyzed with fear, Goliath could only watch as a searing beam of light suddenly erupted from it, aimed right at him.

He couldn't run. He couldn't change form. He was going to be-

And then somehow, Goliath was watching from ten feet behind Father Tyvold; watching as the white light passed through the spot where he had been standing only moments before and vanish out through the open door of the house.

The priest whirled around, a snarl on his lips- but he'd been distracted too long.

Still on his knees, Laird Drew swung his claymore in a crisp arc, and took off both of Father Tyvold's legs just below the knee.

The cleric's scream of agony filled the house, almost as loud as his sounding prayer had been. Goliath watched in horrified fascination as a small compartment that he hadn't seen before in the Laird's armor slid open. Dropping his sword again, Drew's hand darted in and came out holding a dagger. He crawled over to Tyvold, who now lay on his back, writhing in pain.

"Tae damnation we all go then_- but ye first!" _the Laird roared as he thrust the dagger's point expertly down between the priest's ribs.

Father Tyvold's face passed quickly from rage to pleading to an unbearable sorrow. It begged forgiveness that never came before it settled into the blank mask of death.

* * *

His deep breathing the only sound Goliath could hear now, Laird Bjorn Drew picked up his sword again and turned to face the child.

If Goliath had hoped it was over, Drew's face dashed that hope to pieces. The Laird of Glencorraid's face was not suffused with the same rage that Father Tyvold's had held, but there was no kindness at all there.

"It all ends here," the noble growled between deep, ragged breaths as he rose to his feet. "I ken neh wha' ye meet be, Goliath, but too much has happened here tonight. I meet neh be blameless in this matter…"

And now he stood fully erect. Despite the great wounds covering his body and the blood that streamed down his face from a deep gash in his forehead, the Laird seemed to gather his strength back as he took a step towards the boy, the claymore coming back into battle position.

"…_but I will be the sole survivor o' it!"_ he screamed as he rushed to attack.

Goliath stumbled backwards along the wall. He tried to hurl his hatred at Laird Drew as he had the guard, but only his own fear trickled out. He tried to will himself elsewhere, but that ability too seemed to have vanished. He could feel it all leaking out of his body like water from a sieve. He had no chance against the Laird. Even a hobgoblin wasn't as strong as the mighty Bjorn, and Drew was a legendary fighter, even when wounded near to death.

The youth tripped backwards and fell. The claymore glinted in the continual flames as it rose overhead. Goliath shrieked and held out an arm in a futile attempt to block-

"_NO!"_

Lady Mercy pounced on the Laird from behind. Her hand shot out over his right shoulder- and then, unbelievably, gave his cheek a tender caress.

And Laird Bjorn Drew screamed one last time.

Goliath watched in abject terror- he might have been screaming, too- he wasn't sure of anything he was hearing now; let alone of what he was seeing.

Lady Mercy had the most gentle of hands, and times innumerable her son had seen those hands glide softly across the flesh of the injured, knitting bones, closing wounds, healing diseases. Even fell curses faded under her touch– that touch that could heal. Heal, but never harm.

Until now.

Somehow, Lady Mercy had turned her god-given powers around, and the results were horrifying to behold. The skin on Laird Drew's face, and then elsewhere, boiled red with huge giant blisters, which then erupted in a shower of blood and pus. They spread and grew deeper. More blood flowed, and now Goliath had a momentary glimpse of Bjorn's entrails squirming to squeeze past the bottom of his breast plate before the Laird's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the floor with a great clatter of steel.

* * *

Goliath wasn't sure how long the silence lasted.

When he finally managed to raise his head from where he'd buried it in his hands, he saw his mother on her knees next to the bodies of the Laird of Glencorraid and the High Priest of Aug Rondon. Her tear-streaked face was turned upwards, her lips moved silently, and a sadness that seemed impossible for a mortal frame to contain was lodged there. A sadness that reached out towards her only child.

Goliath reached out a trembling hand.

"Mama?" the boy whispered.

His mother whispered back, but not to him. Those light blues eyes strained upwards, and it seemed to Goliath that they were looking for something that they knew they would never see again.

"My Vow- broken. My good intentions- all come tae this. I should have kenned- the Strands o' Fate canna be unwoven. What I've done has come full circle. All our souls-"

And here she looked over at Goliath and without warning shrieked again.

"_- DAMNED TO HEL'S REALM!"_

Goliath screamed in terror- it felt as if the new power of his own mind had been turned upon him- and he jumped to his feet and ran out the door.

He tumbled down the hill, but he just got up and started running again. He ran and he ran. There was nothing left but the running.

And the crying.

He ran into the waters of Loch Arlou, and when the waves began to push against him, the boy hurled himself face-down into those icy waters and let them close over him and wash away the tears.

And with a great sweep of his mighty tail, Goliath, son of Lady Mercy, swam away into the black depths.

* * *

Aslan didn't know when he'd backed up against the wall of the chamber.

The paladin fought off the sudden urge to _polymorph_ that came over him, but that was all he could do. His knees bent, and he slid down to the floor as the pain in his heart overwhelmed him. Like almost no time had passed, he buried his face in his hands again.

"Mother," he whispered so softly no one could hear him. "What did you do?"

* * *

His opponent in the Revealing Duel gazed evenly at Aslan.

Unru knew he possessed only the barest bones of the true story, but he knew it would trigger a memory in the paladin, and it certainly had. Aslan was broken. Unru had triumphed. The illusionist finished his tale merely for the sake of his audience.

"Wha little we ken fer sure 'boot wha' happened tha' night came from tha' one guard who'd ran, an' by the time he'd fetched others from the village an' come back, there was no one there but Lady Mercy- and she swore they'd neh get a word out o' her."

Corrigan sighed. "Well, no one ever saw Laird Drew, Father Tyvold, or the others again. There was a great hue and cry 'boot the whole thin', as ye meet ken, but with no proof, they couldna arrest the Lady. Drew's eldest son became the new Laird, a new High Priest was sent tae Aug Rondon from Odinskirk, an' tha' was the end o' tha'."

Unru's face grew a grim smile as he looked at his illusionary son and friend.

"And this, as they say, is the end of this."

Unru waved his hand, and the entire scene vanished even as he resumed his natural form and addressed the room.

"I trust I've proved my point?"

* * *

No one could answer him. All everyone could do was look over at Aslan.

Their friend hadn't come back to them. They couldn't see his face, but they could all see his shoulders shake as he wept.

They were the tears of a child.

He was still in Glencorraid; still locked back in the past.


	144. Lady Mercy And Her Son

**26th Day of Oforce, 5539A**

**Glencorraid, Rekamifoke**

Goliath watched the world from atop the hill.

It was the waning days of summer, and the sun beat down as hot as it ever dared to in Glencorraid. The warmth felt good on the teenager's face, and a small portion of himself let his body enjoy it and not feel guilty.

Down below, the village children had come around from west of the loch to pick the wild raspberries and blackberries that grew nearby in the tall grass. Mothers sprawled nearby on blankets, attending to sewing or crying infants. Occasionally someone would glance upwards and boldly stare at the youth, who stared right back until they looked away and resumed whatever it was they were doing.

The only one who never stared was Gretchen. Only a few months younger than he, the lass with the hair as long and as golden as Sif herself darted among the berry bushes, deftly avoiding their thorns as she played a running game with her friends. She would glance up shyly at the hill sometimes, and it was only then that Goliath felt compelled to turn his head. He loved to watch her, but somehow Gretchen looking at him made a great nameless fear rise in Goliath's chest. He hadn't felt fear since-

* * *

- that night. He'd come back of course. After swimming for what seemed like forever and then changing back into himself, Goliath felt the power was gone. All of it. It had come, and now it was over. How was a mere lad of twelve going to make his way in the world, alone and copperless?

By the time he returned home, his mother had cleaned up all trace of what had happened. Sterner and more steely than ever, she'd only hissed at her son.

"Yer neh tae ever speak a word o' this tae any mortal soul. _Neh one word!"_

And Goliath had obeyed, as he always had. But to his great delight, when he had woken up the next morning, the power was back. His mind, rested along with his body, had renewed it for him.

After the initial storm, where it did seem briefly that his mother might indeed be taken away, things had quieted down so now, approaching two years later, one might think it had never happened at all.

But there were differences. Almost no one came up the hill now. Even after Lady Mercy had saved the life of a man so badly wounded he wouldn't have made it to Aug Rondon, she and her son were still not spoken to except in the most perfunctory way. On the rare occasions they went down to the village, they might have been two skunks for all the reactions they got.

Fortunately- and to her son's amazement- Lady Mercy was still apparently favored by the gods. Her prayers still fed and clothed the two of them, and although things were tighter now, they still survived.

And yet for all that, one of the differences that now existed since that fateful night, seemingly the most insignificant one of all, was the one that hurt Goliath the most.

His mother would no longer let Goliath address her by anything other than "Lady Mercy."

* * *

The youth's eyes settled again on Gretchen. She was beautiful. He couldn't say it, but he could still think it. He could dream of other things besides-

Goliath winced as he felt his mother come and sit down beside him in the grass just outside their front door.

If the priestess noticed her son's reaction, she made no sign. Goliath wondered what she was doing. His mother was not one for idle time. He turned his head to look at her.

It never ceased to amaze Goliath how much he resembled his mother. She was only a few inches taller than he, with the same high forehead and brown hair, although she had much more hair than he did, and wore hers wrapped around her head in a unique circular style. Even the structure of their faces; nose, chin, eyes. All the same. Not for the first time, Goliath silently cursed the gods for not making him look just a little bit more like his father, so he might have been able to figure it out for himself, years ago.

But one thing he knew for certain now. His father, whoever he had been, was dead.

* * *

"Ye been havin' dreams a lot?" his mother suddenly asked.

Goliath blinked in surprise at the odd question, but Lady Mercy's eyes were blazing down at him like they always did. She expected an answer.

"Aye," the youth responded, turning away to look down the hill again as he did so. "Often the same, they are. Tha' man with the brimmed hat- he's got long gray hair, but I canna get a good look at-"

"'Tis the All-Father," the priestess cut in. "Odin himself."

Goliath drew in a great breath, his hand clasping at his chest. He gazed in awe back at his mother.

"The Most High One? The… the Father o' Victory himself? But, mother-"

The cleric scowled, fixing him with a baleful eye.

"Sorry- Lady Mercy," Goliath stammered. "But… but… I'm just a bairn! Why would the mightiest o' all gods take notice o' me?"

"Just a bairn?" repeated his mother, raising her eyebrows. "Tha' Talent ye've been honin' these pas' two years- ye thin' that came tae ye from the air, now?"

Flustered, Goliath couldn't answer, but Lady Mercy continued on as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. "Tell me, Goliath- ye've been even more absent-minded than usual- like ye've been thinkin'- or feelin'- other things. Wha' be they?"

The teenager had to look away. He hadn't known his mother had been watching him that closely, but he should have guessed- nothing ever got by her. And yet, her voice seemed clear of that judgmental tone it so often carried, so he decided to answer truthfully- at least as far as he could put it into words.

"'Tis… 'tis hard tae say, exactly," he muttered at length, looking out over Loch Arlou. "Ye might say 'tis a… a wanderlust. I ken I got this Talent tae save ye- that night- but if Laird Odin's let me keep it, then… there's somethin' I should be doin' with it."

Lady Mercy nodded the same way she often did when she gave Goliath his lessons. "And wha' do ye thin' ye should do with it?"

"Helpin' people." The answer seemed to come from Goliath's heart as much as his lips. "There's a lot o' bad out there, mother." He said the last without thinking, but she did not interrupt him. "A lot o' sufferin'. Folk need someone; neh just tae smite their enemies, but someone tae give them hope on those darkest o' nights when they canna find it in themselves."

His mother did not reply. After a while, he looked over at her, just in time to see her finish a silent prayer, opening her eyes and lifting her head again. She looked- not exactly happy, but relieved somehow, as if something she'd been hoping for a long time had suddenly appeared in her sight.

For a moment the boy thought she hadn't been listening to him, but then she turned back to him, and he saw a rare smile upon her face now.

"'Tis the Callin' ye feel, boy."

"The Callin'?" he gasped.

His mother nodded again. "My prayers have been answered- this time." She was silent a moment longer, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded casual enough, but Goliath could hear the tension beneath the surface. "Ye ken Svorlin?"

"The paladin?"

"Aye- the same. He'll be passin' through Glencorraid in a week or so's time. He'll be takin' ye on as his apprentice. When he leaves town, ye'll be leavin' with him."

"Ye've spoken with him, then." The boy's voice couldn't completely bury its accusatory tone. "With yer magic. Ye've been settin' me on this path withou' me even kenning."

Surprisingly, Lady Mercy simply nodded in acknowledgement. "Aye."

Mother and son stared out over the countryside for a while longer without speaking.

Goliath couldn't sort out the feelings building within him. Part of it was anger; his mother was using him as nothing more than a tool for her own ends, and she wouldn't even tell him why, or what those ends were.

But the other part was a kind of pride. He, the little runt; the outcast boy Goliath- a _paladin? _Svorlin was a humble man, but he was highly respected by everyone in Rekamifoke, as far as the boy knew. If Goliath could ever be a fraction of the man he was…

The youth turned towards his mother again as another question came to him. "But Svorlin's a paladin o' Tyr. If 'tis Laird Odin himself guidin' my path, shouldna I be taking up with one o' his paladins?"

"The All-Father has no paladins," the priestess responded, and then turned to regard her son again. "Ye will be the first."

Her eyes blazed into Goliath's as fiercely as her son had ever seen. He wanted to look away, but fear stopped him. Fortunately, Lady Mercy chose that moment to turn her attention back towards the hill even as continued to speak.

"Ye have a chance, Goliath- a slim 'un, mind, but a chance all the same- tae avoid my fate. Tae avoid eternal damnation fer yer mortal soul. The path-"

"How?"

Goliath almost never interrupted his mother, but even the very notion that he might someday become a paladin was filling the youth's heart with strength every second. Courage, and yet more than courage.

It was a desire to seek the truth.

"If yer soul be damned as ye say, _how_ can ye still be a priestess? How could ye have sinned so badly tha' it would stain me so? An' how will becomin' a paladin save me?"

Goliath's new-found courage almost died then and there. Lady Mercy was glaring at him with far more anger than his simple interruption, in his opinion, warranted.

It was one of the hardest things Goliath had ever done in his fourteen years, but he did not look away from those ice blue eyes.

And for the first time ever, it was Lady Mercy who was forced to look away. However, she continued on as if he had not spoken. Apparently, only his last question was to be answered.

"The path o' the paladin is hard but righteous. Those few who can walk it are cleansed. Sins o' the past are wiped away, but ye must stay on the path at all times. And ye, boy-"

The cleric had to stop for a moment and compose herself before she could continue. She still did not look back at her son.

"Yer path will be even harder still."

That statement aroused Goliath's curiosity. "Why?"

"Few on all o' Aarde have the Talent, boy, an' neh one has it as powerful as ye." She swallowed hard. "But as in all things, there's a price tae be paid. Ye have the potential tae be neh just a paladin-"

She finally looked back at him.

"But a legend o' weal. A hero o' the sagas."

Goliath fell speechless.

He was thunderstruck. Every child always imagined him or herself a hero, and he had been no exception. Each boy or girl imagined a new saga, an epic tale of heroism starring themselves that would be retold along with the older tales night after night over the campfire. Songs sung long after they had passed on to join the Asgardians as an einherjar.

And even then, the tale would continue. One day, they would fight shoulder-to-shoulder with the gods themselves. Fight against the giants at the end of this world.

Ragnarok.

* * *

It took the teenager a moment to realize that his mother was speaking again.

"But fer even the shadow o' this tae be, ye must sacrifice, boy. Sacrifices tha' even Svorlin or the other paladins ken neh. For a line o' sin runs deep in ye, boy, so at all times ye must practice self-denial. At all times, ye must resist."

It seemed suddenly to Goliath that the whole world had gone very quiet, and when he asked the inevitable questions, it seemed that his words cast themselves out and away, where all the people of the village, of Glencorraid, of Rekamifoke, of all the wide world would hear it.

"Wha' must I resist, mother?"

"Dinna call me tha'," she responded, but it was little more than reflex. She turned her attention back down the hill, but with an indication to Goliath to do likewise, and he did so.

The children below continued to pick berries and laugh and play, oblivious to the weighty matters being discussed above their heads. Goliath's eyes sought out Gretchen. They had just lovingly settled on her when his mother's voice, quiet as it was, tore into him like a thunderbolt.

"Beware, Goliath. Beware the temptations o' the flesh."

The boy's head jerked back over to his mother. She continued to look below, and Goliath knew with a sudden, sickening feeling that she was looking directly at Gretchen.

"Ye are neh for tha', boy. The ways o' the flesh will corrupt ye as surely as any devil, fer ye were born but one step away from ruin. Only by remainin' pure in both heart an' flesh will ye have the strength tae walk tha' straight an' narrow path tha' ye must."

Goliath felt as if a dagger had punctured his heart. He looked again down at Gretchen- and the dagger twisted.

And the anger exploded out of him.

"Why? What ye say doesna make sense! Ye thin' I'm tae be a wanton carouser when I become a man? Ye think I'll be hoppin' from bed tae bed with nary a thought? Ye didna raise me tha' way! I'll respect women! I'll ken love, not lust!"

He would have gone on, but something stopped him.

For only the second time in his life, Goliath watched in awe as tears ran down his mother's face. The priestess continued to stare away, but he knew she wasn't seeing down the hill anymore.

"Love always leads tae lust," she whispered harshly. "Ye can even lust fer yer spouse. It's neh fer ye. It'll destroy ye, boy."

Goliath couldn't bear his mother's tears. He looked again down the hill, and he watched Gretchen's golden hair dance about in the breeze, he felt not only fear, but a cold emptiness that washed away the summer sun.

It felt like the rest of his life was being thrown into a dark, dank, hole.

"Mother," Barely a whisper came out. "I canna live withou' love."

Lady Mercy slapped him across the cheek.

Horrified, Goliath stared back at her. Despite her insistence that her Vow of Nonviolence had been irretrievably shattered that fateful night, his mother had done no hurt towards anyone, even such a little thing as slapping or spanking her son, either before or after that night.

He saw his own horror reflected in her eyes.

"_Are ye a fool?"_ she shrieked. _"Dinna ye see tha' terrible neet wha' lust can bring tae people? Death an' damnation, even tae the most holy! The day ye know love, son, is the day ye die- by yer own hand! Love kills, Goliath! Love kills! LOVE KILLS!"_

Lady Mercy jumped to her feet and ran howling back inside their house.

* * *

Goliath couldn't bear to look down the hill anymore. He couldn't bear to see Gretchen- or anyone- staring up at that oddball child and his raving mother. He raised his eyes to the sun, his own tears now blurring that fiery orb into an indistinct golden mass- the same color as Gretchen's hair.

_I can leave. I can leave righ' now. I can turn into a bird an' fly away forever. I'll never become a paladin; I'll never even have tha' slim chance o' becomin' a hero o' legend, but I'll still be able tae ken love. I might be damned after death, but at least I'll have kenned wha' life is._

A fourteen year-old boy tried to decide his life right then and there.

Freedom lay on the wings of an eagle, but that wouldn't give him what every paladin, or a boy would might one day be one craved; the truth.

_The day ye die- by yer own hand._

And the truth lay behind the door of his home.

With trembling knees, Goliath rose to his feet and went back inside.

* * *

His mother sat by their plain wooden dining table. The cleric's head was down on the table, covered by her arms and her swirling brown hair, which had come undone. Her cries were slowly fading away as her son approached.

Barely daring to breathe, Goliath pulled up the other chair and sat down opposite her. They both sat in silence for a while, the only sound Lady Mercy's sniffling. One hand reached out for a cloth and pulled it underneath that mass of hair.

Slowly, she sat up, dabbing her eyes. She blew her nose and then gazed at her son, a sad smile on her face.

Goliath thought he'd never seen his mother look so old.

The boy suddenly felt another wave of sorrow come over him, but this one wasn't for himself.

Still, he had to know. He had to at least ask, but before he could, Lady Mercy leaned forward and stretched out her hand halfway across the table to him.

He stared at it dumbly.

"Yer sin comes from me, son," he heard her say. "That's why I dinna want yer callin' me yer mother. But tha' doesna matter now, I suppose. Ye'll be leavin' soon with Svorlin. And when ye do…"

Goliath continued to stare at his mother's hand. It was only with a start that he realized her voice had stopped did he look into those puffy, bloodshot eyes.

"Ye'll neh be comin' home."

Goliath felt as if he were being tossed around in a hurricane. He opened his mouth to protest- but nothing came out. Somewhere deep inside him, he could feel the truth of her words.

Or at least words she believed to be true.

"My poor bairn," Lady Mercy whispered, her eyes growing moist again. "My dear son- I'm sorry. I'm sorry fer what I've done tae ye."

Goliath saw her mother's fingers tremble, but he didn't take her hand.

He rushed around the table and hugged her.

And she hugged him back.

* * *

"Aye," his mother answered the unspoken question in Goliath's eyes while wiping her eyes again with a now very damp cloth. "The love 'tween a mother an' her bairn. There's no shame in tha', son. 'Tis a good an' pure thing. Ye'll always have tha' inside ye. Dinna ye forget tha', neither."

Goliath nodded solemnly, but while searching his mother's eyes, he knew he still had to ask the question.

"Wha' was the sin, mama?" he asked, ignoring his cracking voice. "Wha were Laird Drew an' Father Tyvold talkin' aboot tha' neet?"

Lady Mercy smiled that sad smile again.

"I canna tell ye, son, tho I ken it breaks yer heart not tae ken. But if ye did, 'twould be the final step tae damnation fer ye, and I'll neh have tha'."

"Why?"

"Because," the priestess replied, tenderly cradling her son's cheek with the same hand that had slapped it earlier. "If ye kenned, ye'd not leave. Ye'd stay here an' try tae save my soul instead."

Goliath's eyes narrowed. "Does tha' mean 'tis possible tae save yer soul too, mother?"

Lady Mercy's eyes narrowed right back.

"Only at the expense o' yer own, and I'll neh let tha' happen. I'll slit my own throat first. 'Tis my job now tae fight fer yer soul 'till my dying day, an' neh a thing in Asgard itself can stop me!"

Goliath could see her mother's familiar strength returning, moment by moment. She stood up and stepped back a pace, letting go of her son's hand.

"We've both got chores tae do, son. Let's get tae them."

The cleric headed towards her room, where her sewing awaited. Goliath walked slowly back towards the front door, but at the last moment he turned around.

"Mother?"

Just inside the doorway of her bedroom, she turned around to eye him, but said nothing.

The teenager took the deepest breath he could possibly imagine and tried desperately to keep his voice intact.

"Laird Drew or Father Tyvold. Please tell me, mother- which one was my father?"

Goliath saw the familiar anger begin to fill his mother's features again, but this time- somehow- he knew it wasn't directed at him.

"I canna answer tha' son, but I can tell ye this."

And now it was Lady Mercy who seemed to struggle to get the words out.

"One day, son, if ye persist an' sacrifice as I've told ye, and ye become a great paladin an' even more-"

Goliath could swear his mother's light blue eyes were blazing with fury now. The last sentence was pushed out through gritted teeth.

"One day ye may even meet the All-Father himself, Laird Odin, mightiest o' all the Aesir, face-tae-face. An' when ye do…"

One final tear rolled down her cheek.

"_Ye be sure tae ask him tha' question!"_

She slammed the door behind her.

* * *

"Well, Aslan?"

The paladin blinked. He could still hear the echo of the door closing, and almost looked around.

But then he realized that was far away and long ago.

He felt weak and tired. He didn't want to listen to Unru, but the illusionist's voice was directed at him again.

"You left more than your Rekamifoke accent behind when you left, didn't you, _Goliath?_ You left your name behind as well. Why? Tell us the full story of what happened that night. Tell us what horrid sins the righteous Aslan holds in his past!"

Those words. They were threatening to take him back again. To the pain of a young boy, to his shame and worry and his loneliness and his-

_Wait a minute._Aslan blinked again, but this time it was from confusion.

* * *

A thought was trying to break through all those terrible feelings.

Unru was saying something else again, but the paladin held up a hand to silence him.

_You left your name behind, as well…_

As if awakening from a long sleep, Aslan slowly rose to his feet again, focused his light blue eyes firmly on his opponent in the Revealing Duel-

And smiled.

"Unru," he said softly, shaking his head from side to side. "You blew it again."

* * *

The illusionist frowned at him.

"What?"

Aslan started to walk back towards the circle, speaking as he went.

"You almost had me with your image, but you distracted me at the wrong moment, and I was able to outwit you. And now you've done it again. You put a question in my mind, and that got me to thinking, not only about how to prevail in this Duel, but about something deep in my past, as well. Let me start with a question. How did you know that tavern conversation was about me?"

Unru seemed taken aback for a moment. "What do you mean? Who else could it have been about?"

Aslan stopped at the edge of the circle. He wiped the remnants of his tears away and looked at them curiously, as if he was bemused that he had been crying at all. When he looked back at the Yatian mage, his expression had hardened.

"I'll tell you how you knew. It was because you already knew my name was Goliath."

Unru stared at the paladin for a moment, and a slight tremor went through his frame, but he said nothing.

Aslan raised an eyebrow. "No comments? Then let me make a few. _I didn't leave my name behind that night! _I changed my name only _after_ I had fallen as a paladin and then atoned- and that happened _years_ later- after we had met you that first time in the dungeons of Venom!"

The illusionist's eyes widened in recognition.

"That's right, Unru! I was still Goliath then, but you forgot that in your eagerness to find a weapon to use against me, didn't you?"

"He's right," Elrohir cut in. "Goliath didn't change his name to Aslan until after we'd arrived here on Oerth."

Unru glanced over at Cygnus, who was nodding his confirmation.

"So?" he huffed, turning back to face the paladin. "What difference does it make when you changed your name? There's still deep mysteries in your past, Aslan. Mysteries, and probably murder as well. Tell me how _that_ fits into your sanctimonious attitude!"

"What difference does it make? It makes _all_ the difference, Unru- don't you see?"

"I only see you attempting to evade the subject," the illusionist sneered.

"Then I'll tell you what you need to know. As for the events of that night, I swore a solemn oath to my mother that I would never tell a living soul about what transpired then, and I never have- not even to my friends here. And I will carry that promise to my grave-"

"Ah, ha!"

"Take your _'ah, ha's'_ to the All-Father, Unru, not me! Even you know that I became a paladin _after_ the events of that night. After! That means Lord Odin, the most powerful god in Creation- stop rolling your eyes, Argo- that the most powerful god in Creation looked into the soul of a young man and determined that he was _still_ worthy to become a paladin! And later, even after he had fallen, determined that he was worthy to become one _again!"_

Aslan paused to catch his breath. Unru just stared at him.

"That," Aslan continued, "is what I meant earlier. I never realized that until just now, when you mentioned my name."

The paladin's deep voice dropped in volume. He almost seemed to be musing now.

"That means no matter who I am, he's always had faith in me. Past, present and hopefully- the future."

Aslan looked up again at his opponent, and a hard smile creased his features.

"If you still have a problem with that, Unru, I'll be sure to send a special prayer to Lord Odin, letting him know that you think he's not fit to judge us mortals. But for now- just for tonight probably, but for now- I'm at peace with who and what I am."

"Sometimes just having a good cry does wonders," Sitdale offered.

Aslan considered this and nodded, then abruptly took another step forward and pointed across the room at his opponent.

"And now- _it's my turn!"_


	145. The Paladin Way

**20****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

Unru raised his right arm out, and with his fingers beckoned Aslan closer.

"Come on then, braggart. Let's see what you've got."

* * *

Behind Aslan's confidant return smile his thoughts were at a roiling boil.

_What have I got? Dorbin told me months ago that even amongst themselves, Unru's always been the one most guarded about himself and his past. I don't even know anything of substance about his homeland, Yatia._

The paladin considered his options even as he and his opponent began slowly to again walk around the perimeter of the circle. Faintly, he could hear Sitdale making a few wagers with Wainold's men about something.

_There was that one conversation in my cabin, though. True, it's second-hand information, but apparently that's fair game to use in this Duel. The problem is, it would require a use of polymorphing that I've never done before. It's just never- never felt right to do it. Plus, I suspect that story was never meant for Unru's ears. It was told for my benefit, not his._

"Apparently, his strategy involves hoping I'll die of old age," Unru smirked to the others. Aslan heard a few chuckles.

_I don't have anything else, but I'm not sure I can do this,_ the paladin thought. _I've always polymorphed for purposes of combat, transport or deception. I've never done it to- to teach before._

He stopped walking. Unru did likewise.

_Well, here goes nothing again_.

"I also have a conversation to relate, Unru," Aslan began. "It was back in Coldeven, the day I'd teleported back to the Brass Dragon with Cygnus from Highport. The day- Tad was taken."

The room went quiet again.

"After the brawl between Fee Hal and Aiclesis, I'd gone back to my cabin to turn in for the night and mindrest. She was- she was just finishing up when I arrived. Casting _alarm_ spells and such to protect me against Nodyath while I slept."

_Lord, this is going to be hard. I'd forgotten- that pain. This is going to hurt. This is going to hurt everyone. _

Aslan took a deep breath and began to slowly walk forward.

And as he did, his form changed.

* * *

The room gasped as one.

Argo was the first to speak, although his eyes never left the paladin.

"That man never ceases to surprise me."

"Amen to that," breathed Nesco.

"_What_ man?" whispered Cygnus.

* * *

Unru's eyes went wide as the full moons. He took a step backwards in shock. His lips formed one word.

"Torlina."

* * *

Still wearing her dark blouse and woolen long brown skirt, Torlina skirted the armor pile at the center of the circle and slowly continued to approach Unru. Her long, curly brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. The wizard moved aside several unruly bangs that hung over her face. Torlina's green eyes caught and held the illusionist's brown ones for just a moment.

"I- could see how much pain Aslan was in," Torlina began, her head bowing low. "He sat down on his bed and just stared at the floor. Then I noticed that he was looking at a wooden bowl that was lying next to his bed. It smelled of old meat, and I realized it- it was the food bowl for his dog, Mirage."

She stopped about ten feet away from Unru. Her face was heavy with pain. "He'd been killed by Nodyath. I didn't realize until then how much Mirage had meant to Aslan, but when I tried to say something to him, he assured me that he'd find Tadoa and rescue him. I think- I think he didn't want to appear insensitive by admitting his grief about Mirage to anyone. Not while poor Tadoa was still being held captive somewhere."

Torlina's eyes glistened with Aslan's tears.

"I- I wanted him to know that he didn't have to be alone with his pain. So I told him a story- about my cat, Ferrist."

Unru started trembling violently now. Knowing where his opponent was heading, he shut his eyes to close out that vision, but he couldn't plug his ears.

"Damn you, Aslan," he hissed. "That's low. What kind of a paladin would use that? What kind of a man would do this? What sort of freak are you?"

"I had a familiar once," Torlina began, not responding to Unru's accusations. Aslan was addressing Elrohir, Wainold and their allies now as much as Unru. Sitdale and Sir Menn glanced at each other.

"Ferrist. He was a tiger tabby. He was getting on in years, but I didn't want to release him. I guess- I guess I was selfish that way, but I'd had him since before I met Sir Dorbin or any of the others. He would always sleep curled up next to my face. Sometimes I'd wake up coughing with a face full of fur- no matter how much I brushed him, he always seemed to be shedding- but I didn't mind. He was always there for me. Always there to give me his unconditional love. And when I became stronger as a mage, Ferrist- grew- with me. We could actually talk together."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"I had this magical knapsack- I gave it to Aiclesis later. Whenever we were entering a dangerous situation, I would stick Ferrist inside there beforehand. He had plenty of room, air, food and water. I'd never dare risk him in combat."

Unru had opened his eyes again and was staring steadily at Aslan now.

"Then," Torlina gulped. "One day- it was shortly before we met Elrohir and his friends that first time, we were exploring the dungeons of Venom- four or five levels down, I think. Where we were hadn't been picked over like the levels above, but Venom had left many minions behind- and they had stayed."

"The dark naga," Sir Menn said softly.

Torlina nodded at him, and then turned to the others. "A horrid creature. At least twelve feet long. Something like a giant eel, but with a poisonous stinger. And its head- almost like a human's, but…

Her voice trailed off.

"It had snakes with it," Sitdale picked up. "A half-dozen at least. Pythons, maybe- giant constrictors in any case. They all attacked us at once when we entered the naga's lair."

Unru was scowling at his friends now, and Aslan knew why. This was an unexpected bonus- he'd never thought that they might want to tell the story, as well.

_They may even know details that Torlina never told me, but Unru won't stop them. He's in the same situation that I was with his woman- he can't afford to appear afraid._

Thus strengthened, Aslan continued.

"The naga was a dreadful opponent. Monsrek had already been stung, and fallen to the ground. We didn't know if he was dead or not- and then the naga started flinging spells at us. And all the while, the snakes were attempting to crush us in their coils."

Torlina took a deep breath.

"I- I don't know how it snuck up on me- I had my back to a wall, and was casting support spells- but suddenly one of the snakes was on me. I twisted around, trying to throw it off. It was trying to swallow my head- its jaws were so huge- but they clamped down on my knapsack instead. I fell to the floor and managed to roll away from it, but I lost the knapsack."

She looked off into the distance.

"Sir Dorbin- he was under attack by the naga. I fired off some spell at it- I don't remember what one, but then I- I heard Ferrist yowling. When I turned around, I saw him. He- he must have gotten out of the knapsack. The snake had ignored him- it was going for me again, but he'd jumped on its head and was clawing and biting at it."

The paladin's voice dropped to a whisper.

"The snake moved so fast- all I saw was a blur. Ferrist was screeching, and then the snake was moving away from me- and there was this- this- big lump under its skin, right behind its head."

Torlina wiped her eyes clear and tried to bring her voice back up, with uneven results.

"Dorbin was pushing the naga back, and he yelled at us to grab Monsrek and fall back. So we did- it turns out Monsrek was all right; we revived him. I really don't remember much more of anything until we were setting up camp that night outside that night. I guess that's when- that's when it hit me."

Aslan paused, and as he hoped, one of the others picked up the slack.

"We had a _shelterdome_ set up," Sitdale put in. "All of us wouldn't fit in it of course, but it was standard practice for the mages to stay there- make it easier to recover spells and so forth- but this time Torlina just grabbed her bedroll and lay down on the ground away from the rest of us." The half-elf's voice dropped lower. "We could all hear her crying."

Unru bit his lip, but said nothing. "I don't know how long I lay there sobbing, but then I heard someone coming up behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that it was Unru."

Torlina's green eyes flashed with anger. "I told him to go the Abyss. I told him I wished it had been him who had been eaten by the snake instead."

Noticing the puzzlement on the faces of Elrohir, Wainold and the others, Sir Menn explained.

"Unru never liked Ferrist. He thought it was ridiculous to carry an animal around with you when you never knew what was going to happen. He'd make fun of the cat. Sometimes, he'd throw an illusion on him- give him square eyes and cinderblocks for feet. Or he'd use his _ventriloquism_ spell to have Ferrist say rude things to Torlina. Lord, but she would get angry with him." The knight chuckled sadly, shaking his head at the memories.

"He- he sat down next to me," Torlina continued hesitantly. "I kept telling him to leave or I'd start throwing spells at him myself, but he said- he just said…"

It was several moments before she could get the words out.

"He said he figured that maybe I'd want to say goodbye to Ferrist, so he- he conjured up an _image_ of him that I could touch, and pet, and-"

"_You don't take a pet into a dungeon!"_ Unru suddenly shouted.

* * *

Everyone stared at the illusionist, who seemed to have forgotten who the Torlina before him really was. As they watched, Unru's knees buckled and he landed on the wooden floor on them.

"I tried to tell you!" he continued. "Why would you set yourself up for that kind of heartbreak? Isn't there enough of that in the world already? You…"

The mage broke off, unable to continue, his head bowed. Aslan walked over to him and spoke gently to the top of Unru's head.

"I cried for hours- or at least it felt like it. And then he- Unru lay down next to me. He never said another word. I- I just cried myself to sleep with his arm around me."

"I was busy with the naga," Unru croaked to the floor. "I didn't see your damn stupid cat. I would've saved him. I-"

And he looked up at Torlina now, his brown eyes filled with tears.

"_I would've saved YOU!"_

He broke down and cried, burying his face in his hands.

* * *

Elrohir glanced over. Sitdale had glanced away, his hands rubbing his eyes. Sir Menn stood stoically, but it was clear from the knight's face that the memory of that terrible day at the Brass Dragon had enveloped him, as well.

Unru continued to sob; quietly now." I would've saved you. I know I could have. I'm sorry- I didn't know about the scroll- I'm sorry…"

Torlina stood over Unru until his tears began to subside, and then turned to the others.

"I told Aslan that Unru was like an artichoke."

Still sniffling, the illusionist raised his head and eyed Torlina curiously.

"It's not very good-looking, and the outside is all prickly and it's difficult to get past it, but there's some good stuff underneath if you want to go through the trouble of finding it."

Torlina smiled sadly again as she turned to look at one particular person.

"And he said, yeah, I know someone like that myself."

A slight grin crossed Argo Bigfellow's features.

Torlina turned back to Unru and waited until the illusionist was looking into her eyes again.

"So I told him not to tell Unru, but that I really did consider him a friend- someone loved and would be glad to lay down my life for- just like Dorbin and all the others."

She swallowed hard as she finished. 'I told him they're my family, and- and I told him I was sure his family loved him too, and together, they'd get through this."

* * *

The tears started again. The voice started as Torlina's, but finished as Aslan's.

"And so they did."

* * *

Unru was slowly bringing himself back under control. When Aslan had resumed his normal form, the illusionist had looked away from him.

"Stupid paladin," he sniffed. "Doesn't even know how to duel properly. You- you were supposed to try and tear me down, Aslan, _not build me up!"_

He looked up at the figure standing before him.

"Why did you do it?"

And Aslan smiled and held out his hand to his opponent.

"Because, Unru- that's the paladin way."

* * *

Unru stared at Aslan's hand a long time- and then took it and allowed the paladin to pull him to his feet.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then clasped each other by the shoulder.

The Revealing Duel was over.

* * *

"So then, Unru," said Aslan, wiping away the last of his own tears. "Friends?"

"Hell, no," replied the illusionist, who was doing the same. "You're almost as much of a manipulative son-of-a-bitch as I am. But I'll admit you've got more under there than I gave you credit for," he remarked, jabbing a finger into the paladin's chest. "That's worth a temporary truce in my book. All right, Aslan- when we get back from all this," you'll be able to report to Dorbin that I toed the line. I'll keep my raging loins under wraps for you."

"What more can I ask for?" grimaced Aslan.

An awkward silence ensued, which Elrohir took as his cue.

"All right, people," the ranger began. "It's time to turn in. We're all just damn lucky that we weren't overheard outside." With this last, he turned to his wife, who was peering out between a crack in the wooden wall at the street corner beyond. Talass turned and gave her husband a confirming nod.

While some began to make preparations for turning in, Unru turned back to Aslan.

"So," the illusionist said with a wicked grin as he opened his arms wide. "Will you be lonely sleeping up there all by yourself, Aslan? Would you like me to come up with you and hold you in my arms tonight?" Unru finished by throwing his arms around the paladin in a hug.

"Go soak your head," Aslan growled as he disentangled himself. He had just finished turning away from Unru- only to be blocked by Argo Bigfellow Junior, who stood right in front of him, a patently fake look of wide-eyed wonder on his face.

Aslan rolled his eyes. _"What?" _he snapped.

Argo tilted his head. "That accent Unru was using. Did you _really_ used to talk like that?"

"He still does!" All heads turned to see none other than Wainold. The druid stepped forward, a rare mischievous expression on that weathered face. "You should hear him yell 'Ye Gods!' when he gets excited!"

"Hey!" piped up Cygnus. "That's right! I've heard him do that!"

"AARRGH! What is this, 'Pick on the Paladin Day?"

"Why not?" Argo replied easily. "Who deserves one better than the man who provides us with so many cheap laughs every day?"

"Fine! How about the anniversary of your murder?"

"Umm, it's supposed to be a holiday for _you,_ Aslan."

"Try me."

"That's a holiday I'd travel to attend," Wainold cut in, still smiling but crossing his arms and glaring at Argo now.

"Well, that's it then. Better slay me, Aslan- we wouldn't want to disappoint Wayne of the Woods now, would we?"

"Call me that again, Bigfellow, and I'll make your tongue sprout toadstools!"

"That's telling him, Wayne!"

"You clam up as well, Unru, or you'll get the same!"

"No need for ye holy druidness tae get all upset now, ye ken?"

* * *

The light dimmed as Cygnus stowed away his _continual light_ pendant.

Silence had- eventually- returned, mere moments before Talass had threatened to throw it over all of them like a wet blanket.

Elrohir tried in vain again to find another comfortable position in his sleeping bag. It was ironic, the ranger thought, that he could rest more comfortably outside, even on rocky ground, than he could inside this building.

When he looked over, his wife was looking at him.

"And these are the people who are going to bring this mission to a successful conclusion?" she asked quietly, her face clearly showing her doubts.

He smiled at her.

"That's them, Talass. That's them."


	146. Lord Andrew Steps Out

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Suderham, The Pomarj**

Elrohir didn't want to say the words.

The ranger went through his backpack, checking that all items that were supposed to be inside were so, even though he had already checked it ten minutes ago. He took his time securing the straps over his shoulders, examining his sword and tightening the leather strap that secured his steel shield across his back.

Every additional second he delayed brought them another chance in theory. In reality, Elrohir knew it wasn't going to make any difference. He looked around the room again.

Aslan and Argo were standing off to one side, but Elrohir couldn't catch their conversation. Their expressions were both solemn, so the ranger guessed it was about tactical matters, possibly about what adjustments they might need to make to account for their new allies.

Neither of his two good friends looked in top form. Both of their suits of plate mail were in ragged shape, and might not make it through the next battle. Wainold had discovered on an earlier scouting foray however, that identification was needed to purchase any sort of armor in Suderham, and their group no longer had any legitimate papers. There was also no time left for Aslan to _teleport_ elsewhere to get new armor. What they had would just have to do.

They also looked weary- Argo even more so than Aslan. This surprised Elrohir, considering the extreme mental trauma the paladin had undergone yesterday. On the other hand, Argo always slept worse when Caroline was not at his side- even if that was by his own choice.

Cygnus was talking with Thorimund. The latter wizard clutched his quarterstaff tightly as he glared up at the Aardian mage who was apparently giving him some kind of spellcasting tips. Elrohir couldn't overhear their conversation either, but he already knew that Thorimund was not in a good mood at all.

"I am no child, Cygnus. Stop patronizing me," was all the ranger could catch as Thorimund stalked off and, having nothing else to do immediately, made a big show of brushing off his green-and-brown tunic and trousers. Cygnus stared after him a moment, shaking his head, then went over to his backpack and began placing his items back into it.

Elrohir glanced over at his wife. Talass was already staring at her husband, but she quickly looked away as his eyes met hers.

He frowned. That wasn't like Talass at all.

Tojo, already packed, was standing as still as a statue, apparently taking little notice of anything going on around him. The samurai had returned to a kind of "functional mode." He was ready for action and obedient as ever- he just wouldn't engage in any kind of banter at all. Not that Tojo had ever been gregarious in the first place, but it was clear that he was still upset about the incident with the rakes and the repercussions it had caused.

Nesco, having also packed and donned her chainmail armor again, was standing by herself as well, but she looked every bit as nervous as Tojo was calm. The ranger's green eyes were darting around constantly, as if she was expecting an imminent attack. Elrohir didn't know what was going through Lady Cynewine's mind right now, but he felt certain she wouldn't confide in him if he asked, so he didn't.

Sitdale was just finishing up helping Sir Menn into his armor. The knight was quite an impressive sight in his full plate and his great visored helm. He wouldn't close the helm until battle threatened though, as breathing was a labored task when it was down. Menn's great blue cloak draped from his armored shoulders, capping the impression of a powerful warrior. Elrohir could only hope that the image matched the picture.

Arwald and Hengist had just finished giving their swords a final sharpening and cleaning and were now carefully re-sheathing them. Each wore a set of leather armor which seemed in good repair, and sported a small wooden shield. A composite longbow was slung over each shoulder, and they carried daggers in addition to their longswords.

Neither of them spoke, even to each other. The pain and worry on their faces was too powerful to conceal. Or perhaps they hadn't even tried.

In the center of the room were the stars of today's performance- Zantac and Unru.

Zantac had changed outfits yet again. Upon learning that his borrowed _hat of disguise_ only provided a glamour- that is, the illusion did not carry over to touch, the Willip wizard had been adamant about purchasing a new set of clothes. And so, earlier this morning, he had set out to a clothier. His purchase there had been a masculine- and much more expensive- version of the long coat that Nesco had worn. It was made of a grey supple leather, and buttoned up the front. He wore a simple tunic and trousers underneath, and when he had polymorphed with the hat, had changed the latter into a red headband that encircled his forehead. Most of the remainder of the party's pooled funds had gone into purchasing enough jewelry for Zantac to look the part of a well-heeled arisocrat.

Zantac's new appearance had the same height and weight as his normal self, but he had apparently exchanged every ounce of fat for solid muscle. Piercing grey eyes practically gleamed underneath black, neatly-combed hair, and above a strong, chiseled chin.

"Wish fulfillment," Cygnus had muttered.

Wainold had accompanied Zantac on his trip as a bodyguard and then left him, saying he was going to reconnoiter one last time, to make sure no traps had been set up for anyone heading towards the brothels. He promised to be back within the hour.

It was now approaching sunset. Eight hours had elapsed.

And Wainold had not come back.

Elrohir sighed and spoke the words.

"We can't wait any longer."

* * *

Everyone looked around nervously, but no one moved.

Then an unfamiliar voice pierced the quiet.

"I'm going with them."

All heads turned. Where Aslan had been standing was now a Suderham city guardsman, complete with helm.

"Just until they get to the Rose," the paladin offered by way of explanation. "I'll walk far enough ahead that I won't be seen to be with them, but close enough that I can warn them back if I spot anything suspicious."

Elrohir nodded his assent.

"Aslan," Arwald spoke up. "After you have seen Zantac and Unru safely to their destination, could you- could you scout around and see if you can find any trace of Wainold?"

"No."

The heads turned again. Elrohir had spoken up before the paladin could even reply.

"You're to come right back here afterwards, Aslan," the ranger stated with as much firmness as he could put into his voice. "I can't take the chance," he added, facing Wainold's men now. "Aslan is our only transportation home. When we have time, then we'll all search for Wainold."

Arwald glared at Elrohir, and then turned back to the paladin. "Aslan," he pleaded. Please-"

"Elrohir is correct, Arwald," Aslan replied, cutting off the warrior. "More importantly, he is my party leader and with Wainold gone- yours as well."

Arwald looked back and forth from the paladin to the ranger.

"Fine," he gritted out and then went to huddle in a tight knot with Hengist and Thorimund. Aslan gave Elrohir a shrug and a grimace.

* * *

"It's all clear for the moment," Talass reported from her position peering through the wall crack. "Cygnus- you _wizard-locked_ that door. You'll have to open it. Time to get going, you two."

Unru had not bothered to change his form, as his true appearance was as yet unknown in Suderham. The illusionist seemed uncharacteristically subdued, perhaps in deference to Wainold's men, although Elrohir couldn't tell for sure.

"Ready, Lord Andrew?" he addressed Zantac.

That raised a few eyebrows. _"Lord_ Andrew?" repeated Aslan.

Zantac bowed to the guardsman, although his face betrayed a guilty smile. "An Aerdian baronet, good sir," he explained. "They grow like weeds back there, you know."

Argo's brow furrowed. "Are you certain you can pull that off, Zantac? You told us your family left the Great Kingdom when you were only three."

"My father, myself and my brother Sreeve did," replied Zantac. "My eldest brother, Maxis, stayed behind in Rauxes with my mother. He used to make frequent trips to Furyondy to visit us and keep us up-to-date on happenings back east." The wizard abruptly frowned. "Haven't seen him in a while, though."

There was a brief silence. Andrew's grey eyes drifted over to catch those of Cygnus.

"Well," the mage pulled himself back into the room as he rechecked his appearance again. "That's a worry for another day." He gave Unru a wan smile. "Ready?"

The illusionist's tanned face resumed its familiar cocky grin. "I was born ready, Zantac."

His fellow magic-user smirked at him. "And how exactly does one manage to be _born_ ready?"

Unru kept the smile going even as he began to walk towards the door that Cygnus was now cautiously opening.

"_Grease_ spell. Slid right down and out."

* * *

No one seemed inclined to speak after Cygnus had closed the door again.

Elrohir was just beginning to drift back into his own thoughts when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see Talass standing behind him.

In his wife's outstretched hand was a plain golden ring.

"Put this on," she stated in a matter-of-fact voice.

Elrohir's eyes shifted to Talass' impassive face, and then back to her hand- but not to the cleric's palm. He was noticing an identical ring on the cleric's finger which had not been there before.

His eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"These are foci for a protective prayer," she explained. "I'll cast it once we get the signal to move out. It'll last for several hours. It draws down abjurative energy from the Justice Bringer's grace, and I can project some of it to you through this ring."

Elrohir stared at his wife, but she continued to look calmly right back at him; unwavering, unblinking.

_She's holding something back_, the ranger thought. _If she wasn't, she'd be ramming the damn ring onto my finger by now and berating me for hesitating._

He tried to keep his voice as calm and casual as he could. "I've never seen you use that prayer before- or even mention it."

The reply came quickly. "It's a recent gift."

"How recent?"

Talass peered anew at him, uncovering the suspicion.

"Dearest," she said after a few seconds, "just put the damn ring on."

Elrohir allowed a slight smile to cross his face as he took the ring from Talass and turned it over in his fingers.

"If I don't put this on," he asked, still probing, "would there be more protection available for yourself?"

"No." The priestess shook her head. "There is only so much available for one, but my faith allows me to protect another equally well."

_Too pat an answer, dearest. You're too cool, too calm, too rehearsed. I wish I could read you this well any other time._

The ranger held the ring up between them.

One of Talass' ice-blue eyes stared at him through the golden circle.

Elrohir gave an emphatic sigh and slipped the ring on.

Talass smiled. "Thank you, dearest. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go armor up now- Nesco, could you help me, please?"

She gave her husband a quick peck on the cheek and headed off towards the far side of the room, where Lady Cynewine was stringing up her blanket to allow a small space of privacy. Elrohir watched Talass until her form turned into a silhouette behind the blanket.

The ranger wasn't worried about anything malicious. It was just that he knew his wife-

-and yet, even after several years of marriage, he really didn't.

But Elrohir had already made up his mind. He was going to trust her.

* * *

Unru and Lord Andrew strode north and west through the streets of Suderham.

The sky was clear; the temperature cool but not overly so, and even the smell of city air felt like a sweet elixir to Zantac's lungs. This was only his second trip outside in five days, and he was already desperately hoping that he'd never have to go back to the abandoned Leatherworkers/Thieves Guildhouse again.

Suderham was small enough that nearly everyone who passed the duo glanced at them, but their appearance apparently didn't seem to rate a second look.

Andrew glanced at Aslan's back as the guardsman strode along in front of them. The paladin was maintaining a constant distance of about a hundred feet or so, only occasionally glancing back behind him at the two mages. Zantac hadn't really thought Aslan's presence would be all that comforting on this short journey, but surprisingly it was- even at a distance.

Zantac caught himself staring at every rat that scuttled along the drainage ditches at the edge of the sidewalk, at every bird that flew overhead, and at every cat or dog that darted past. He kept hoping that one of them would suddenly transform back into Wainold, and the druid would step forth with some dramatic new information that had taken him an unexpectedly long time to gain, but that would now ensure their success at locating or even defeating the Slave Lords.

But every animal stayed an animal. Andrew tried to tell himself that there were far too many people around for Wainold to attempt such a thing- when he imagined that a large rat or a rock dove seemed to follow them that it was the druid, merely waiting for an opportune moment to rejoin them.

But it never happened.

* * *

Lord Andrew sighed and turned his attention back to matters at hand.

The three of them were now entering Suderham's central plaza, which was dominated by the huge coliseum. The two mages slowed down as they saw Aslan stop in front of a large A-frame sign that was standing near the arena, which did not seem to be currently in use. They saw the paladin shake his head slightly, glance back at them, and then motion them to continue on. The guardsman then resumed his trek towards the bordellos.

Zantac and Unru glanced at each other. Without saying a word, both stopped at the sign when they drew abreast of it.

**Suderham Slave Arena**

**Prices start at 5 gold per human**

**15 gold per non-human**

**Manacles & chains 3 gold extra**

**All unsold slaves to be auctioned off by lot at end of sale**

**Next Auction Starday**

**22****nd**** Day of Goodmonth**

**Large Shipment- Freshly Picked!**

"Tomorrow," Unru mused.

Zantac's jaw tightened. _"Freshly picked."_

Unru's brown eyes darted over to his.

"Quite a sense of humor these Slave Lords have. I look forward to exchanging a few jests with them."

Lord Andrew nodded in agreement. Forcing himself to keep his hands from balling into fists from sheer outrage, he looked over at Aslan, who had stopped for them. The paladin made a small but clear gesture of impatience.

"Come on," Zantac said.

* * *

They were coming up on the three brothels now. No one was standing in front of any of the three doors. Aslan had stopped in front of their destination and was eyeing the teenager who moved up to light the oil lamp that hung by the sign of The Rose. The youth gave a brief nod to the city guardsman before moving over to the door of the Drunken Mermaid, but Aslan was already looking around elsewhere.

When Andrew and Unru were only about thirty feet away, they saw Aslan make a sudden hand movement. Zantac had forgotten the exact meaning of all those hand gestures that Elrohir had tried to drill into them before their first expedition to the stockade, but he saw the paladin's face tense up. Andrew stopped, putting a restraining hand out to halt Unru, who had been walking forward while looking sideways at the passers-by.

From the far intersection came a line of torches; a guard patrol.

Bringing up the rear was Blackthorn.

* * *

Not wishing to be seen loitering in front of a whorehouse, Aslan began to walk forward again, as slowly as he dared.

The gaunt humanoid was walking slightly hunched over while talking with a fellow guardsman at his side, but he raised his head as he drew abreast of Aslan.

Those sunken eyes quickly passed him by.

Lord Andrew and Unru were now passing by the lead members of the patrol. Zantac was sure that they were going to be able to hear his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to bolt, but concentrated instead on just putting one foot in front of another. All other thoughts he tried to push aside.

One of the guardsmen eyed the two mages and then glanced back at the line of brothels. A smirk came over his face- it was patently obvious where they were heading, but Zantac didn't dare alter his course now.

Just as they reached the door of the Rose, Blackthorn came by. The ogre mage altered his path to move a little closer to the two of them.

Then he suddenly stopped.

That skull-like face regarded them.

* * *

Suddenly Zantac wished that he worshipped a deity that wasn't called "The Uncaring."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Unru. The illusionist held a pleasant smile on his face, but Zantac had no doubt that it was as false as a western sunrise.

Behind Blackthorn now, Aslan had stopped and was watching. The ogre mage's patrol had halted as well.

"Anything wrong, captain?" one of them called out.

The patrol leader's response was directed, not to his subordinate, but to Lord Andrew and Unru.

"Is there, gentlemen?"

* * *

Zantac had hoped that the glib Unru would reply for them, but through his peripheral vision he saw the illusionist glance over at him. He suddenly realized that as a supposed nobleman, it would be proper that Andrew be the one to respond.

_Oh, boy._

"Not at all, captain," Zantac replied, suddenly thinking that Lord Andrew's voice didn't sound nearly as different from his own as he thought it had earlier.

In the gathering twilight, he could only see the shadows under Blackthorn's brow as the humanoid stared at him.

Then he smiled. Those pearly-white teeth glowed in the lamplight.

"Glad to hear it," came the deep voice. "Good evening to you gentlemen."

Blackthorn turned and moved on, motioning for his men to do likewise.

* * *

Zantac was amazed that his heavy sigh of relief didn't blow out the overhead lamp. He was also extremely glad that he had left his _continual light_ pendant behind. He hadn't wanted to attract unwarranted attention by anybody, least of all that horrid monster Blackthorn.

He gave a little start as he suddenly realized that a guardsman was suddenly standing right next to him, but in the next instant he realized it was only Aslan.

"That was close," the paladin said in a low voice. He glanced at the door. "Are they open yet?"

"No," Unru replied. "Believe me, I tried the door as soon as we got here. They should be opening any moment now, though. So," the illusionist continued, peering down the street after the departing patrol, "that's really an ogre mage, eh?"

Aslan nodded glumly.

Unru looked back and forth between Lord Andrew and the guardsman. "Can't trust those polymorphers, that's what I say."

The other two looked at him for a moment, and then all three broke out into a smile.

* * *

Aslan's retreating figure had just faded into the waxing gloom when a movement caught Lord Andrew's eye.

A large window was situated next to the door of the Rose, but red curtains covered it. Now a light came on behind them. A few seconds later, there was a _click_ as the door besides them was unlocked from inside.

His full smile in place, Unru looked over at his companion.

"Shall we?"

Lord Andrew took one more deep breath and let it out slowly. It really did help, and when he considered it, Zantac really was in his element now. He had a job to do, and there were far worse places in which he could be doing it. He felt his spirits lift.

The nobleman smiled back at Unru. "Surely."

Whistling a merry tune, both men opened the door and strolled into the whorehouse.


	147. The Rose

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Rose, Suderham, The Pomarj**

_Not bad,_ Zantac thought as he looked around.

The interior of _The Rose_ was lit from a fire burning in a large copper brazier in the middle of the room. The metal container was encircled by engraved decorations of snake-like dragons. The red-colored flame within was real, not magical, as Lord Andrew and Unru could feel its warmth even from the door. There was a faint smell of incense in the air as well.

The duo had just entered a room that was approximately fifty feet square, far larger than any brothel room Zantac had ever been in- but then, Suderham's dwellings seemed to be built to excess as a matter of course- perhaps, he thought, as a result of the relatively small population.

Aside from the exterior stone wall, all the interior walls here seemed to be made of a dark red wood. Paintings and tapestries of roses adorned each one. The floor was covered with an irregular mosaic of light and grey stone tiles, with the exception of red tiles that formed a path from the doorway, encircled the brazier, and then led towards an archway on the right wall, which was covered by a curtain of red fabric.

On the far side of the room, the Madam of the Rose reclined on a black leather divan, watching them.

* * *

She was small; barely clearing five feet, Zantac guessed. Her almond-shaped eyes hinted at what Andrew first took to be elven ancestry, but the bright red kimono she wore marked her as being from Kara-Tur, or at least of such descent.

Her age was hard to determine, as little of her body was visible. Her hands were pale, with many age spots visible even from this distance, but her face was clean and free of wrinkles, although now it seemed to Zantac as if her skin had been stretched somehow at some time over her cheekbones. The overall effect was intriguing, but clearly not very natural. Her hair, done up in a bun, was an almost glossy raven-black.

The woman's dark eyes were watching the newcomers relentlessly even as her lips were clamped around-

Well, Zantac wasn't sure just what it was. It looked something like a standing oil lamp made of beautiful blown red glass. There was indeed a tiny flame resting in some liquid dimly visible in the bottom chamber, but there seemed to be another chamber above it that also contained liquid. About halfway up the device was attached a hose of some time, which led to a glass pipette. It was this that the woman was pulling on as she appraised her newest customers.

The Madam smiled and lifted her mouth from the hose. Her bright red lips formed a circle from which a stream of smoke issued.

_It's some kind of pipe,_ Zantac realized.

Unru, perhaps sensing his companion's confusion, leaned in close to him.

"That's a hookah, or argeela. At least that's what they're called back on Aarde. As to what she's smoking, that's anyone's guess. Back in Yatia, I knew wizards were brewed magical infusions in them. It was the equivalent of drinking a potion."

Zantac frowned. If_ she has some kind of detect going… I should have cast one myself before coming in. Damn. Nothing to do now but hope and keep going._

The Madam sat up straighter on her divan and replaced the hose on the argeela. "Welcome, gentleman," she said, her voice rough. "My first customers- eager to sample the delights of The Rose, are you? Such strong and handsome men! My servers will be honored indeed!" she laughed huskily.

Unru bowed low. "And you, my dear, are the loveliest liar it has ever been our good fortune to encounter! We are but two simple travelers seeking relaxation. Indeed, we have heard your services far outshine any of your competitors."

A glint of something hard flashed in the woman's dark eyes, although her smile remained. "You have chosen wisely, indeed." The glint vanished as the woman waved a languid hand towards the archway. "The arrows will direct you. Each server's price is listed on their door, and they are per candle, which the server will light upon finalizing the transaction."

Lord Andrew allowed one eyebrow to raise. "An unusual system, Madam."

The glint returned. "My servers know what is best for them."

"Then we shall go and enjoy the hospitality of your fine establishment, my dear lady," Unru concluded.

The woman nodded back, then reclined again on the divan and returned the hose to her mouth. Her eyes continued to follow the two as they made their way towards the archway.

"Do you think she might be a member of the Underground?" Zantac asked Unru out ofthe corner of his mouth.

"Nothing you've told me so far has convinced me there even_ is _an Underground," the illusionist replied in kind. "But if there _is_, and she _is,_ she's hiding it extremely well."

* * *

They parted the red curtain and walked through.

The two wizards were standing at the head of a T-intersection. Corridors, all lit from torches on sconces, stretched away in front and to the left and right for at least a hundred feet in each direction. At about twenty feet from the pair in all directions, a series of doors were positioned about every twenty feet on both sides of the corridor. All the doors were ajar.

Lord Andrew turned to examine the wall next to him.

Sheets of parchment with elegantly designed arrows were attached to the dark wooden walls. The arrows facing left and right were both labeled _Human Women._ The arrow facing down the central corridor stated simply, _Human Males & all Non-Humans._

Zantac turned to face Unru.

"I'm not sure why, but I feel vaguely insulted by these signs."

The illusionist smiled. "Just stay on the cheap side, _my Lord._ Thanks to your being such a clotheshorse, we don't have a lot of money between us left to spend on the really choice girls."

Andrew snorted and then jerked a thumb towards the right. "I'll take this side, you take the other?"

Unru nodded and began to head down the left corridor. He then stopped and turned around, his smile deepening. "If I'm not back in two hours-"

"- I'll know you fell asleep on top of her," Zantac quipped.

Unru chuckled, gave Zantac a wink and a cheery wave good-bye, and then headed down the hallway.

* * *

Lord Andrew headed down towards the right. He could feel that familiar tingling starting in his body that he always got when in a house of "ill repute." It had been over a month since Zantac had last been with a woman- Shyla- and he hadn't been to a brothel since last year.

That suddenly seemed like a lifetime ago.

He didn't know how some of the others managed. Elrohir and Argo were married of course, but he was fairly certain that Aslan and Tojo were both still virgins. Zantac shook his head in bewilderment. As far as he was concerned, no vow of any kind could possibly keep you from going crazy from that kind of denial. Why torture oneself like that?

Like Cygnus. Zantac's best friend refused to take any kind of solace in a woman's arms, out of a supposed respect for the memory of his late wife. That was insane in Andrew's opinion. Why go on living if you were never going to allow yourself to be happy again?

And he didn't even want to _think_ about Nesco.

Zantac abruptly stopped.

_We all should have come here,_ he thought to himself, before clearing his mind with a mental smile and moving forward to inspect one of the doors.

* * *

The sign on it read:_ Meela- 5 silver_

Zantac looked inside, and couldn't help but gasp.

On a very large, inviting bed sat a naked woman with her back to him. She was tall, lean and from what little Lord Andrew could make out, probably quite attractive. But her skin was _brown-_ a deep, chocolate brown!

_Olman!_ Zantac realized. _She's from Hepmonaland, far to the south! But what would she be-_

A shudder shot through his entire frame.

_She's a slave._

Almost in a panic, Zantac looked up and down the corridor. There was no sign of Unru- the illusionist must have already made his selection.

_How many of the girls here are slaves?_

Andrew's wonderful tingling suddenly drained away as he suddenly thought of all those hundreds and hundreds of slaves he had seen ever since coming down to The Pomarj.

He wondered whether he had taken advantage of Shyla.

Zantac discarded those thoughts and images- or at least pushed them down out of his mind for the moment- and then relied that Meela had looked over her shoulder and was now staring at him.

She was exotic; no doubt. Not only her enticing skin coloring, but her dark, full lips, intense black eyes, and short but oddly curled black hair.

Her expression, though- Meela was looking at Lord Andrew like he was a bug she'd just unintentionally ground underfoot. Zantac saw her neck muscles twitch as she glared at him, and it occurred to him that this woman could probably snap his spine in half like a dried biscuit if she chose.

He gave her an embarrassed smile, a half-nod and turned away.

It was then that he noticed that the woman in the room opposite was already looking at him.

* * *

This one was a little older than Meela, perhaps thirty-two or so. She looked mostly Oeridian, perhaps with a little Suloise thrown in- very similar to Zantac himself. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown and was probably normally cut very attractively, but it currently looked as if she had been sleeping on it.

Her eyes were large and of an uncommon color- a light pink. There was a shy smile on her lips, but those eyes- Andrew couldn't read them at all.

The young woman was also sitting on the far side of her bed, partially turned away from Zantac, but not so much that he couldn't see some more of her. She wasn't naked as Meela had been, but the white silk gown she wore was more decorative than functional.

Lord Andrew's breath caught in his throat.

She was absolutely beautiful.

He knew she wasn't, really- not in the same impossible way that Unru's _image_ had been; or how the doppelganger Marisee had appeared to him as. This woman's nose was larger than ideal, and he could see several small scars on her body that she had attempted to cover up with some kind of cream. Her smile was that close-lipped affair often seen in those with bad or yellowing teeth, and she had-

Zantac didn't care about any of that. _This one might not be a slave. She might be a Suderham native._

_Or maybe, _the thought clawed its way back to Zantac's consciousness; _you just don't want to think about that._

That was entirely possible, the wizard was forced to admit. But he was sure of one thing.

He was feeling far more nervous now than he had been expecting to feel. He knew he wasn't going to be able to face the corridor- and all those open doors- again.

The sign on her door read _Beryl- 2 gold._Lord Andrew took a deep breath, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Beryl took a deep breath as well. It seemed to Zantac that she was donning a role she had played many times before. Still, it didn't look like she trying to conceal any hidden distaste. For a moment he would swear that she was actually pleased by his physical appearance-

- and then he realized that Lord Andrew looked nothing like Zantac.

The thought was like a blow to his stomach, and he actually winced from the pain of it.

"Good sir?"

Beryl's voice was not particularly smooth or silky, but it has an odd lilt to it that sounded like music to Zantac's ears. The woman's expression however, had turned solemn.

"Are you not… pleased with me?"

Zantac's eyes widened. "Wha- what? With you?" he stammered. "Not pleased with _you?_ By Boccob, nothing of the sort!"

She eyed him curiously at that.

_Watch your mouth, stupid!_ Zantac screamed to himself. _How many noblemen swear by the Archmage of the Deities?_

Drawing upon his prior experience in brothels, Lord Andrew sat down on the opposite side of Beryl's bed.

The rest of the room he took in with a quick glance. There was little here other than the bed, a small end table, a chest of drawers and a small archway at the far end. Coming from there was the floral scent that so many people used in an attempt to cover up the presence of a chamber pot. The problem was, that potpourri was so commonplace Zantac instantly associated it with chamber pots anyway, so it really did nothing for him.

He smiled tenderly at Beryl. "You are an enchanting creature, my dear. I can only hope you find me half as acceptable as I find you."

That seemed to work. Beryl visibly relaxed, her lips slipping open. She actually had very nice white teeth, but she did have a pronounced overbite.

Even that was beautiful. The familiar tingling had returned to Zantac's body- and was rapidly progressing past that stage.

"I hope these candles last a long time," Andrew said softly.

Beryl smiled again, and then rolled over on her stomach across the bed to reach the end table. She pulled open its one drawer and withdrew a thick, red-and-white striped candle that she placed in the holder on the table. Then she drew a small wooden stick from the drawer that had a bulging, blackened tip. Zantac the alchemist would have recognized it immediately as a tindertwig.

He wasn't looking at it, though. Lord Andrew was gaping open-mouthed at this woman's exquisite body moving underneath her robe.

He did notice that her hand was shaking rather badly as she lit the tindertwig only after several failed attempts and then held it to the candle wick. She then blew the twig out and looked again at Zantac, sitting up and drawing closer to him.

Lord Andrew was about to lose himself in ecstasy when _something_ spoke to him.

_What are you doing? Isn't this what Aslan and Unru wound up having the Revealing Duel over? After all that, are YOU going to be the one to betray your friends? Aren't they still in potential peril every moment they're forced to sit around awaiting word from you? Do you call this gaining information? You are nothing but a selfish fraud if you go ahead with this, LORD Andrew!_

Zantac hesitated, considering this thought, which he was now pretty sure was the voice of his conscience. This surprised the mage, because he had never really thought of himself as having one. It was not that Zantac considered himself an immoral person; it was just that he had never been the type to second-guess himself. In his view, it was better to plunge on ahead and fix any mistakes afterwards than to dither around beforehand and possibly miss out on an opportunity.

He found it odd that he had never had these thoughts until this year; after he had met Cygnus and his friends.

The wizard was still trying to piece this together when he noticed Beryl staring at him again. Her face was pained, and her lip was trembling.

Instantly, he realized. _She thinks I was just placating her before! She thinks I really don't find her attractive!_

And Lord Andrew made his decision.

"Come here, Beryl."

* * *

After several seconds of kissing, both of them seemed to explode at the same time.

It was hard to say which of them was more aroused, and that was certainly different from any of Zantac's past experiences. Usually, prostitutes were submissive, acting only on what their clients wanted.

Beryl however, clearly seemed to be her own woman.

And what a woman! Was Andrew's last coherent thought before he let his mouth and hands, and the sensations they were sending him, wipe away everything else.

They were lying side-by-side now, on the bed. Even as Zantac's hands were deftly removing Beryl's robes, her own hands were swiftly unbuttoning his coat.

_Oh, yes!_

While still kissing him, she yanked his trousers down to his knees.

_Oh, yes!_

Her hands now caressing Zantac's face, she reached up and swept the red headband off his forehead.

_Oh, no._


	148. Zantac Unbound

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Rose, Suderham, The Pomarj**

Beryl shrieked in surprise and pulled back, dropping what was now a yellow chapeau onto the bed.

When she looked back at "Lord Andrew" however, her expression turned to one of horror.

* * *

Zantac wasn't feeling so good himself all of a sudden.

"Umm," he stammered. "Er…"

The wizard tried to yank himself up to a sitting position. This simple task was made considerably more difficult by the fact that his trousers were currently bunched up around his ankles. He eventually managed it after several attempts, just in time to see Beryl's face lose the last trace of any color it might have had left. As the prostitute began to clumsily try to draw her white gown back over herself, Zantac could see her eyes begin to fill with tears.

Beryl glanced up towards the ceiling and then towards the door before looking back at Zantac. She seemed to be trying to speak, but nothing came out.

"Um," Zantac continued, pasting one of his Guild's horrific attempts at a smile onto his face. "I _did_ mention I'm also a wizard, right?"

The woman shook her head, but it wasn't in response to Zantac's weak jest. She was pleading.

"Please, sir. Why are you doing this to me? I am loyal to Madam Fujori, and to the Nine! I would never-"

She broke off, crying.

* * *

_Damn it, damn it, damn it!_

The mage concentrated on getting his clothes back on only so Beryl couldn't see he was fighting for control. He could hear her tearful protestations of innocence, and each one slid right into his heart and whirled around in there, cutting and slashing.

_She thinks I'm some kind of spy, and how am I supposed to deny it? I'm here on a mission against the Slave Lords, after all. This wasn't supposed to happen, though. I can't put any innocents at risk against their will._

Zantac looked up again. Beryl's pink eyes seemed larger than ever behind their tears.

The magic-user closed his eyes again and turned away. He couldn't bear this, and he didn't even know why. He'd just met this woman, and she was only a prostitute! Even if she was a slave as well, there were undoubtedly hundreds of slaves in Suderham alone.

This wasn't fair. Zantac couldn't save _everybody!_ He couldn't-

But the wizard's body was in motion even as his mind was still whirling around in confusion and despair. He reached over to take Beryl's hand in his- but she pulled away from him.

And looking back on it, Zantac thought it may have been that very gesture which made him do and say what he did. Staring down at his own empty hand which had frightened this woman so, the Willip wizard made up his mind.

He was tired. Tired of being _Zelhile _and _Lord Andrew_; tired of lies and deceit. Let Unru the illusionist have them. Zantac knew what he was going to do.

He was going to betray his friends after all. In the name of truth.

* * *

"Listen to me, Beryl," he began, his voice rushed because he knew he couldn't stop it now. "Just listen to me- that's all I ask. My name is Zantac, and I _am_ a wizard, but I am not a spy for the Nine. In fact, I am here on a mission against them-"

"_No!"_ She recoiled further. "You- you're trying to trick me! You're trying to paint me as disloyal, but I'm not! I'm-"

"Beryl!"

She stopped at the command in his voice.

"Think, Beryl," Zantac continued. "Don't you go outside at all? Haven't you heard the criers or seen the posters? The enemies of the Slave Lords and of the Earth Dragon? You must have heard about me and my friends!"

Beryl, who had stood up at the far side of the bed, stared at Zantac for what him seemed like forever while she thought.

And then she slowly sat down again, but as far away from him as she could.

"And what if you're not?" she eventually asked, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. "What if you're an inquisitor, posing as this 'Zantac' to draw me out? You have to be! Why else would you come here in disguise? A real traitor wouldn't risk his life and go through all this trouble just to- just to- lay with a whore."

She finished up by wiping her eyes and staring at him challengingly.

Zantac looked back at her, and an incongruous thought flashed through the wizard's mind.

_Damn, this woman is smart! How am I supposed to answer that?_

He took several deep breaths and slowly raised his hand in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. The mage made sure to keep his eyes on hers.

"First of all, Beryl," he began again. "You are not a whore-"

"I am," she snapped back, growing more defiant. "I'm a whore and a slave, but I'm not-"

"You _are_ a slave?"

Zantac couldn't help interrupting her.

She scowled at him. "You know that I am. "

"No, Beryl- I didn't." He kept his voice low. "I'm not from here. I told you that."

She crossed her arms and jutted her lip at him. "Prove it."

"Prove it?" Zantac repeated. He looked down at his body- he noticed his coat was buttoned up wrong- and then back at Beryl. "Look at me! Don't I match the description of the man the authorities call Zantac?"

She waved a dismissing hand at him. "You're a wizard- you said so yourself."

"Yeah, but I'm a lousy one!" he pleaded. "That hat is the only way I was able to disguise myself! Would a real spy be so foolish as to let his cover be penetrated so carelessly? I can't work up an illusion to save my life, Beryl- ask my Guildmaster!"

"Lamonsten?" she asked casually.

Zantac shook his head. "No. His name is Zelhile, and he's back where I come from- Furyondy."

Beryl stared at him again, and for just a moment, her confidence in her position fell.

"The Kingdom of Furyondy?"

He nodded. "Yes, Beryl. I and my friends have been tasked by King Belvor himself with destroying the Slave Lords. We've followed their trail from Highport to Markessa's stockade in the hills and now right here to the Aerie! If you are one of the slaves whose lives have been shattered by these people, then you must know…"

Zantac stood up, took one more deep breath and threw away his last vestiges of caution.

"The Nine must die, Beryl- and I will be part of the band that kills them."

* * *

Beryl stood up again. She did not take her eyes off Zantac.

"I am damned," she said slowly. "Either you are a spy for Ajakstu, and will report to him that I am sympathetic to Zantac and his fellow traitors, or- if you are who you say- I will be denounced as disloyal after you are captured, and share your fate in the dungeons."

Her voice grew angrier, and louder and louder.

"Why have you done this to me? I've never done anything to you! _You've ruined my life, damn you! Why-"_

"_Arrest me!"_ Zantac shouted back.

* * *

There was silence.

Beryl glanced towards the door and Zantac could not help but do likewise, wondering if their shouting had been overheard.

He still didn't know what in the Nine Hells he was doing.

Or why.

"Go on, Beryl," the mage repeated, softly now. He pointed at the door. "I'll remain here, and I won't resist when they come for me. Go to Madam Fujori and tell her you've unmasked the fugitive Zantac. If I'm not who I say I am, you'll have passed the loyalty test. And if I am, you'll be- you'll be a hero. Go on. Turn me in."

Beryl looked at Zantac, and he gazed right back at her.

The wizard couldn't tell what she might be thinking or feeling.

Right now, he couldn't even answer that question about himself.

Which is why he was so ashamed when a tear abruptly ran down his cheek.

Zantac didn't bother to wipe it away, however. He just kept looking at Beryl. Only when she glanced down did he follow the prostitute's eyes, and saw that she was looking at the candle.

It was almost out.

* * *

Beryl kept her eyes on the candle as she arranged her gown as best she could around herself and sat back down on the bed. Zantac could hear the feathers inside the mattress rearranging themselves under her weight. He could hear Beryl exhale as she breathed.

It was a soft whispery sound- and he suddenly realized he loved it.

A puff of black smoke announced the end of the candle.

* * *

"I can't help you, Zantac," Beryl said softly, her pink eyes again threatening to cloud up with tears. "What I told you was the truth. I have never acted against the Nine, and have no means to do so even if I would."

Zantac smiled.

The Willip wizard sat down on the bed again. Beryl trembled, but this time did not pull away as Zantac took her hand in his.

"No harm will come to you, Beryl. I swear it."

He looked up at her face again.

And the odd thing- the _really_ odd thing was, that he felt closer to her now than he had earlier, when they both had been wrestling around on this very bed.

He wondered if she felt the same way. He didn't know, but she made no move to draw her hand away.

"Why did you come to the Rose?" Beryl asked suddenly, her pink eyes searching his face.

"I will answer that question Beryl, but answer me one first. How long have you been a slave here?"

Beryl bit her lip, exposing her front teeth. She withdrew her hand again from Zantac's and looked away, but her voice was still firm when she responded. "I was captured- a little over two years now."

She started as Zantac abruptly stood up again, but the wizard placated her with his answer.

"Beryl," he explained, "we- that is, my friends and I- have been led to this brothel by certain people whom we suspect may be sympathetic to our aims. I accept that you have never plotted against the Nine, but what of your fellow- servers?"

She smiled cynically at the euphemism. "No," she replied, shaking her head. "None that have ever spoken as such to me."

"Any regular clients then? The Madam herself?" Zantac asked, desperation pushing his tone higher.

Beryl looked at him almost pityingly as she shook her head. "I'm sorry Zantac, but I don't know of anyone who is plotting against the Nine."

The Willip wizard began to pace back and forth in front of the door.

_Think, Zantac- think, dammit! There has to be something here! There has to be-_

Suddenly he remembered Tojo's words from their first night in town.

"What about The Nine themselves?" he asked, whirling about to face Beryl again. "Do any of the Slave Lords frequent this place? Their lieutenants?"

She shook her head again. "No. Never."

Zantac let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, and sat back down on the bed. The wizard stared glumly at his hands folded in his lap.

_Nothing. There's nothing. We were misled, or maybe we read the clues wrong. Either way, it's all been a waste of time. And maybe worse, if this woman decides to-_

"Well now, wait a moment. That's not exactly true."

Zantac whipped his head around so fast he strained a muscle in his neck. Rubbing at it with one hand, he stared at Beryl, who wasn't looking at him. The prostitute's nose was wrinkled up as she fought hard to remember something.

Her pink eyes combined with that expression made Beryl look so much like a cute little rabbit that moment that Zantac couldn't help but chuckle. Fortunately, by the time her eyes were back on the mage, he'd recomposed himself.

"The Slave Lords have never _come_ here," she reiterated, "but they did _leave_ here once."

Zantac blinked.

"I'm sorry- come again?"

Beryl gave a half-smile and scooted a little closer on the bed.

"It was several weeks ago," she began. "The day of the rebellion."

"Rebellion?" Zantac's eyes widened. "I hadn't heard anything about a rebellion!"

Beryl eyed him curiously. "I'm surprised. Obviously it was before you arrived, but it was the talk of the town for quite some time. Well, let's see. There was a young wizard named Yeeton. He was apprenticed out to Ajakstu at Drachen Keep, and he-"

"Ah!" Zantac interrupted. _"That,_ I've heard of! He was chased down and killed at the _White Knight, _right? I didn't realize there had been others, though."

Beryl arched an eyebrow at him.

"May I continue my story, please?"

Her voice was hard, but the woman's eyes were smiling and she was fighting hard to keep her lips from turning up.

_I never knew I liked pink so much,_ the magic-user thought to himself as he took two gold pieces from his belt pouch and tossed them on the sheet between them. "Here. Just so the Madam doesn't get suspicious."

Beryl smiled back, but suddenly her hand flew to her mouth and then she lunged at him.

Zantac flung himself backwards in surprise, but he had been sitting a little too close to the edge of the bed, and with a yelp of surprise the wizard tumbled to the floor.

"Ow! My butt!"

"I'm sorry!" came Beryl's voice from somewhere above him. "I'm just lighting another candle! Madam Fujori is very strict about our times! That'll, uh, be another two gold, by the way."

Zantac reappeared by the side of the bed, wincing from the pain in his rear as he eased himself back down on it. "Here," he said as he tossed two more coins at her with a wry grin. "Just don't hurt me anymore, okay?"

She really did have the most beautiful smile he'd ever seen.

* * *

"Well," Beryl continued. "Yeeton was the revolt's leader- or so some people say- but he wasn't the only one. Apparently, once he'd been stationed at Drachen Keep, he subverted a number of the Nine's officers and men in a plan to overthrow and murder the Slave Lords. For what reason, I'm not sure. I assume Yeeton wanted to rule Suderham himself."

"Obviously, he didn't succeed."

"No," she acknowledged. "From what I heard later, there was a great battle at the keep and Yeeton's fellow conspirators were slain. He himself escaped, but he was pursued throughout the city and- well, you know the rest."

Zantac frowned. "But how does this tie in with what you were talking about?"

Beryl waved him down. "I'm getting to that. That afternoon- and it was about the time of the battle at Drachen Keep, although we didn't know that until later- there was a sudden commotion outside in the hallway here. All of us rushed outside, and we saw them. The Slave Lords."

"All of them?"

"I'm not certain," she admitted. "I don't think Nerelas was with them, and I'm pretty sure the black elf wasn't- I think I'd have remembered seeing something that extraordinary. But they came barreling down the hallway, knocking aside everyone in their path- I'm lucky my door is one of the closest to the entrance, so I had time to jump back- a number of girls got bruised up pretty badly. And then," Beryl shrugged, "they ran out of the Rose, and we never got an explanation. As I say, it was only later that we found out about the rebellion."

Zantac turned this all over in his head. "Did you see exactly where they came from?"

Beryl nodded. "The room at the far end of this hall. The door is locked all the time. Supposedly it's reserved for the private use of The Nine, but as I say, they've never used it."

"And you're certain they couldn't have come in earlier without your knowledge?"

She gave Zantac a look that reminded him of Talass.

"How much noise do you think I make in here? Remember, we're required to keep our doors open at all times during business hours so potential customers can check us out beforehand. No, there's no chance they came in through the front door."

Zantac stood up, looking at the door.

"I think I need to take a look at that room."

"That door is always locked," Beryl's voice reminded him from behind.

"You forget- I'm a wizard."

"Yeah, but a lousy one."

He turned around in astonishment.

Beryl was smiling at him.

_I don't care what else happens,_ Zantac suddenly thought as he let his own smile return.

_I am going to save this woman._Then he realized that he was still Zantac and not Lord Andrew.

* * *

"Umm," he mumbled, tentatively holding out his hand. "May I have my hat back, please?"

She laughed and tossed it to him.

Zantac put the chapeau back on. His hair turned black and straight. His brown eyes became steel grey as all his fat hardened to muscle. In a moment he was an Oeridian nobleman again.

Beryl's smile vanished.

"Is this it, then?" she asked, looking down at the bed. "You've learned all you can from me, and so…"

Her voice drained away, taking with it every trace of happiness that had resided on her face.

In response, Zantac dug around in his bet pouch, extracted his last two gold coins and tossed them onto the sheets. He saw her eyes flicker to them, but she didn't look up or make any move to take the coins.

"No, Beryl- this isn't the end. It's only the beginning."

He took one more deep breath.

"I'll be right back. Keep a candle burning for me."

The mage quickly opened the door and stepped back out into the hallway before he could see whether or not that comment had reassured her.

He knew he'd never be able to face her again if it hadn't.

* * *

Lord Andrew strode quickly down the hallway. Every sound seemed to reverberate in his brain.

His footfalls on the stone beneath him.

The wizard was at the end of the corridor now, but the doors on both sides of the hallway were closed.

Zantac hesitated a moment before he heard more sounds. These came from behind one of the doors.

Moans of ecstasy. A man's- real. A woman's- feigned.

_This place sure fills up fast, _he thought.

A moment's further observation revealed that the other door's sign read only _Private._

Despite what Beryl had said however, there was no lock on it.

Zantac frowned and was preparing to cast when he heard one more sound.

Footsteps coming up behind him. Fast.

* * *

The Willip wizard whirled around, his hand outstretched and an attack spell already in mind.

"Whoa there!" Unru hissed, grabbing Lord Andrew's arm. "Watch where you point that thing!"

Zantac scowled at the illusionist as he pulled his arm free. "Do you always sneak up on your friends like that?"

"I didn't think calling out down a hallway filled with open doors would have been the most brilliant of tactics, Lord Dunderhead." Without waiting for a response, the illusionist's brown eyes studied the door and then turned to rest again upon the nobleman.

"I take it you found out the same thing I did."

"This Slave Lord-disgorging door?"

Unru nodded. "My little Patrice was quite the chatterbox once she got talking. Too bad most of it was rubbish." He shook his head ruefully. "Pity- such a beautiful body welded to a mouth that large."

This declaration bothered Zantac, but he tried to keep the irritation out of his own voice when he responded. "I guess I got lucky both ways, then. I was about to _detect_ here. Can you do it?"

Unru raised an eyebrow at Andrew, taking in his disheveled coat. The illusionist's smirk instantly set the mage's teeth to grinding, but then he had turned to the door and cast his cantrip. His fellow wizard waited patiently for Unru to absorb the information he was receiving.

"Hmm… a faint abjuration," the illusionist murmured.

A moment more, and he glanced over at his ally with a smug smile. _"Wizard lock, _all right."

Zantac hesitated for a moment, and then grabbed the door handle and pushed it. He knew the door wouldn't open- and it didn't- but there was a faint sound on the other side; as if something was propped up against the back of the door.

"It's not just _wizard locked._ This door is barred from the inside, too."

* * *

Zantac bit his lip as he took one more glance back down the corridor to make sure it was still clear.The sounds of passion, real or not, continued from behind the opposite door.

Unru squinted at that door's sign and his smirk deepened. "This, uh, 'Kolene' must be awfully good at 5 gold per candle." The Yation mage then returned his attention to their current subject "You realize, oh most lawful Lord, that this sign says _Private."_

"Lucky that just happens to be my first name," Zantac said with a straight face.

"All right then, _Lord Private Andrew,"_ Unru inquired with a clear note of condescension in his voice. "What do we do now?"

Doing his best Tojo impersonation, Zantac raised both eyebrows at his fellow magic-user.

"Why, we do what any wizard would do. We _knock."_

Andrew incanted. From behind the door came the sound of something hitting the floor.

Unru, his _detect_ still active, regarded the door again. "You've suppressed it, all right. Gives us about ten minutes, assuming your _knock_ is as good as mine."

Zantac ignored that. "No other auras?"

"No, but there could still be a dozen mundane traps set to go off when we enter."

"Good point," Zantac conceded. "You go first."

Unru stared at Andrew for a moment. "How very mercenary of you, my Lord. What would Aslan say?"

"What would Sir Dorbin say?"

"I don't know. Let's _teleport_ back to the Brass Dragon and ask him, shall we?"

"Better idea. Open the damn door or I'll make sure you'll never have cause to visit a whorehouse again."

Unru narrowed his eyes at his fellow mage, but Zantac matched his glare.

He just didn't feel like bantering anymore, and their time was running out.

The illusionist abruptly shrugged. "No need to get all pouty about it."

He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open.

* * *

No traps or guardians greeted them- at least, none that they could detect- but there was an assault, if only upon their nostrils.

"I think they've overdone that potpourri," Unru grimaced, waving his hand in front of his nose as he moved into an unoccupied copy of Beryl's room.

Lord Andrew, right behind him, tried his best to breathe through his mouth while replacing the wooden crossbar that kept the door shut. "And yet I can still smell that chamber pot! Do all of The Nine use this room as their private toilet?"

Unru answered his question by disappearing into the tiny alcove by the far end of the room, and returning a moment later carrying a clean chamber pot in his hand. "Not likely. This thing's never been used."

"That doesn't surprise me," Zantac grunted as he swept a finger along the surface of the end table and eyed the thick coating of dust it picked up. "This room hasn't seen much use."

"And yet it stinks like low tide at Otyugh Beach."

"True," Andrew admitted while looking about him. Despite the better judgment of his nose, he sniffed around again, trying to determine the source of the wretched aroma.

Suddenly, he frowned and glanced down.

"Unru," he said. "I think it's coming from underneath the bed."

The Willip wizard moved to the opposite side of the bed from where Unru was standing and pointed downwards. "We'll check underneath it- both of us at the same time."

The illusionist however, merely crossed his arms and grinned wickedly at his ally again. "Still afraid of monsters under the bed, are we?"

Zantac sighed. _Now I know how Aslan feels. I'm surprised he hasn't flattened Unru by now- and Argo too, for that matter. _"You're a funny man, Unru," he muttered tiredly.

"Damned straight I am."

"On your knees, funny man."

Unru made a face, but went down even as Zantac did.

"You know, that's what Patrice kept telling me…"

* * *

There was nothing under the bed, although the smell was definitely stronger down here.

Unru smiled and waved from the far side, but Zantac was already reaching underneath, sweeping around with his arm, searching for something- for _anything._

And he found it.

Andrew's fingers abruptly closed upon a metallic loop of some kind. He quickly realized it was a handle, set flush with the floor. His sudden change in expression was caught by his fellow wizard, who now peered curiously at him underneath the bed.

"Unru," Zantac said. "I think there's a trap door here."

* * *

The bed was heavier than it looked- the frame was made of a very dense wood- but after a few grunts of exertion, the two wizards were soon staring at the square outline of a trap door directly underneath where the bed had been.

"Well, well," Unru looked up at Zantac and smiled again. "Lord Private wins the prize."

Andrew peered back at him, ignoring the comment. "Is your _detect_ still going?"

Unru looked affronted. "It hasn't even been three minutes!" he exclaimed. "Who do you think I am- Thorimund?"

"He'd be cracking fewer jokes, that's for sure. Any auras on or underneath that?"

Unru concentrated. "Not a one."

Zantac didn't even bother asking Unru this time. He reached down and with a jerk, pulled the door open.

The stench hit them full bore, forcing both mages back a step.

_I should have guessed,_ Zantac thought.

* * *

It was dark below, but the sounds of water were unmistakable. Metallic rungs were set into one of the sides of the vertical column that was underneath the trap door.

Both mages regarded each other. Unru was the first to speak.

"Sewer system."

Lord Andrew nodded. "Runs all the way from underneath Drachen Keep, I'll bet. That's what Thellent was trying to tell Cygnus- the Slave Lords always have multiple emergency exits available."

Unru arched an eyebrow. "Think they might expect someone wandering _in_ through the _Out_ door?"

"Maybe not," Zantac theorized. "First off, there were no wards present here aside from one_ wizard lock. _For all their paranoia, I think The Nine might have gotten a little careless from being isolated in this little mountain town with no serious challenges to their rule. I know Elrohir's plan is to use Aslan to scout ahead and hopefully enable us to ambush and take out the Slave Lords one at a time. Well, this might be our ticket to doing just that."

"Zantac."

Lord Andrew glanced back over at Unru, but there was no smile, smirk or levity in the illusionist's tanned face at all now. Unru chewed his lip as he bent down and slowly closed the trap door.

"Listen, Zantac. I know you're no battle virgin, but I've been at this longer than you have. Combat, especially against fellow mages, is a dicey thing."

Unru looked up at Zantac again.

"That- that battle we had at the Brass Dragon against Nodyath's 'Outlaws'. They were stronger than we were. Despite our outnumbering them two to one, we lost. Not only the battle-"

Unru ran his open hand down his face as if he could wipe away the memory.

"– but two of our own as well. Do you understand what I'm saying, Zantac? This could be that same situation all over again! Potentially even worse- I'm sure The Nine have hundreds of guards, cohorts and what-have-you stationed there with them. Attacking your enemy on his own ground is usually a bad business. If we're not able to surprise them and they regroup-"

"You don't have to worry, Unru." Zantac said quietly.

The illusionist peered at him. One eyebrow cocked.

"Aslan brought you, Sitdale, Sir Menn, Wainold and his men here so you could aid us in discovering how to get to the Slave Lords, not battle them. You've done your job. You can all go home now."

There was a brief silence, broken only when Unru gave Zantac a sad little smile and responded.

"No, Lord Private Parts- we can't, and you know it. They're all back there; armed, armored and ready to shine themselves up. When we get back and tell them what we've found, do you think Elrohir is going to call the whole thing off just so Aslan can spend two days teleporting six of us home?"

Unru pointed at the crossbar keeping the door closed. "We won't be able to replace that when we leave. Do you really think your friends will be willing to spend two more days here without their presence, and all your plans, being uncovered?" He shook his head ruefully. "No, Zantac- we're in this for the long haul, and I think we all knew that from the start." Unru took a deep breath and seemed to stare out into space. "I know Wayne did."

The mention of the druid jolted Zantac back to the sober reality of their situation. "I don't suppose there's any chance he's still alive?" he asked, looking at Unru only from the corner of his vision now.

The illusionist sighed. "I used to be naive enough to think something like that might be possible..."

The trace of that sad grin returned. "Then I turned eight."

There was another small silence. Eventually Andrew spoke up again, jabbing his thumb towards the door. "That _lock_ will have resumed by the time we get back here, and I don't have any more _knocks_ in my head- don't start," Zantac pointed a stern finger just as a grinning Unru was about to retort. "Do you have any memorized yourself?"

The Yatian mage shook his head. "No, but Thorimund has one."

Zantac nodded and took a deep breath, although he instantly regretted it.

"All right, then. We attack tonight. Let's get going- we've got a lot of people to kill."

* * *

Unru strode briskly back down the corridor, but Zantac maintained a slow, measure pace behind. When the illusionist reached the T-intersection, he turned and glanced back at the Willip wizard.

"Go on ahead. I'll catch up in a minute."

Unru frowned, but more customers were coming in now. At least half a dozen men and woman were entering and fanning out along all three corridors. Unru gave a _Make it quick _glare and vanished through the red curtain.

Zantac moved on. The corridor wasn't particularly narrow, but he still had to skirt along one wall as two well-dressed men arrogantly strode side-by-side down its length.

Lord Andrew repressed a brief shudder as he recognized one of the men as Davis, but the aristocrat passed right by him with little more than a sneer.

Beryl's door was closed. Zantac suddenly couldn't remember if he had closed it when he'd left or not.

If he hadn't, and it was closed now, that meant…

Zantac put out a hand against the wall to steady himself.

He couldn't hear anything behind the door, and had to fight off the urge to press his ear against the door. If Davis or anyone else were to see that, it might raise questions Andrew didn't want raised right now.

The wizard took one more deep breath and pushed the door open.

* * *

Only Beryl was inside, although she let out a brief cry of surprise at the magic-user's unexpected entrance.

Lord Andrew winced. "I'm sorry, Beryl! I'd forgotten if I'd left the door open or not, and…"

His voice trailed off. Beryl, still sitting upon the bed, merely turned towards the end table. Zantac followed her gaze.

The candle still burned.

Andrew smiled with relief- or maybe, gratitude- and sat down on the bed himself.

"I don't have much time, Beryl, so hear me. There's a trap door in that room that leads down to the sewers. We think the Slave Lords used it as a secret passage that day you spoke of, probably fleeing from the keep until they could regroup and assess the situation. I'm leaving now, but in less than an hour I'm going to be back with my entire band. You won't see us- we'll be invisible- but we're going to use that passage and attempt to surprise and take out the Slave Lords one at a time."

Beryl, who had been listening with a slight frown on her face throughout all this, now shook her head.

"It's a fool's errand. No one can defeat The Nine."

Zantac held up a cautioning finger. "I hope they really do think that. Their overconfidence will be our best weapon."

He could see the prostitute's form start to tremble. "Even if- even if you do succeed, what happens then?"

Zantac blinked.

In over five days of planning and discussion, that topic had never once been raised.

_We really need this woman on our team. She's got the common sense we lack. Maybe I could teach her magic-_

Lord Andrew thought hard. "Well," he said slowly," in the best-case scenario, we'd be able to arrange a peaceful transfer of power. Most likely back to the nobility who held it before The Nine rose to power. If not…"

He trailed off, frowning. Things might get ugly. One glance at Beryl told him she was already thinking the same thing.

The nobleman chewed his lip. "I'm not sure, Beryl. It's possible there may be anarchy before order reasserts itself. I want you to be prepared, Beryl, so here's what I want you to do-"

He reached for her hand as he said this, but she pulled it away again.

Now it was Andrew who started to tremble, until Beryl, staring down at the sheets between them, muttered, "I- I can't look at you like that, Zantac. Not when I know…"

She made a weak gesture with her hands, and then fell silent.

"Beryl."

That was Zantac's voice. The slave quickly looked up.

Zantac held his _hat of disguise_ in one hand. The other was still held out to her.

"Better?"

She smiled, and took his hand in hers. "Much."

"Gather whatever possessions you can together," Zantac instructed. "Be prepared to leave at a moment's notice- you'll have to use your own judgment for that."

Beryl started to tremble again. Zantac could feel the fear coursing through her veins.

"What will I do?" she asked plaintively. "I hate this life, but at least here I can survive."

"Do you want to be free, and go back to your home?"

"More than anything," she nodded, tears filling her eyes at the very thought.

Zantac nodded. "Then don't worry. I'll find you, Beryl. I'll find you and make sure you get out of Suderham forever. I promise you that- okay?"

She gaze into his eyes, then wiped her eyes clear and sniffled. "Okay," she whispered.

The two looked at each for a long moment, and then Zantac slowly leaned forward.

Beryl held up a hand. "Wait."

The wizard stopped, the confusion and disappointment both clearly visible on his face.

Both of them vanished when he saw the prostitute blow out the candle and then turn back to him.

She smiled softly. "This one is from me."

* * *

And for Zantac, that one kiss, unlike any that came before, tasted like nothing so much as freedom.

He felt unfettered; unbound- and it brought the best tingling he'd ever had coursing throughout his entire body.

* * *

The kiss lasted so long, Zantac's first thought upon ending it was that Unru was probably all the way back to their hideout by now.

"I've got to get going," he stammered, sheer ecstasy making it hard to get back to his feet. When he finally managed it, he headed towards the door, preparing to put the yellow chapeau back on his head.

He suddenly stopped. Feeling Beryl's eyes on his back, he turned around.

Those pink eyes were filled with fear again.

But for the first time, the fear wasn't for herself.

"Zantac," she pleaded. "The Slave Lords are-"

"The Slave Lords," he interrupted her, "are history."


	149. Through The Catacombs

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"Look out!"

Elrohir's shout was as instinctive as it was unnecessary. Argo Bigfellow Junior was already twisting out of the way of their primary foe's grasp. Displaying that remarkable agility that he possessed even while encumbered by his plate mail, the big ranger stepped out of harm's way-for the moment- even as he slashed out with Harve. The longsword's crimson glow was momentarily dimmed at the blade sank deep into the body of its target.

With a grunt, Bigfellow yanked his sword out. Only a little mud seeped out of the wound, along with a few sections of severed vines and roots. There was no other visible effect.

Argo scowled. _There's something deeply unsatisfying, _the ranger thought, _about fighting a plant._Elrohir, standing next to his fellow ranger, risked a momentary glance behind him while awaiting the best moment to strike with Gokasillion.

* * *

About seven feet behind him and to the right, Sir Menn was just rising back to his feet. Covered with mud and now sporting a large dent in the breastplate, the knight's plate armor had lost its entire virgin luster, courtesy of a huge blow from the shambling mound. His blue cloak was now merely a brown rug that trailed off his shoulders. Growling in frustration, Sir Menn looked around for his shield, which he had dropped during his brief flight. It had landed however, at Talass' feet, and the cleric had already picked it up and was holding it out to the knight. As he took it with a brief nod of thanks, Talass turned around behind her.

What she saw wasn't encouraging. One of the two giant constrictor snakes had now wrapped itself firmly around Tojo. Talass wondered if the samurai was now regretting his decision to shove Zantac out of the way when the serpents had suddenly emerged from holes in the spongy, swampy earth beneath them and attacked, apparently in cooperation with the shambler.

Knowing Tojo, not likely, she mused. The _continual light_ around Cygnus' neck was swinging wildly as the wizard, bereft of his staff since the battle with the storoper eight days prior, was trying to wedge his dagger between the samurai's body and the snake and cut his friend free from the inside. Talass couldn't determine if he was having any luck or not. Sitdale and Unru were already sawing and bashing away at the serpent respectively, and Zantac was just now rejoining the fray, his own dagger glinting in the party's artificial light.

Talass looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. About ten feet further back, Nesco, Thorimund and Hengist were attacking the other serpent, which had wrapped it self securely around Arwald. She could see the warrior's head jerk around furiously, trying to avoid the snake trying to clamp its unhinged jaws on him.

The priestess cried out in frustration. In these cramped quarters, there was no room for her to come to the aid of those battling the serpents, and the shambling mound was blocking the path in front of them.

To flank it, she'd have to step into the waters of the underground lake.

The water was black and clammy-looking, with numerous patches of scummy green algae. Talass saw some kind of white fish dart by close to the surface, with what looked like two large leeches or lampreys attached to it.

_It'll only take a few seconds, _she thought. _I don't think the water's more than waist-high here, and I can't just stand here doing nothing. We've got to flank that plant-thing!_

Talass was just starting to lower herself over the side of the path into the lake when a voice squeaked out from above her.

"No, Talass- don't! We don't know what's in there!"

Despite themselves, Argo and Unru guffawed, exactly as they had every time they had heard that voice. In fact, Unru's swing with his tonfa went wide and smacked Tojo on his cheek. The samurai glared viciously at the illusionist, and seemed to be trying to burst the snake encircling him with the power of sheer rage.

Talass looked up. "Then we need spellpower!" she roared. "We're not winning this fight like we did the other ones! We'll need to expend it all on healing anyway at this rate! I'm going to-"

"Please, Talass!" the voice squealed. "Just give them a few more seconds first! And dammit, Argo- stop laughing and fight!"

"Yes, my liege!" Bigfellow squeaked back in a falsetto voice.

* * *

Flying above the scene, Aslan surveyed the battle with a mixture of rage, anxiety and disappointment.

The paladin was furious at Bigfellow and Unru for their merriment every single time he opened his mouth in his current form. He supposed it might have been amusing at first, but he thought the novelty had long since worn off. And now, in combat- there was no excuse for it.

He couldn't control his anxiety either. Although all his well-honed battle instincts were telling the paladin that his compatriots would triumph in this battle, there was no doubt that relaxing his and Elrohir's earlier forbiddance on anyone using magic until they entered Drachen Keep would end this fight a lot quicker.

They had to keep looking at the big picture, however. Conserving their resources was the only way their plan- a long shot at best, anyway- would have a chance at succeeding.

It didn't help either that Aslan was unable to directly participate in the fray at present. To be sure, he could fire off a _psionic blast_ at that creature that Argo and Wainold's men had called a shambling mound, but that would also be a use of precious resources that they couldn't afford right now.

But most of all, the paladin was disappointed. Everything had been going _so well_ until this point- despite those tense moments at The Rose, all their plans had been executed nearly perfectly. Aslan couldn't believe that a giant plant and a couple of big snakes were going to ruin everything.

He also couldn't believe that he had let Sitdale talk him into polymorphing into a pixie.

* * *

"_All right, people- everyone knows what to do- drink up!"_

_Elrohir had watched as a dozen people raised small glass vials to their lips, and with expressions ranging from enthusiasm to apprehension, drain them and vanish from sight._

_Unru and Zantac's expedition to The Rose had borne the fruit they had hoped. The former regaled everyone within earshot of his short but bawdy encounter with a prostitute named Patrice, who had told him the story that led to their discovery of the secret entrance to the sewer system underneath Suderham._

_Zantac, on the other hand, had barely said two words since their return. He merely verified Unru's story and suggested a series of spells that would give them the greatest chance of getting into the sewers undetected._

_Elrohir nodded. "Sounds good, Zantac. But aside from those, no one is to use spells of any kind until we're into the fortress of the Slave Lords. Healing if we have to, of course, but that's it!" He turned to Aslan. "That goes for your Talent as well, my friend."_

_The paladin nodded. "I understand Elrohir, and agree completely."_

_Elrohir watched as the door to the warehouse seemed to open of its own accord- Cygnus, no doubt- and was about to swallow his own potion of invisibility when a brief tingle ran through his left hand. Looking down at it and finding nothing, the ranger saw his wife out of the corner of his eye._

_Talass had not yet drunk her own potion. Instead she was planting a small kiss on the golden ring still on her finger, and then uttering a short incantation._

_Elrohir's eyes were already upon her when she looked up, but before the question could leave his lips, the priestess of Forseti had drained her vial and disappeared. He could hear her footsteps as she stepped quickly past him and out the door._

_Her husband sighed, drank and followed._Elrohir and Argo struck home simultaneously.

* * *

The shambler shuddered, but didn't move back an inch. No noise came from it, but it had no mouth to utter a sound with anyway.

In fact, it didn't even have any visible head. The monster wasn't any taller than Argo, but it had a girth of at least eight feet.

_That thing's got to weigh over a ton_, thought Bigfellow right before he saw the thick vines that passed for the creature's arms whip towards him.

The ranger batted aside the massive blow with his shield, but the vine tips on both the shambling mound's "hands" suddenly split apart into several thinner vines, all prehensile. An instant later, they had grabbed Argo around his waist and yanked him forward. The suffocating smell of a thousand dead forest floors enveloped the ranger as he was pressed against the shambler's body, unable to move.

Then he felt the vines beginning to tighten.

"_No!"_ yelled Talass and leapt into the lake.

There wasn't much point in Aslan trying to stop her. The paladin knew Talass wouldn't listen and truth be told, this was a development he hadn't counted on. True, the creature might be slain more easily now that its attacks were all being concentrated on one individual.

Aslan just didn't know if that individual could survive until then.

With a flutter of tiny wings, the pixie began to fly towards the shambling mound.

* * *

_Twilight was just surrendering to night as fourteen invisible individuals ran down the streets of Suderham. This time, they all gave thanks for the unbelievably wide boulevards this town offered, as they were easily available to avoid contact with any pedestrians. A few turned their heads and frowned at the noise of a running crowd that had no visible source, but no one made any move to intercept them._

_About halfway there, Aslan directed them all into an alleyway. "Just wait now," the paladin instructed._

_Almost all at once, they became visible again as their potions wore off._

"_Number two," ordered Elrohir, already flicking off the wax stopper on his second vial with his finger. "Dearest, your silence, please. Tojo, Unru- keep ahead of us about twenty feet. You both know what to do."_

_And then they were all off and running ahead, although this time no heads turned towards them. Twelve of their group were silenced, and the two who weren't wore no armor.__Just outside the door of The Rose, Tojo and Unru halted. When the samurai heard the illusionist beginning to incant, he lashed out with his foot.__Madam Fujori jerked her head around as the front door of her brothel flew open._

* * *

_An instant later came the sound of gusting wind._

_The Madam reclined back on her divan. She nodded to her eunuch; a bare-chested Baklunish man with rippling muscles who moved towards the door to close it._

_Just as he reached the door, she noticed her servant stop and look around the room with an expression of concern. Then he blinked twice, shut the door and to Fujori's disgust, began cleaning out the wax from his ears with his fingers._

"_Do that elsewhere," she snapped at him. "What was that all about, anyway?"_

_The eunuch shrugged, embarrassed. "Just for a moment, mistress, I couldn't hear anything. I'm all right now," he added, smiling._

_Madam Fujori did not return the smile. "Tell me," she said just before placing the hookah pipe back between her lips, "what makes you think I care?"_Zantac watched as Talass lowered herself into the dark water and began wading forward.

* * *

The mage looked down at his own dagger, now covered in serpent's blood.

Not long ago, it had been covered in _her_ blood.

Zantac winced and clambered down over the ledge into the water.

"What are you doing?" yelled Unru.

"I'm going to _lightning bolt_ that damn plant, that's what I'm doing!" the magic-user shouted back. "I don't care what Aslan says! I can do it without hitting Argo, but I need a clear line of fire!"

"_No! Don't!"_

Those exclamations had come from behind him- Thorimund, Hengist, even the still-entangled Arwald.

Zantac looked back at them.

"It feeds on lightning!" Thorimund yelled to his fellow mage. "You'll only make it stronger!"

"He's right!" Hengist confirmed. "I've seen it happen!"

"Well, I'm not making any headway on this snake! I'll use _magic missiles_ then, but I'm not going to just stand here and-"

Zantac broke off as he felt something grab his leg.

* * *

_There was unavoidable jostling as the invisible party of fourteen hurried down the brothel corridor. Fortunately, they still made no sound-_

_Until they did._

_Sheer surprise brought everyone to a crashing halt, about three quarters of the way through the hallway._

"_The silence- it's worn off!" hissed Nesco redundantly._

"_You said we'd have at least another minute!" The voice was Sir Menn's._

_There was one more moment of silence, and then Talass' voice could be clearly heard._

"_You ran too slow."_

_At that moment, nearly every single door in the hallway was flung open._

_The adventurers tensed up. Unconsciously or not, they all held their breath._

_There were overlapping exclamations from the prostitutes and their clients; naked men peering with obvious irritation over the shoulders of the women in front of them._

"_Quiet! All a' yeh!"_

_Oh, no, thought Nesco. Davis.__The aristocrat, seemingly unconcerned about his nudity, shoved aside the blonde girl next to him and peered out into the corridor. _

* * *

"_Sounded like a whole damn patrol came through here."_

"_But there's no one here!" offered the blonde._

"_Shaddup, yeh whore!" Davis snarled at her. The noble leaned his face forward, his still-puffy eyes straining to catch movement. His face crinkled in thought._

"_There might be magic a'play here. I know I heard voices."_

_And then his voice went softer._

"_Familiar voices."_Neither Hengist nor Thorimund were making headway against the serpent holding Arwald hostage. Sundancer found its mark again, but between the snake's shifting coils and Arwald's struggles, Nesco was unable to find the same spot twice.

* * *

The serpent continued to constrict. Arwald could no longer speak, and his face was turning blue.

* * *

_There was a scream._

_One of the whores- a chestnut haired woman with pink eyes- was either flung backwards into her room or, as it seemed to Elrohir, flung herself back._

"_Help me!" the prostitute shrieked. "Someone's grabbed me! Someone invisible!"_

_Ironically, it was the other whores who immediately bolted towards the room. The men remained behind, shouting unheeded commands for their girls to return. The party members in the rear had just enough time to jump out of the way. This started a slow chain-reaction shuffle towards the door. Thorimund, at the front, began casting his knock spell as quietly as he could._

"_What's going on?" demanded Elrohir, trying to be loud and quiet at the same time. "Who grabbed-"_

_Unexpectedly, Zantac's voice hissed in his ear._

"_No one grabbed her, Elrohir. She's giving us the diversion we need, that's what's going on. Let's not waste it- get going!"_

_As Elrohir moved up towards Thorimund, muttered complaints and jostling behind him led the ranger to realize that Zantac was no longer by him._

_The Willip wizard was moving back towards the rear._

_The hallway was now clear, although numerous female shouts were coming from the pink-eyed woman's room. The eunuch suddenly came charging down the hallway and plunged into the room as well._

"_I've got it!" exclaimed Thorimund and yanked the door open._

_The group surged forward- and immediately piled up at the door._

"_Careful!" Argo said. "If you shove too hard, you'll become visible! We've got to do this in an orderly fashion!"_

"_I never thought I'd hear those words from you, Argo."_

"_Treasure the moment, Aslan. One at a time, now!"_

"_What are you doing? You're not supposed to bring that-"_

_Those group members not currently passing through the doorway turned back to see the blonde prostitute and Davis standing in the middle of the hallway. With his left hand, Davis interrupted the girl by shoving her back against the wall._

_In his other hand he held a dagger._

_The young noble glanced up the hallway- and his eyes went large as he saw the open door at the end._

"_Hey!" he yelled and charged towards them._

_To those in the rear of the party, there was no doubt._

_They weren't going to get through in time._"Wouldn't mind… some assistance." Bigfellow managed to grind out.

* * *

Elrohir struggled to provide that assistance as once again, the ranger buried Gokasillion into the mass of vegetation that served as the creature's flesh.

An instant later, Sir Menn's longsword had joined it as the knight uttered a cry of triumph.

The shambling mound still did not move, but large chunks had been carved out of the creature now, and it seemed to sway momentarily on its short, bulky legs. However, the short but prehensile vines that served as the thing's toes dug into the swampy ground beneath them and apparently found purchase, for the shambler stayed upright.

Cygnus jabbed his dagger once again into the snake's rubbery hide. The weapon was nearly torn out of the wizard's grasp as the serpent's body continued to slither around the imprisoned samurai, but he managed to yank it out at the last moment.

It seemed to have little effect. Tojo's struggles were beginning to weaken.

* * *

"_Get back!" Zantac shouted, although to who was unclear._

"_Yeh!" shrieked Davis as he ran up to their voices." I knew it was yeh! I knew-"_

_The aristocrat's boast abruptly turned into a scream as once again Zantac jabbed his fingers into the onrushing Davis' eyes._

_A second later and the noble doubled over, dropping his dagger and clutching at his testicles. He would have screamed again- but he no longer had the wind._

_Zantac, now visible, looked to the only other person he could see. She was standing to his immediate left._

_Nesco Cynewine was not looking at Zantac, however. She was glaring at Davis._

"_A present from Angel Eyes, my lord."_

_Davis toppled to the floor, unconscious._

_Nesco and Zantac glanced at each other, gave one another a smiling nod of satisfaction, and then followed the others through the door, closing it behind them._Despite it being immersed in cold water, it felt like Zantac's leg was burning.

* * *

The magic-user looked down. Something white and eel-like had attached itself to his flesh, apparently burrowing right through his trousers.

Zantac stabbed downwards with his dagger, but the water's refraction distorted his view, and he missed.

"Hang on, Zantac!"

Warhammer in hand, Talass was wading back towards him.

* * *

_By the time that the party had assembled again at the bottom of the sewer entrance, they were all visible again._

"_Well," Thorimund huffed, "by the time they think to come after us, the wizard lock will have resumed, and we put the crossbar back up. That should hold them back for a bit."_

"_From that way only," Cygnus reminded him. "We don't know how many other secret passageways The Nine may have that we don't know about. Thellent implied there were quite a few."_

_Thorimund glared up at Cygnus, but said nothing._

"_It's time for me to start scouting ahead," Aslan announced._

_Thorimund crossed his arms across his chest and gave a smug smile. "Well, well, well- so now it's Thorimund to the rescue, is it? Poor, first-tier Thorimund, who just happens to be the only mage here who has the one spell you so desperately need! Not such a novice now, am I, Cygnus?" the wizard turned back to his peer with a sneer. "What's the matter- didn't my father think you worthy enough to let you have the darksight spell?"_

_Cygnus crossed his arms in return. "He was too busy teaching me spells like ice storm, Thorimund," the Aardian mage replied quietly. "I know you're a long way from being able to master that one- would it help if I showed you how it worked?"_

_The silence that followed was so complete that despite himself, Elrohir glanced over at his wife._

_Thorimund dropped his eyes, turned to Aslan and cast the spell._

_The paladin frowned. "I don't see any difference."_

"_You won't, as long as you're still within a light source," Thorimund replied with a sigh. "Once outside of it, you'll be able to see as well as any orc or dwarf can."_

"_Good." Aslan nodded, and then frowned. "Now it only remains to decide what form to take."_

"_Pixie."_

_Everyone looked over to Sitdale._

_The half-elf shrugged. "You can fly, your small size will help hide you better, and you'll still be able to speak, so you won't have to use more of your Talent to report back to us. What could be better?"_

_The paladin grimaced. "The only problem, Sitdale, is that I've never seen one."_

_To his other side came a soft incantation. Aslan's head whipped around, just in time to see Unru mumbling and waving around that damnable piece of fleece again._

_What looked like a miniature elf, perhaps thirty inches tall, was hovering in front of him silently on gossamer wings._

"_You have now," the illusionist said, his eyes still fixated on his image._

"_Damn it, Unru!" Elrohir fought to keep himself from shouting. "I ordered no magic until we reach The Nine!"_

"_You gain more than we lose by this," Unru replied simply, still concentrating on his image as he made it turn around to give Aslan the full view._

"_You shouldn't have done that, Unru," the paladin stated, shaking his head. "But now that you have, it'd be a further waste not to utilize it, so…"_

_And suddenly there were two pixies hovering before them._

_Sort of._

_Aslan hadn't given himself the long elven ears the pixie possessed, and had apparently decided to clad himself in miniature plate mail rather than the spidersilk robes of the sprite. _

"_All right then," he said. "I'm off."_

_Nearly the entire party burst into laughter._

_Aslan's voice was a high-pitched squeak. The lone pixie- Unru's image had vanished with his laughter- glared at Sitdale. "Do they all talk like this?"_

"_Sort of." The half-elf was trying hard to talk and not laugh at the same time. "You do seem to have taken it to-"_

"_- a higher degree?" put in Argo, setting off another round of laughter._

"_Just wait here," snarled Aslan, which set more still more guffaws because- as it turned out- pixies didn't snarl very well._

_Aslan flew off into the darkness in a flutter of wings._

_Behind him, Unru was the first to speak, but it was in an unfamiliar tongue._

_Elrohir turned to the illusionist, puzzled. "What was that?"_

"_Gnomish. A rough translation would be- Comic relief; where would we all be without it?"_"Everybody, stand back!" Nesco yelled as loudly as she could.

* * *

Nesco dropped her shield, grabbed Sundancer's hilt with both hands, took one long step back herself, and swung.

Unlike her other swings, this one brought the longsword parallel to the serpent's body instead of across it. The blade penetrated- not all the way through, but it didn't have to.

Nesco sliced open a three foot-long section of the giant snake

And somewhere in that section must have been something vital, because the giant serpent suddenly went limp.

Hengist and Thorimund helped free their friend. Arwald was wheezing, unsteady on his feet, and very probably sporting several cracked ribs, but he was out of danger. The fighter's blue eyes darted forward.

"Tojo," he gasped.

* * *

_The paladin smiled to himself. Things were going very well now, indeed._

_Fortunately, the party's time spent in the actual sewers was quite brief. Tojo had spotted the concealed passageway that led off of the tunnel they had started out in._

_Aslan flew on ahead again._

_Darksight, or darkvision, or whatever the innate ability of subterranean creatures to see without external light was called, had initially been a very confusing experience. Some objects seemed white, others dark, and still others shades of grey. Aslan had even- although he would never tell anyone else- flown into a wall before getting the hang of it, but he had acclimated quickly._

_The first garrison he had spotted was a minotaur; similar to Markessa's bodyguard. This one was even more imposing, for it wore a type of armor consisting of black lacquered plates. It paced the confines of its guardroom, carrying a crossbow only slightly smaller than a ballista._

_The creature never had a chance. Pre-alerted by Aslan, the party had crept as close as they could, and then charged, bows firing. The minotaur's own shot had went wide, and the man-bull had ran further off to another room- its quarters, judging by the furnishings, and had heading towards a large gong standing at the far end. More arrows and a blinding strike from Tojo's katana had brought the beast down before it reached the signaling device._

_Further on, two guards awaited in another outpost room, each with a leashed wardog. Unlike other Suderham guards they had seen, these two wore chainmail emblazoned with a red "9" instead of a slave inside the Suderham city symbol._

_They'd fared no better than the minotaur. Afterwards, some party members debated donning the slain guards' armor and attempting to infiltrate the Slave Lords' cohorts from within, but the idea was eventually scuttled._

_Now Aslan flew into a large cavern. This was a natural formation, unlike the tunneled-out corridors they'd been traveling through. Most of this cavern was taken up with an underground lake. On the side where Aslan had flown through, a small grove of faintly luminous toadstools almost seven foot high seemed to guard the near shore, a rocky beach. A small path, about eight or nine feet wide, ran along one side of the cavern, but the side of the path opposite the wall was no beach. It dropped straight down about a foot into the water. _

_Aslan frowned. There was no way to estimate the depth of the water. He thought he spied an exit in the cavern on the far side of the lake, about two hundred feet distant, and began to fly towards it._

_A loud squeal caught his attention. A large rat, perhaps only a foot smaller than his own current form, eyed the paladin from the beach. Its bedraggled appearance indicated that the rodent had swum across the lake rather than taking the path._

_Apparently startled by the pixie, the creature turned around and began swimming back across the lake._

_Aslan easily outdistanced the rat. The paladin uneasily eyed the ceiling overhead, which was absolutely filled with stalactites. Could any of them be piercers? None fell as he passed._

_Unfortunately, just as Aslan was approaching the far exit, his darksight gave out._

"_Damn," he whispered to himself. The paladin turned around and flew back to where the others were waiting._It was all Nesco and Arwald could do to keep from hurling their fellow party members over the side as they ran past them to the rear to give the duo room to move ahead.

* * *

Once they had the room, the duo ran up to where Tojo was still squirming. They were horrified to see that the snake had now latched its jaws over the top of the samurai's head.

Flexing its muscles, the snake began to work its way downwards. Tojo's forehead disappeared and then his eyes-

And then the two warriors attacked. Nesco's strike- a perfect copy of her first- sliced open the snake while Arwald's cut crosswise, but at the just the correct distance. The fighter's blade sliced across several coils of the serpent until it met the wound created by Sundancer.

The snake fell to the ground in two pieces. Cygnus helped Tojo pull off the dead reptile's head.

* * *

_Aslan continued to fly ahead as they party started down the path, but now had to stay at least at the fringe of Cygnus' continual light pendant. All was going well until they were almost at the far end-_

_And then what looked like a rotting heap of vegetation before them had suddenly risen up on two legs and attacked._

_Behind the party, two constrictors at least nine feet long slithered abruptly out of concealed holes in the ground. Tojo shoved Zantac out of the way just as one attacked while Arwald did the same to Thorimund._

"_Not again!" Sitdale had cried out._Talass abruptly hurled herself forward and dove under the surface. Zantac watched with a horrified fascination as the cleric swam the last few yards to his position, grabbed the giant leech with one hand and smashed down with her hammer with the other.

* * *

Zantac yelped with pain as the creature was torn loose. Zantac's blood made the dark water even darker.

Then Talass erupted from the water beside him in a shower of spray. The cleric was holding the white leech with one hand. It twisted wildly, Zantac's blood still dropping from its circular, tooth-lined mouth.

With a roar of rage, Zantac disemboweled the parasite with his dagger.

At nearly the same time, the shambler dropped Argo, apparently intending to flee. It never got the chance, though. Elrohir and Sir Menn plunged their swords into what their best approximation was of the creature's chest.

The shambling mound sank back to the ground, looking once again just like a heap of rotting vegetation. Only this time, that's what it truly was.

* * *

After some discussion and debate, Aslan had healed everybody.

"I know this leaves me low," the paladin admitted, "but I think we're close to our immediate goal, and we still have nearly our full spell and prayer capability."

Arwald stepped forward.

"I do thank you for healing me, Aslan," the fighter said. "You do realize however, that if we had taken the time to find Wainold first, he could have taken care of the shambler without working up a sweat."

Argo Bigfellow stepped forward.

"You do realize," the big ranger stated without even a hint of a smile, "that Wayne is just as much a decaying corpse now as this shambler is."

Arwald had launched himself at Argo at that, but Bigfellow, evidently expecting that reaction, had dodged him and landed a right hook to Arwald's cheek. Everyone else piled in at that point and quickly pulled the two apart.

"Are you two insane?" Elrohir yelled at them. "Keep this up and I'll have Aslan _teleport_ you both back home! You're to keep a lid on this until after our mission is completed! Arwald, I already told you we will determine what's happened to Wainold. And as for you, Argo-"

His longtime friend innocently raised an eyebrow at him. The gesture irritated the party leader even further.

"Keep your mouth closed unless something constructive comes out of it."

The group moved on. Argo looked up to see the pixie flying directly above him.

"I was under the impression," Bigfellow said quietly, "that we all valued truth over convenience. Forgive my error."

He said no more on the matter.

* * *

About five minutes later, the party was spread out in a long corridor. This one was lit by oil lamps at regular intervals, and ended in a wooden door bound with iron strips. There was no lock upon it, but unfamiliar symbols were etched into the wood.

"It's draconic," Unru announced.

"What does it say?" Elrohir asked.

The illusionist urned to him and grinned.

"Drachen Keep."

There was a collective sigh from over a dozen throats.

"All right then," Elrohir said, gathering his energy together again and gripping his sword tightly," this is it, people. Now, once we get aside-"

He was interrupted by a resounding _boom_ behind him and a cloud of dust.

Only five feet past the rear guard Nesco and Tojo, a vertical stone slab had fallen from the ceiling.

Their retreat was cut off.

Before anyone could speak, a new voice suddenly spoke in their midst, without any visible source.

_Ventriloquism_, thought Cygnus.

"This is Ajakstu of The Nine," the voice announced. "Furyondans, you will sheath your weapons and advance into the next chamber, where you will surrender yourselves to us."

Fourteen people stared at one another.

"This is not a request," Ajakstu's voice continued. "It is a command. Surrender now- or die where you stand."


	150. Five Of Nine

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj**

_We never had a chance._

The thought invaded Elrohir's mind, pushing out all others as the party leader closed his eyes in grief.

_They knew we were coming. I don't know how, but they did. Sure our chances of success were always slim- but this? Defeated before we even reached our quarry? What have I done? To my wife, to my friends? I even let Aslan bring back people here who had no personal stake in this mission. I've doomed us all. I- I've failed my father._

"Errohir-sama."

The ranger opened his eyes. Tojo was gazing benignly at his friend with that same blank expression he used so often.

"Samurai do not surrender, Errorhir-sama."

This was a distraction he didn't need. Elrohir tried to fight the exhaustion that was settling over his body like a shroud.

"I know, Tojo," he replied wearily. "I know."

And then, unbelievably- Yanigasawa Tojo smiled.

"I speak of you, Errohir-sama."

Elrohir just stared at him. Stared into those violet orbs.

And suddenly he understood, and the enormity of it hit him.

The suffix Tojo was using.

Before he even realized it, Elrohir had bowed as low as his plate mail would allow.

"Thank you, Tojo-sama, but I do not deserve that honor."

Tojo raised an eyebrow.

"I not stand with you if that be case, Errohir-sama."

He then turned to the others.

"I would not stand with any of you."

Tojo spoke nothing else, but ended with his gaze locked squarely on Nesco Cynewine's face.

* * *

After a few moments, Aslan spoke up.

"Don't worry, Tojo. We have no plans to surrender."

Despite his squeaky voice, no one laughed or even smiled at the pixie this time. The faint buzz of the sprite's wings, like a hummingbird, was the only sound until the paladin turned his gaze to the members of Dorbin and Wainold's men.

"Am I correct in thinking I speak for all of us?"

Five humans and one half-human regarded each other, then turned their faces upwards and nodded soberly.

"It's as much logic as courage," Talass put in, as much to bolster their morale as anything else. "The Slave Lords have no reason to let us live. Surrendering might delay our deaths for a few days, but eventually we'd wind up swinging on some gallows or sacrificed to that obscene god of theirs," the cleric finished with a scowl.

"I've got an idea," Cygnus said. "If we-"

Ajakstu's glamored voice abruptly sounded again.

"This is directed to Aslan. If you are currently in any form other than your true one, return to it immediately. Otherwise, your surrender will not be accepted."

The silence returned. The others looked up at Aslan, wondering if he would comply and stepping back a few paces to make room for him if he did.

But the person's voice that broke the quiet was that of Argo Bigfellow Junior.

"They can't see us!"

Elrohir frowned at his fellow ranger. "What?"

"Whatever scrying powers this Ajakstu might have, he's not using them right now!" Argo continued excitedly. "Don't you see? He said _If you are currently in another form!"_

"That's right!" Nesco exclaimed. "He wouldn't have said that if he could see us right now- he would have said _Aslan, return to your true form now _or something like that."

Cygnus frowned at the big ranger. "Yes, but how do you know he can't _hear_ us?"

Argo smiled at the mage. "You've already answered that question for us, Cygnus. You were about to unveil your latest master plan for us- and Mr. Wizard interrupted you. As evil as The Nine are, they're not stupid. If you were this Ajakstu and could hear us, wouldn't you wait to find out what tactics your enemies might be discussing before making your pronouncements?"

Cygnus considered. "Can't find fault with that."

"Forgive me not leaping with joy," Sir Menn's face showed the skepticism of his voice, "but how exactly can these facts aid us? From what you've told me, if we charge through this door with weapons raised, they'll obliterate us in an instant."

"And if we delay here any longer, they'll just come and annihilate us anyway," added Thorimund gloomily.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense then, Scarecrow!" said Zantac. "What's the plan?"

Cygnus caught Bigfellow's eye. The ranger gave him his pained smile.

"This is one of those one percent plans, isn't it, Cygnus?" Argo asked.

Cygnus' return smile was just as pained. "Probably half that at best. Still, as I always told Thorin- you work with what you've got."

"And what do we have?' asked Unru.

Cygnus turned to eye the illusionist, and his smile relaxed just a bit.

"Triangle illusion."

Unru stared at the tall mage for a moment, and then his cocky grin split that tanned face.

"Not bad, Cygnus, not bad. You'd have made a fair illusionist."

Cygnus shook his head but returned the grin in full. "Thanks, but I like to have as many options available to me as possible."

"What in the Nine Hells are you people talking about?" Arwald asked.

It was Zantac who answered. "Disguising members of our party as each other- three in this case. I'm sure the Slave Lords have information on at least some of our capabilities. If they're going to tailor their attacks to that- and I certainly would- this may throw them off balance for a few seconds."

"And at this point," Nesco added grimly, "every additional second might-"

Ajakstu broke in again.

"Your time is running out, Furyondans. Come forth in one minute, or our offer is withdrawn. Be assured that in that case, we will show no quarter."

"Let's see if I can give us a few more of those precious seconds," muttered Elrohir.

The ranger then raised his voice to a shout.

"This is Elrohir, leader of the Furyondans! If you are as knowledgeable of us as you think you are, then you know we will not be easy prey! We have triumphed in the past over enemies greater than you- including a lich!"

He took a deep breath and continued.

"We seek parley with you, to discuss a means of avoiding a battle that may well spell doom for both sides!"

There was no immediate reply.

Unru looked up at the paladin hovering overhead.

"Aslan," the illusionist hissed, "_polymorph_ into me! Zantac, use the hat to turn into Aslan, and I'll glamour myself to appear as you!"

Several seconds later, it was done.

Cygnus turned to the others. "Anyone with spells or prayers, shine yourselves up now- you won't get another chance!"

"Nothing visible, though," Talass cut in.

Eyes turned towards the priestess. "They may interpret any obvious defensive spells as a sign we intend to attack," she explained.

As this was being done, Ajakstu's voice returned.

"Your offer of parley is accepted, but be forewarned; your surrender is non-negotiable. Your time is up- come forth now!"

"We're coming!" responded Elrohir as his hand tightened on the doorknob. As he was about to push inwards, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Talass was smiling at him.

"We do seem to enjoy being in these situations, don't we, dearest?"

He smiled back at his wife. It hadn't merely been an affectionate gesture.

The ranger and all around him felt the comfortable feeling of the cleric's _bless_ prayer settle over them.

"The valkyries await," Elrohir replied. "Who wants to live forever, anyway?"

"Um- I wouldn't mind," came Unru's voice out of Zantac's body.

Zantac-as-Aslan pointed at him. "Hey, don't disgrace that body you're copying."

"Yeah? Well, don't let looking like a stiff-ass turn you into one!"

"And exactly who are you calling a stiff-ass?" queried Aslan-as-Unru.

Elrohir rolled his eyes.

"My friends," he muttered and pushed the door open.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the brilliant blue sky.

Elrohir blinked twice, trying to reconcile his mind with what his eyes were telling him.

Then he realized what it was. All four walls of this square room, from floor to ceiling, were painted in a mural; a panoramic view looking down at Suderham and Drachen Keep from what the ranger supposed was the summit of Mount Flamenblut.

It was not a static tableau, either. As Elrohir slowly stepped forward, he saw painted eagles soaring against painted, puffy clouds slowly moving along the walls.

The temperature in here was comfortable as well; a contrast to the dank of chill of the catacombs they had just passed through. The ranger was even sure he could feel a light, intermittent breeze against his face.

The floor and the ceiling, about thirty feet overhead, seemed more conventional; made from grey stone. A large, freestanding spiral staircase located by the near right corner wound its way towards the ceiling.

A Slave Lord lieutenant, clad in chainmail, was climbing the staircase. Without even glancing at the fourteen visitors, he reached the top and tapped the ceiling. A panel in the ceiling slid aside and the guard vanished out of sight, the panel closing behind him.

"Spread out a little, everyone," came Aslan's voice near him, speaking as softly as he dared. "Don't let them take us all out with one well-placed spell."

The others obeyed, although Elrohir was surprised to hear such a piece of tactical advice coming from the paladin as opposed to-

_Oh, that's right,_ Elrohir remembered. _That's actually Zantac. By the Aesir, I hope the Slave Lords will be half as confused by this as I am._

The party leader knew they were there, but some part of him- perhaps the tactical fighter, perhaps apprehension, perhaps something else- tried to take in all the aspects of this room before returning his gaze forward.

Elrohir looked upon the faces of the men who just possibly might be the murderers of them all.

What had begun on a cold evening five months ago when Sir Hallien of Chendl walked through the door of the Brass Dragon was going to end right here.

This was the group behind all the pain and suffering they had endured- and the broken lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people carried off into slavery.

The nine lords in shadow, pulling the strings behind Blucholtz and his operation in Highport; behind the twisted Markessa and her wretched creations.

The true rulers of Suderham.

The Slave Lords.

* * *

The first thing the ranger noticed was that there were only five of them.

A half-moon platform about one foot high rested on the floor. It was very large, almost sixty feet long along its straight edge, leaving only a five-foot gap on either side to the chamber walls. Elrohir, Aslan-as-Unru, Argo, Cygnus, Zantac-as-Aslan and Unru-as-Zantac had advanced to within five feet of the platform before halting. The other eight members of their party stood scattered behind them, Hengist placing himself squarely in the doorway that they had entered from.

Nine chairs rested on the platform, arranged facing the party in a semi-circle. They were luxurious affairs, open-backed and made of fine wood with gold gilt and soft cushions.

On the first chair sat who could only be Mordrammo.

* * *

The High Priest of the Earth Dragon looked as if he might just have stepped out of the mosaic of Olarek's court they had seen in the tunnels approaching Wimpell Frump's hall of pillars. He wore the same brown robes as the figure Tojo had called a _shugenja_, with the gem-encrusted design of a coiled and wingless dragon upon them. The robes were open in front and cinched with a black leather belt. Beneath them could be seen the glint of chainmail armor.

Mordrammo wore a helm fashioned from the bronzed skull of a young dragon- Elrohir wasn't sure what kind, only that it was neither from a blue or brass- which had its jaws propped opened wide. This kept most of his face in shadow, although the ranger could faintly make out the light brown face of a man with a long, thin moustache. Dark-colored eyes studied Elrohir as keenly as he was being studied himself.

Resting against Mordrammo's chair was a pick, but it wasn't a mining implement. The ranger could see the reinforced tip and thicker grip. This was a weapon, not a tool.

* * *

To Mordrammo's left, on the third chair sat an arcanist.

Unlike his fellow Slave Lord, a small table was positioned in front of this man's chair, blocking some of the view, but Elrohir could still see the man was wearing light green robes. They were of a more current style than Cygnus'- wider below the waist and tighter on top- tight enough to reveal the hint of chest and abdominal muscles. Whoever this was, he was not the stereotypical weakling wizard.

The man's sleeves were cut very short but very wide, with white trim. He somewhat resembled Karzalin the Master Elementalist with his long beard, pointed hat and piercing gaze. In his right hand, the man grasped a six-foot staff carved from a yew branch.

Elrohir instinctively looked over to Cygnus to catch his reaction.

It wasn't good. Cygnus could tell at a glance that the staff this man wielded was no quarterstaff- it was some kind of magical weapon.

And it was enough to make him worried.

On the table in front of this man were a variety of objects- in fact, some seemed perilously close to falling off of it. A crystal sphere, currently dim, was the most enticing object to any arcanist, but there were odds and ends piled all around it. Bits of torn or burnt clothing, a few fragmants of armor, some-

Cygnus stiffened. _Those are ours, _he realized. _They're from our first trip to Markessa's stockade! She must have had them sent here to aid The Nine in scrying on us!_

The wizard's eyes narrowed. _Which makes this Ajakstu._

As alluring an item as the crystal ball was, Cygnus was still most interested in the very large brown rat which was currently sniffing around the detritus on the table. Cygnus caught a whiff of the unpleasant odor of damp fur.

Aslan-as-Unru and Zantac-as-Aslan glanced at each other.

_That's the same rat I saw in the lake_, the former thought _. Damn it- it never occurred to me it might be a mage's familiar- no wonder they knew exactly when we reached their doorstep!_

His companion was mentally kicking himself as well.

_That rat- it was following me and Unru at least part of the way when we walked to The Rose! How long have The Nine been ahead of us? If only I'd been more observant and not thinking so much about getting some-_

On the right side of the chamber, the man sitting on the seventh chair cleared his throat.

* * *

It didn't seem to be a gesture designed to draw attention to himself. Zantac-as-Aslan, about the closest party member to him, shifted his attention, however.

He somewhat reminded the Willip wizard of Zelhile. About thirty-five or so, this man had a chiseled face and strong jaw, and the same straight black hair as Zantac's guildmaster. He wore leather armor dyed a rich bronze color, and made no attempt to hide it, although a wide grey cloak did drape over his shoulders, fastened with a bronze amulet. On each of the man's bare arms was a light green, metallic bracer, and at his side was a sheathed longsword.

Zantac-as-Aslan looked back at Cygnus. He knew the Aardian mage had cast _detect magic _right before they had entered this chamber, and should shortly be able to detect individual enchantments- or at least he underlying mana behind them. Deciphering that input was a matter of skill- not a function of the spell- despite what non-magic-users always seemed to believe. The problem was, the Slave Lords were probably brimming with magic- it could take Cygnus a long time to gather any useful information.

Possibly longer than they had to live.

To Argo Bigfellow, it seemed like the strong-jawed man was gazing at the party with a calculated look of neutrality. It was the face of someone who has trained himself to hold their emotions in check.

It was, Argo thought with a sick feeling in his stomach, the look of a professional killer.

* * *

The ninth chair, at the far end from Mordrammo, held a man who no one had any doubt about naming in their mind as Brother Milerjoi.

He wasn't very tall as far as anyone could guess- perhaps two inches or so over Aslan's height. His light grey robes were similar in style to Tojo's old ones- a piece of which currently lay on Ajakstu's table. They were designed to allow maximum flexibility.

Brother Milerjoi was bald save for one tightly-wound braid extending down perhaps to his shoulders. He was clearly, to Zantac-as-Aslan's eyes anyway, pure Suloise- pale in skin tone, and blonde-haired. At least the braid was- the man had no visible body hair anywhere else on him. Even his eyebrows had been plucked, and the overall effect was almost an effeminate one.

He had no weapons on him, and bore a look of serenity on his ageless face- not a designed façade like his nearby companion, but a calmness borne of ceaseless hours of meditation. It was a look they all knew from Tojo all too well.

But the strangest Slave Lord of the five present was sitting in the center of the room, in the fifth chair. It was not however, his appearance that made him unique.

It was the fact that he was straddling his chair backwards, facing away from them all.

* * *

A table identical to Ajakstu's was placed in front of this man, although it only held a standard drinking mug. The table, combined with his odd posture, made it hard to see much of him, but Elrohir guessed him to be tall- perhaps Argo or Cygnus' height. At least, that was according to the undyed turban the man wore on top of his head. Turbans were a traditional if not common Baklunish adornment, so that gave at least a partial clue to the man's race.

As best as could be determined, this sturdy-looking man was wearing a light leather jacket and trousers, completely lined with maroon-dyed fur. A large kite shield sat propped up against the man's chair. It bore a yellow horizontal stripe at top and bottom, a maroon field and the black outline of a rat salient upon it.

Without even realizing it, Argo's hands began to clench into fists.

* * *

Modrammo spoke first.

"Welcome, Furyondans," the High Priest said in the clear voice of one who had spent many hours speaking to large crowds. Mordrammo indicated the chamber around them.

"Welcome to our own private Aerie. It is one of several such rooms that we use to gather in and discuss topics of import- and I think this is indeed a matter of great import."

He was speaking to everybody but facing Elrohir. The ranger decided not to reply for the moment.

Mordrammo frowned.

"You wished parley. I would advise you not to waste what little time you have, although in truth, since it cannot change the preordained outcome it is as good as wasted already. Speak your piece though, and let us have done with it."

Zantac-as-Aslan spoke up first. "Where are the others?" he asked, indicating the four empty chairs.

The cleric may have smiled, although it was difficult to tell behind that skull. "They are engaged in other matters right now. Do not concern yourselves with them." His voice turned harder. "Neither take false hope from their absence. Without even calling from aid from our soldiers, two hundred strong," Modrammo titled his head upwards for a moment, "we five are more than capable of slaying you all in battle, should it come to that. I would hope that you do not make me prove the truth of that statement."

"I take it as given you already know who we are," announced Sir Menn. "Noble courtesy demands an introduction from yourselves, as well."

A brief chuckle emerged from within the dragon skull. "So be it. I am Modrammo, Voice of the Sacred Scaly One. To my left is Ajakstu, whom I'm sure you have heard tales of. On the far side is Neralas and Brother Milerjoi." The priest gazed at the knight. "Does that satisfy protocol for you?"

"And what about him?" Bigfellow asked, indicating the man still facing away from them in the center chair. "Does he have a problem utilizing furniture, or are we already looking at his best side?"

Elrohir was about to chide Argo for his impertinence- antagonizing the Slave Lords was the _last_ thing he wanted to do right now- when the man in question suddenly pumped his fist into the air.

"_Yes!"_ the man shouted.

Nesco heard Elrohir, Cygnus, Tojo, Aslan-as-Unru and Talass suddenly suck in their breath.

"That's what I've been waiting to hear," the center Slave Lord continued. _"The dulcet tones of Argo Pigfellow Junior!"_

And he swung himself off his chair, stood and whirled around.

Argo Bigfellow looked to Nesco as if he might never make another joke in his entire life. The ranger's auburn eyes locked on the man as his mouth drew into a taut, thin line.

"I knew it," Argo said.


	151. Parley

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"Scurvy John."

* * *

Nesco Cynewine had of course never met in the infamous pirate, or even heard a description of him. She had made the inference solely from her fellow ranger Argo Bigfellow's reaction.

Scurvy John turned his attention towards Nesco even as he took a step forward, his coal-black eyes filled with an undisguised lechery that even Davis couldn't have matched.

The pirate- perhaps in his late forties- was a swarthy mix of Baklunish and Flan. His skin tone was an intriguing reddish-tan, with an almost burnished look about it. Each cheek had a deep blue chevron painted on it- face paintings were common amongst the Flan- although the one on his right was bisected by a long scar.

John actually had a rugged charisma and might be considered very handsome except for one detail. It was immediately apparent how Scurvy John had acquired that moniker.

There was a sallow cast to John's face, and his eyes were slightly sunken. As he leered at Lady Cynewine, she could see his gums were swollen purple, and his teeth were yellow and crooked. There were small black and blue lesions on his hands- including the one slowly moving towards the cutlass against his hip- and Nesco was certain if John were to remove his turban, she'd see that his hair was thinning more than mere age should allow.

* * *

"So, John," Argo began, diverting Scurvy's attention, "still denying fruit to your crew, are you?"

The newest Slave Lord waved a dismissing hand. "I hate fruit."

Tojo raised his eyebrows.

"Seems rike strange target for hatred. Fruit dishonor you in some way?"

"And what have we here?" inquired the pirate, ignoring the samurai. "Where is your child-bride, Pigfellow? Has this ranger moved on to other game?" John turned his gaze back towards Nesco, who was fighting a rising mix of anger and revulsion.

Argo crossed his arms, but his eyes never left Scurvy's face. "Caroline is just fine and dandy, John. Unlike you, I don't need magic to attract a mate."

Scurvy laughed. "How little you know, Argo, if the only legends you know of me concern my seamanship." He smiled confidently at Bigfellow. "I need no _charm_ spell to obtain a woman."

"I was referring to _animate dead."_

John's smile froze on his face.

Despite himself, Elrohir couldn't help but chuckle- but he wasn't the only one.

Scurvy snapped his head around to glare at Mordrammo.

The High Priest shrugged. "I offer no apology. What can I say? The man has wit, John- more so than you implied."

"You need to socialize more if you think Pigfellow's ramblings pass for wit," Scurvy snapped at his fellow Slave Lord.

"So sorry," Sir Menn spoke up. "Don't believe I've had the pleasure."

"If it's pleasure you're after, keep waiting," Argo responded. "However, this is-"

"I can speak for myself, you oaf." John interrupted. "You must be from lands far away indeed, sir knight, if you have not heard tell of Scurvy John, Scourge of the Seas from Wooly Bay to the Sea of Gaernet."

Sir Menn hesitated a moment, and then nodded. "This is true."

_Good,_ Elrohir thought. _The Nine don't know about the Three Worlds. They haven't been scrying on us forever._

John seemed to relax slightly. His hand moved from the hilt of his cutlass to hang loosely on his belt. "Has Argo told you of our great battles?" The pirate's face became more animated as his eyes swept over his entire audience, and he mimed a sword duel as he spoke.

"That one off the coast of Keoland- you should have seen it! While Argo's companions battled Alabin and my crew, Pigfellow and I squared off on the deck of the _Bygone Lich_! Ah, the quips flew fast as our swords clashed!"

"But not as fast as your feet ran when you lost," Argo cut in, still without even a trace of a smile.

* * *

This time, almost half of Elrohir's group chuckled- as did Mordrammo again.

Nesco was trying to understand all this. She knew that a great animosity existed between John and Bigfellow, if not the reason for it. Perhaps Argo had simply rubbed the egotistical Scurvy the wrong way- the big ranger did that with a lot of people. It seemed though as if John took some kind of secret pleasure in their mutual hatred. She had thought Argo felt the same way, but despite his cutting remarks, Argo still looked deadly serious.

If Scurvy's black eyes could have blazed with fury any brighter, they'd have glowed red, but then the pirate gave a false laugh.

"Once again, we are treated to the renowned Pigfellow wit! I suppose even the lowliest swine must have his day," John managed an air of forced conviviality. "Tell me, Argo, after I've slowly flayed the skin off your body and laughed myself silly at your pleas for a merciful death, where oh where shall I then find my closest intellectual equal?"

Argo's expression didn't change. "Look under any rock."

"Priceless, these people," the High Priest muttered while chuckling and shaking his head.

Scurvy looked ready to about ready to explode, but for whatever reason kept his anger in check, although not without an obvious effort. "I gave up _everything_ for you, Pigfellow," he seethed.

Argo tilted his head. "What?"

"Tovag Baragu- do you know what the _cost_ was to utilize it? You and your ilk had settled down in that inn, far from where I could reach you. It was the only chance I'd ever have to confront you again, so I gave up my ship and crew and travelled far to the west with every copper I could lay my hands on. It would be worth it, I thought, to have that one last meeting with you. There, at last, we could duel to the death, with no distractions. As legendary as I am, Pigfellow, I'm still but a mortal, and age wears on a man. I wanted to give you the opportunity to battle me in honorable fashion while I was still at my peak."

"And what did you do?" Scurvy suddenly roared. "You turned coward, and refused to fight! All of a sudden, the great ranger and warrior Argo Pigfellow refuses to lift his blade in battle! Oh, how I wish I had gone ahead and just slain you anyway, right there and then! But don't worry, Argo- you can refuse to fight me all you like this time- I'll run you through, you honorless swine, and laugh myself to sleep every night for years!"

Argo shook his head in astonishment, a scowl appearing on his face.

"I don't believe this. What you're really saying is you gave up everything _for a chance to kill me!_ You expect me to be grateful for that? Of course I wouldn't fight you then- I wasn't going to validate your sick dreams for you, you walking turd! And I'm surprised you can even _say_ the word 'honor' without your lips falling off- how many prisoners have you pushed off the plank to fill a shark's belly, you bastard? You're a loser, John, and you always throw your lot in with losers. You did it the last time, and now you've done it again!"

Behind and to Argo's left, Nesco Cynewine looked to her left at Talass. "What does he mean, _the last time?"_

Talss frowned.

"Scurvy John was the chief lieutenant to the worst villain we ever faced," the priestess said quietly.

Scurvy was grinning now. "My, my. So Pigfellow finally raises his hackles! Could this be the start of-"

"John," Argo interrupted, the big ranger's face going solemn again, "you've got it coming."

* * *

Modrammo turned his attention towards this argument.

"This Bigfellow seems to control his emotions better than you can, Scurvy. Perhaps we should have hired him instead of you."

"You're a true fool if you think this pig would ever work for you!"

"Perhaps he already is," Mordrammo commented, leaning forward in his chair and looking out over the room. "Perhaps they all are."

* * *

The room went silent again.

Nerelas folded his fingertips together and regarded the cleric. "What are you getting at, Mordrammo?" he asked, saving Argo the trouble of doing it.

The High Priest leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps I misspoke," he stated with a smug air. "Not working for me, perhaps- but for another one of us?"

Nerelas nodded slowly. "This concerns what you were talking about earlier, then."

"Indeed it does." Mordrammo returned his attention to Elrohir. "Let us find out once and for all. Answer me this one question truthfully, Elrohir of Furyondy, and you may- just may, mind you- be able to avoid surrender after all."

Now it was Scurvy John who clenched his fists in anger, but the pirate remained silent.

"Tell me, Elrohir," Mordrammo continued, "why are you here?"

* * *

The party leader blinked in surprise. He didn't know what kind of question the Slave Lord leader was going to throw at him, but that certainly wasn't it.

"You surely must know," the ranger replied, unable to help feeling a little awkward for having to put it into words. "We came here to stop you."

"Yes, I know- but who are you working for?"

"Belvor IV. The King of Furyondy."

Mordrammo slowly shook his head. Even in the shadows of his helm, it was apparent he was smiling.

"No, Elrohir- I don't think so."

* * *

Elrohir foundered for a moment- unsure of his footing, but Zantac-as-Aslan spoke up first.

"Your message to the crowd. _Aid given to the enemy by traitors from within_."

"Quite correct, paladin. You see, while I'm sure a pious twit like Belvor would be happy to see us wiped out, the notion of a sovereign sending _three_ expeditions hundreds of leagues for a purpose completely unrelated to the health, welfare or profit of his own kingdom seems unlikely to me. I dislike paladins in general, but you don't see me having Neralas send out assassins to Chendl, do you? Why waste resources like that? Belvor is of no concern to us just as our operations here are no concern to him." The cleric finished his speech by looking directly at Elrohir again. "Nor to you."

"I can't follow your reasoning," the party leader exclaimed in frustration. "Who do _you_ think we're working for?"

"Who indeed?" Mordrammo repeated, standing up and growing more animated by the minute. "Who could have helped you survive Markessa's clutches- not just once but twice, and given you the clues that led you all the way to our Aerie? And please don't boast it was all by your own effort- see how easily you were snared once we realized you were here. You're not nearly as powerful as you make yourselves out to be."

Elrohir shook his head in exasperation. "You're fooling yourself, Mordrammo. King Belvor sent us, and the previous expeditions, here to The Pomarj purely on moral grounds. It seems inconceivable to you because-"

The ranger hesitated. He'd backed himself into a verbal corner and there way no way out of it without insulting the High Priest.

Oh well.

"Because you have none," Elrohir continued as casually as he could. "Doing what's right isn't always practical."

"Often it's not even feasible," added Sir Menn.

"Hell, sometimes it's damn near impossible,"chipped in Hengist from the rear.

"But you know what, Mordrammo?" Elrohir finished, confidence returning to his frame as he locked gazes with the High Priest.

"What?" snapped Mordrammo when the ranger said nothing else.

Elrohir smiled.

"We do it anyway."

* * *

Cygnus was getting more worried every second.

In fact, if not for the immediate proximity of Aslan-as-Zantac to his right, he might already be in a complete panic. Cygnus thanked Odin for the paladin's innate ability to tamp down on the anxiety of those near him.

Still, the news was all bad. Every single weapon, bracer and armor the mage had scanned had registered as magical. In addition, the Slave Lords were practically bathing in ongoing spells. Although he wasn't able to determine the exact ones involved, from experience Cygnus would have guessed _shield, protection from good _and _mage armor_. Doubtless there were others involved, as well.

Worse, Mordrammo, Nerelas and Scurvy John showed signs of transmutative magic- indicating possible enhancing spells upon them- spells that could increase an individual's physical and/or mental abilities, making them even more deadly in combat.

Aside from arms and armor, the situation wasn't quite as bad. One of the High Priest's two magical rings was surely protective, but the other carried a moderate evocation that could signify anything.

Oddly enough, the rope belt of Brother Milerjoi's robes carried an aura of moderate transmutation, but Cygnus couldn't even make a guess at what it might do.

_The biggest problem_, the wizard thought, _is how can I communicate this information to the others?_

Cygnus sighed and turned the spell towards Ajakstu- the only Slave Lord he hadn't scanned yet.

And as he did so, Ajakstu- who had been staring at Argo on Cygnus' left, suddenly shifted his gaze right to Cygnus, and the Aardian wizard realized with a jolt that his brilliant idea of scanning the enemy for magic before a battle might be a double-edged sword.

Because the enemy was doing the exact same thing.

As their _detects_ washed over each other, the two wizards locked eyes.

* * *

"Enough of this moralistic nonsense," stated Mordrammo, standing up again. "I'd hoped to hear the truth from you, Elrohir, but apparently such is not to be the case. No matter- perhaps the proof of my theory can be found someone on your persons. Parley is over, Furyondans- disarm yourselves now and surrender!"

"Wait!" Elrohir shouted.

"We've indulged you long enough," Mordrammo glared at the party leader. "No more de-"

"Hear me out!" the ranger continued. "I have a business proposition for you!"

For the third time, the room went silent.

It was hard to tell who was more astonished- the Slave Lords or their opponents.

* * *

"All right," Elrohir conceeded. "Let us suppose- just suppose, mind you, Mordrammo- that some of what you said might be true."

The Voice of the Sacred Scaly One stared at Elrohir for a moment, and then sat back down in his chair again. "I'm listening," he said quietly. "After all, as ruler of Suderham I am foremost a businessman."

"That's funny," came the smirking voice of Scurvy John. "I thought you were supposed to be foremost a servant of your god."

Mordrammo's dragon helm turned to regard the pirate.

"Be careful with that tongue, John- lest it land you in the same waters as your predecessor."

The priest returned his attention to Elrohir. "Go on."

"If this is the case, it would not be prudent for me to reveal the name of our true employer," the ranger sated, "nor would it- your supposition to the contrary- be wise for any of to carry any clue as to his or her identity anywhere on our persons. However, this would not preclude us from entering into a more profitable arrangement. This is what I suggest…"

And Elrohir proceeded to lay out his plan for the future of Suderham.

* * *

Nesco couldn't believe her ears. She could only half-listen to the details of what her fellow ranger was suggesting; something about joint rulership of Suderham while slowly steering the city's economy away from slave exports and re-establishing full diplomatic relations with the outside world. Her brain was pounding that Elrohir could even think of such a thing.

A man who looked like Unru was standing in front of her, although she knew it was really Aslan. Still, it felt odd walking forward to tap him on the shoulder. Before she connected though, Aslan-as-Unru responded without turning around.

"Stay in position, Nesco."

"As-, um, Unru," she grimaced, "what is Elrohir doing? Has he gone mad?"

"No, Nesco," the paladin spoke out of ther corner of his mouth, turning his head just a fraction in her direction. "Elrohir is doing what he always does- giving us a miracle- tiny though it may be."

Nesco frowned. "I don't understand."

"There are only five of The Nine present here, Lady Cynewine. We outnumber them three to one. Now, it may well be true what Mordrammo said about them being able to defeat us handily. However there's always a small chance that he may be bluffing. In either case, even our slimmest hope of survival involves taking this battle on our terms, not theirs."

She still didn't understand. "But what does this scenario he's concocting have to do with-"

"Nesco," Aslan-as-Unru said so quietly she had to strain to hear it, "don't listen to Elrohir's words. Look at his hand. Look at his left hand."

Nesco peered at their group leader. Elrohir was gesturing animatedly with his right hand as he spoke to Mordrammo, but he kept his left close to his body- and at irregular intervals, it was flashing a brief gesture.

She recognized it as one of Elrohir's hand signals that the ranger had insisted to the point of universal annoyance that everyone learn. Nesco never had learned more than about half of them.

But she knew this one all too well.

_Prepare to attack._Despite Aslan's proximity, Cygnus' concentration was threatening to break as he became more and more agitated.

* * *

He managed to concentrate on Ajakstu's staff, and received a strong aura that he was able to recognize as one of evocation- the same aura, he reflected ironically, that Ajakstu was probably receiving right now from Cygnus' _ring of shooting stars._

_Nothing subtle about that staff_, Cygnus thought. _A weapon designed to blast enemies to pieces. And powerful enough to do just that to all of us._

The corners of Ajakstu's mouth turned up ever-so-slightly.

_Reading my shine now are you, you smug bastard? Well, you're not going to take me down without a-_

The Slave Lord broke off his stare at Cygnus, and moved on to the tall mage's right.

_Well, Cygnus thought with some surprise, maybe I was wrong. Maybe he wasn't-_

Ajakstu's eyes went wide.

_What is he-_

The Slave Lord jumped to his feet. The rat squealed and leapt off the table. It hit the floor with feet running and dashed off to a far corner of the chamber.

It took Cygnus only a fraction of a second to realize that Zantac-as-Aslan was standing to his right.

A fraction of a second too late.

"Illusion!" Ajakstu yelled. "Treachery! Mordrammo, we are deceived!"

"_NOW!"_ screamed Elrohir.

* * *

Weapons were drawn.

Hands gestured and incantations uttered as the process for casting spells was initiated.

Hands gripped holy and unholy symbols tightly. Prayers were sent towards deities.

Every one of nineteen people reacted as fast as they possibly could in a life-or-death struggle to be the first one to take action.

And Mordrammo won.

* * *

The Voice of the Sacred Scaly One sent forth a prayer that sounded like it tore from the throat of a dragon.

_"ELROHIR- LOOK OUT!"_ screamed Aslan-as-Unru.

The ranger looked up. Above him and Aslan, the ceiling had turned into a roaring circle of fire.

Then the ceiling came down upon them.


	152. Assault On The Aerie Of The Slave Lords

**21****st**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Underneath Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj**

There was no conscious thought involved at all in Elrohir's backwards leap as orange flames filled his world.

But only for a moment.

Then it was over- the fire had vanished. The pain had been intense but brief, and the lingering discomfort caused by his still hot plate mail was the ranger's only reminder that it had happened at all.

That and the two screams he had heard.

One sounded like Unru, and Elrohir had to remind himself once again that this was his friend Aslan.

The paladin hadn't been able to leap free in time. Aslan-as-Unru's clothes were still smoking, and burns ranging from mild to serious were covering almost every inch of his paladin's exposed tanned skin.

Elrohir didn't know what to do. He could see the agony Aslan was enduring just trying to take a breath from lungs seared from heat.

Then he remembered the other scream and looked behind him.

* * *

Talass was just straightening up again from being doubled over in pain. Even from this angle, Elrohir could see the burns that dotted the cleric's skin, and the wisps of smoke that rose from her hair.

_But that's impossible_, the ranger thought. _Talass wasn't even at the edge of that flame! How could she have-_

And then he realized.

_THE RINGS,_ the ranger's mind screamed. _Her prayer- It transferred my wounds to her!_

Equal parts love and anger suffused Elrohir's voice as he yelled out.

"_Talass!"_

And that same mixture came hurtling back at him as his wife's light blue eyes locked on his own.

Elrohir knew. This was about Talass' vision

"_It's not going to be you!"_ she screamed back.

The party leader raged in impotent fury. He wanted to rip the accursed ring off and hurl it away, but right now it was on his finger, underneath his gauntlet. That wasn't an option.

Elrohir was about to shout to Talass to fall back when out of the corner of his eye he saw Nerelas rise to his feet, tip back to his lips a small glass vial that hadn't been in his hands a moment before-

-and disappear.

"_Dammit! Look out, people- he's gone invisible!"_

There was no time for anything else. He couldn't aid either of the wounded right now, and Nerelas was too far away for him to concentrate on. Drawing Gokasillion, Elrohir leapt again- a running leap forward this time, and landed right in front of the High Priest of The Earth Dragon, his longsword already in motion to taste flesh.

But Mordrammo, who had been bending down to retrieve his war pick, straightened up suddenly with superhuman speed. The glowing white blade was neatly intercepted by the priest's parry.

"All too easy," came the voice from within the dragon's skull.

* * *

_I hope you three are okay_, Argo Bigfellow Junior thought to himself. _I've got a job to do here._

The big ranger gave his arch-enemy his biggest and widest smile.

"_Time to play, Johnny-boy!"_

The words were still on Argo's lips as he charged forward, Harve's reddish glow lighting the air around him.

A maniacal grin lit up Scurvy John's face.

"_Come and get me, you swine!"_ the pirate shouted in glee, his feet planted firmly and his shield swinging into position to meet the ranger's charge.

But right before Argo swung with his right arm fully extended, his right wrist spun around, tossing his longsword perhaps an inch into the air. Bigfellow's hand quickly closed back on the hilt, now in a reversed grip just as he reached the Slave Lord, so that instead of swinging the sword from John's front, it stabbed at the pirate from his left side- an inch past the edge of his shield.

Scurvy John yelled in pain as Harve's tip punched through his armor.

"Just don't make those defensive spells like they used to, do they, John?" Argo queried.

* * *

"_Find assassin- I stop budoka!"_

Unaccustomed to hearing commands from the samurai, Cygnus and Zantac-as-Aslan hesitated just a moment as Tojo raced past them and onto the half-moon platform, stopping about ten feet to Brother Milerjoi's left.

The monk slowly rose to his feet. His eyes focused on the small circles the tip of Tojo's katana was describing through the air.

* * *

"One of you blasted mages find Nerelas! I'm going to help Argo!"

Without waiting for a response, Sir Menn slammed the visor of his great helm shut with a _clank,_ and then the knight was lumbering in his full plate to stand next to Bigfellow. Sir Menn feinted right and then swung left. It was only by the slimmest of margins that Scurvy was able to take the blow on his shield in time.

"Mind if I join the party?" the knight quipped. "I know John's a long-time friend of yours, Argo, but-"

"Some friendships just don't last," replied Argo while readjusting his grip and parrying Scurvy's cutlass strike.

* * *

"That's not good."

Zantac-as-Aslan didn't glance over at Unru-as-Zantac's comment. He knew what his fellow wizard was looking at.

Ajakstu had stood up, and was inclining his yew staff forward.

The staff began to glow a brilliant yellow

"Hey, Ajakstu!" yelled Unru-as-Zantac. "There's a basic lesson every wizard needs to learn! I've taught it to my friends- how about I teach it to you?"

The illusionist began to cast. Zantac-as-Aslan recognized the somatic gestures in an instant, and gasped.

"Unru!" shouted Zantac, forgetting to call the illusionist by his current assumed name. "_Magic missiles_- are you crazy? You know he's got to be all shined up- I thought you were experienced in battle! They won't work- _you'll waste the spell!"_

Unru-as-Zantac continued as if he hadn't heard him. Three white streaks of energy shot out from his fingertips.

They headed straight towards Ajakstu, and then abruptly swerved around the wizard and continued on- towards the far corner of the room.

"_YOU DON'T TAKE A PET INTO A DUNGEON!"_ Unru-as-Zantac screamed.

The rat squealed in agony as the _magic missiles_ tore into it. The familiar's body was actually hurled upwards a foot or so by the force of the spell. It then fell back to the floor, twitched spasmodically for several moments, and then rose unsteadily back to its feet.

Ajakstu shrieked in pain. The staff dropped from the mage's hand and clattered to the floor beside him.

"Damn it," Unru muttered. "It wasn't enough- it's still alive!"

"I'll finish him!" Cygnus shouted.

But Ajakstu was faster.

Recovering quickly from the damage done to his familiar, the Slave Lord mage dipped one finger into his spell component pouch. It came out with a drop of something dark on it. He then incanted- not towards the three mages, but towards the six adventurers straight in front of him.

Cygnus was the first to recognize it. It was one of those spells that just happened to be in his head at that very moment.

And Nesco Cynewine finally realized what it was really like to be under the effect of the spell that the arcanists called _slow._It wasn't what the ranger had expected. She'd anticipated a purely physical sensation, such as that of being underwater, but the spell seemed to be as much mental as anything.

* * *

Deciding on action became more difficult; options cloudier and harder to see. Even Nesco's own muscles were responding slowly and jerkily to her brain's commands. She had no idea which of her companions, or how many, might also have been affected.

She also had no idea of what to do.

* * *

Somehow, the pirate turned into lightning.

Faster than he'd ever been, and harder than he'd ever hit, John's cutlass bypassed Bigfellow's defenses once, and then twice. Scurvy seemed to have no interest in Sir Menn other than to avoid being hit by him. His venom was reserved for Argo alone.

_This could be a problem,_ Argo's mind told him as it struggled to shut out his own voice crying out in pain from the slashing wounds. _This could be a big problem._

It was only because he knew it annoyed the pirate so much that Bigfellow made the effort to keep the smile on his face as he looked back up at Scurvy.

* * *

Tojo watched intently as Brother Milerjoi's body settled into a fighting stance. This he expected.

What he did not expect was for the monk to speak.

"You will not prevail, samurai," Milerjoi stated simply. "Honor is your strength, but it is also your greatest weakness. Bound by _bushido_ as you are, you are too easily manipulated- have not even your own friends told you this? Even now, as I announce this to you beforehand, nothing changes. Before the first blow is struck, the battle is mine."

The monk said nothing else. His body suddenly became a grey blur.

Most of Tojo's friends reckoned the samurai fast, but Milerjoi was nothing but wind. As he came up to the samurai, Tojo's katana sliced through the air- but Milerjoi backpedaled several inches with the speed of a hummingbird, and then just as quickly darted forward again.

Yanigasawa Tojo grunted as a flurry of blows descended upon him. The monk seemed as if he surely must have more than two hands, for fists were suddenly filling every cubic foot the samurai could see, pounding down on his skin like a rain of lead.

Tojo adjusted, stepped back and filled that same space with his katana. Milerjoi backed off, but the thought that ran through the samurai's mind as he focused on what the monk was doing had nothing to do with his opponent's supposed superiority- only his tactics.

"Your strikes are not rethar," Tojo announced. "I know you can as easiry kirr as not- yet you choose not to- why?"

Brother Milerjoi did not reply, even in his expression.

The samurai's eyes narrowed.

_Does he seek to dishonor me, or is there a hidden purpose here?_The agony from Aslan-as-Unru's burns finally served one useful purpose.

* * *

By letting his mind focus on the pain, the paladin was able to overcome the spell he felt tugging at his mind, whatever it might have been.

Now pushing the pain and all other thoughts other than tactical ones aside, Aslan-as-Unru grasped what looked like Unru's tonfa- but was actually Aslan's own longsword as he charged towards Ajakstu- his closest target.

He was at least a little relieved to note the look of consternation on the enemy mage's face as he approached.

Unfortunately, the paladin's first strike slammed into something invisible just in front of the wizard's face.

"No true mage would rush forward to engage like that," Ajakstu snarled at him. "Which one are you really?"

"You keep guessing; I'll keep swinging," Aslan-as-Unru responded as he brought his weapon around for another blow.

* * *

_I should have loaded up on dispels_, Cygnus thought ruefully. _Why is it my spell selection never turns out to be the right one?_

He had more than enough targets to _dispel magic_ on. It looked like Nesco and several others had been hit by Ajakstu's _slow_. Using his _dispel_ to cover an area might disperse that magic- but if it didn't, there was always a chance that it might accidently remove some of his allies' protective spells instead.

He could use the same function on the Slave Lords, hoping to take off some of their shine, but many of Elrohir's party would be caught in the radius as well, with the same attendant risks.

A targeted _dispel_- stripping some or all spells off one individual- made more sense. Any of the Slave Lords with the exception of Brother Milerjoi would make a logical target, and it would benefit greatly whoever they were fighting.

And then he remembered about Nerelas.

An invisible assassin running around the battlefield was _not_ acceptable.

_Dispel_ might work, but it was chancy. Cygnus shook his head.

_On the other hand, maybe I chose right after all. I just hope he's close to where I think he is._

Cygnus' fingers came out of his spell component pouch covered in finely ground mica.

A blindingly bright shower of golden confetti-like particles, twenty feet in diameter and centered over Nerelas' chair, abruptly appeared.

Outlined now in a golden glow, the assassin cried out and clawed at his eyes.

Cygnus pumped his fist in the air just as Scurvy John had done earlier.

"_Yes!"_Zantac-as-Aslan was glad the plate mail he appeared to be wearing was completely illusionary.

* * *

Real armor would have made casting spells impossible.

The Willip wizard sidled to his left to stand next to Cygnus.

"Nice move, Stick! Bolt?" Zantac finished by tilting his head towards Nerelas.

Cygnus understood. Zantac-as-Aslan was asking him if he'd scanned any possible protections the assassin might have on him against what his fellow mage was planning.

"Not that I know of- but what's ever been a sure thing for us, anyway?"

"Good enough for me!"

* * *

Nerelas cleared the _glitterdust _from his eyes just in time to catch another blinding light.

This one from Zantac-as-Aslan's _lightning bolt _coming straight at him.

* * *

With unearthly reflexes, the assassin twisted his body and leapt straight up. His body curved around in an arc- and the _lightning bolt_ traveled through that arc- bypassing him completely.

Zantac's mouth fell open. He'd never seen anyone do that before.

He also couldn't help but notice that as Nerelas landed nimbly on his feet and whipped his head around to look at the two wizards, that his face no longer held a neutral expression.

The assassin now looked very angry indeed.

Zantac could only smile weakly at his foe.

"Best two out of three?"

* * *

Talass shrugged off the _slow _without a second thought.

The cleric considered. Cygnus' _glitterdust_ made her _invisibility purge_ unnecessary- at least for the moment- leaving her free to concentrate on other options. One glance to her right and behind her showed her four people struggling under Ajakstu's spell.

_I can't even try an area dispel, _Talass thought. _I'd be caught in it as well._

The priestess could feel the coolness of the ring on her heat-blistered hands.

_And that's one spell I can't risk dispelling. Sorry, folks- you're on your own._

A shimmering field of energy surrounded the cleric as Talass cast her _shield of faith_, and then headed towards her husband and Mordrammo, her warhammer clutched tightly in her right hand.

* * *

_Guess I'm on my own. Thanks a lot._

Nesco had thought Talass was going to remove the _slow_ spell when the priestess had glanced over at her, but that didn't seem to be the case- for whatever reason.

Tired of trying to sort through her limited options, Lady Cynewine drew Sundancer and began to head towards Ajakstu, intending to aid Aslan-as-Unru against the Slave Lord mage.

Now that she thought about it, it _was_ kind of like trying to run underwater.

Until everything abruptly went black.

* * *

_He's not attacking!_

Incredible as it seemed, the party leader knew his conclusion was correct. Mordrammo was simply watching and waiting, parrying every stroke of Elrohir's sword that came his way.

"_We are your death!"_ the ranger shouted as he weaved Gokasillion through the air and abruptly lunged forward; the blade aimed right at the High Priest's heart.

But Mordrammo caught the weapon against the shaft of his pick and swung it up and backwards.

"No, Elrohir," the Voice of the Sacred Scaly One replied in a remarkably conversational tone. "You're all just actors in my little play."

The cleric abruptly changed the pitch of his weapon's movement. Elrohir had to hang on with all his strength to avoid having his own weapon torn from his hand. He managed to do so, but the momentum brought the two combatants face-to-face.

"_And you're playing your parts beautifully!"_ Mordrammo hissed.

* * *

The master assassin drew his sword.

Nerelas' gaze shifted from Cygnus to Zantac-to-Aslan to Unru-as-Zantac. All three wizards readied for a charge.

And that was when Nerelas glanced away from them-

-and cast.

Two moans preceded the twin _thumps_ of Nesco Cynewine and Arwald abruptly crumpling to the floor.

"A _sleep _spell? By Boccob, the man's an arcanist, too!" Zantac-as-Aslan was the first to shout out what all three mages realized to their horror.

"If we don't kill him, he'll take us _all_ out!"

* * *

"_Stop smiling, Pigfellow! Don't you know when you've lost?"_

Continuing to move at magically-enhanced speed, Scurvy John's cutlass undercut Argo's parry and dug into Bigfellow's right haute- the neck guard portion of his badly-damaged plate mail.

A flick of John's wrist, and the haute flew off- taking all of the covering over Argo's right arm down to the elbow with it.

The big ranger, breathing hard, continued to smile at the pirate.

"Undressing me, John? I should have guessed that about you."

With another wordless bellow of rage, Scurvy John ducked under Sir Menn's swing and thrust forward again just as Harve came around.

Blood sprayed from both combatants.

* * *

Yanigasawa Tojo's battle cry rang across the chamber as his katana found its target.

Clasping one hand over his gaping neck wound, Brother Milerjoi staggered back several steps, but then the monk caught Tojo on the chin with two spinning back-kicks in rapid succession.

* * *

"With all these illusions, you can't tell who of us is really who, Nerelas!" shouted Unru-as-Zantac. "Best to wait until Ajakstu unmasks us before you risk another attack!"

Cygnus nearly gasped at what his fellow mage was shouting until he realized that Unru's suggestion was just that- a _suggestion._

The assassin made no response.

* * *

Aslan-as-Unru bent down to grab Ajakstu's staff, but his adversary was faster.

Snatching the staff back, Ajakstu raised it above his head.

White tendrils of light erupted from both ends, spreading out and forming a flickering cube of energy surrounding the wizard, his table and chair. Within seconds, what the paladin recognized as a _wall of force_ had encased the Slave Lord magic-user, leaving Aslan on the outside. A quick glance upward showed that the spell's effect extended all the way up to the ceiling.

"Going on the defensive? You're not doing as well as you thought you would be." Aslan tried out a vicious sneer on Unru's face, and found it easy to do. "Can't reach me from behind that, you know."

"As a matter of fact, I can," was the reply.

* * *

Nerelas was the only Slave Lord not currently engaged with a target. That made Cygnus' decision all the easier.

The tall mage dipped into his component pouch again, and this time came out with a small white feather.

As soon as Cygnus had finished casting, the Slave Lord's master assassin suddenly screamed in terror and bolted away from the battle.

_Lord, but I do so love my fear spells_, thought Cygnus as he and Zantac-as-Aslan exchanged smiles.

* * *

Cygnus' friend prepared his own _dispel magic_, but not to cast.

The Willip wizard scanned the battlefield, searching for any enemy about to start casting a spell.

Suddenly, Sitdale sprinted past him, heading for Nerelas. The half-elf now sported an assortment of glowing auras on him. Apparently, he'd been shining himself up for a while.

Enough shine, Zantac thought hopefully, for him to go toe-to-toe with the assassin when he caught up with him.

"String Bean," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "I think we're going to win this thing."

* * *

Talass moved behind Mordrammo and touched her hammer to her holy symbol, uttering a soft prayer as she did so.

* * *

Out of the corner of Elrohir's eye, the ranger saw Hengist, slowed but still functioning, walk over to where Arwald and Nesco lay sprawled out on the floor and begin trying to shake them awake.

Two _magic missiles_, launched by Thorimund in the rear, suddenly shot by Elrohir to strike Mordrammo, but the white streaks had no effect.

The High Priest didn't even spare a glance towards their source. His eyes flickered over the battlefield before coming back to meet Elrohir's, who had just done the same thing.

"You can't help but see it, Mordrammo," the ranger said while looking for his next opening. "The tide has turned. You're going to lose."

The Voice of the Sacred Scaly One looked almost contemplative for a moment before the sinister grin returned under his dragon helm.

"Have we?"

The cleric tilted his head up and to the left. Looking as much as he dared, Elrohir saw the Slave Lord lieutenant's face peering out of the open panel in the ceiling.

"_The Little Death_!" roared Mordrammo.

The guard nodded and vanished, sliding the panel shut again.

And for only the second time since the battle began, the High Priest of The Earth Dragon began to cast.

Elrohir and his wife attacked instantly, but the priest moved sinuously to avoid their blows, his prayer somehow unaffected.

* * *

"Damn it!" screamed Zantac-as-Aslan from the other side of the room as his counterspell attempt failed.

For a moment, the mage saw no visible effect from the cleric's prayer.

And then Sir Menn whirled around and came charging at him- sword upraised and murder in his eyes.

"_Kill!"_ the knight roared as he raised his blade high.

* * *

The stroke never fell.

Aslan-as-Unru crashed into Sir Menn with a flying tackle, and both combatants tumbled to the floor.

* * *

Argo's scream was short, but he couldn't stop it.

Relieved of the obligation to watch two opponents at once, the pirate had attacked with even more vigor. His cutlass dug a deep gash along Argo's unprotected right arm.

With a move born of years of experience, Scurvy slid his word up and into Harve's hilt.

Argo had no time for regrets as he saw his longsword go flying out of his hand.

Still moving with enhanced speed, the ambidextrous John dropped his shield and with his left hand grasped Bigfellow around the throat with the strength of an ogre.

The Slave Lord pressed forward, bending Argo backwards until the ranger's back was pressed against John's table. The pirate leaned over his enemy even his cutlass slowly moved into position to slit Bigfellow's throat.

"_YOU CAN'T WIN!"_ John screamed, all his years of frustration and fury releasing in one primal yell as his victory was finally at hand.

To the very end, Argo still smiled.

"Yeah, but I'm so handsome I even look good when I lose."

The ranger's fingers closed around the handle of John's mug.

Scurvy John cried out as his ale was flung into his eyes. The pirate staggered back, trying to clear his eyes- and then something hard slammed right into his teeth.

Like a prisoner trying to attract attention in his cell, Argo Bigfellow slammed the mug again and again against John's mouth; left-to-right and then right-to-left. Scurvy tried to back away so as to use his cutlass again but Bigfellow followed, staying inside sword's reach.

One of John's diseased-weakened teeth flew out of his mouth; and then another.

* * *

Tojo danced. He whirled, his katana flashing.

And Brother Milerjoi backed off again, blood seeping from his stomach. The samurai could see it was a serious, if not mortal, wound.

The Yanigasawa samurai permitted himself a wry moment.

"If batter is to be yours, you may wish to craim it soon."

In response, the monk straightened up. He kept one hand was outstretched to intercept any further attacks while he placed the other on his abdomen with a gesture that reminded Tojo of Aslan's healing.

It seemed appropriate as the samurai watched Milerjoi's most recent wound close up.

"I spoke the truth, samurai," the monk told Tojo. "This is not the battle. It is only a fight."

* * *

Elrohir smiled.

"Dearest?" he asked while shooting her a meaningful glance over Mordrammo's shoulder.

Talass smiled right back.

She knew her husband _so _well.

"Of course."

* * *

Talass understood the situation. Even with her weapon magically enhanced, she knew there was little chance of being able to hurt Mordrammo- whom she suspected of being the most powerful of the Slave Lords. But then, she didn't need to hurt him.

Only distract him.

Talass attacked in a calculated manner; a serious of strikes designed for only one purpose- to distract the High Priest from her husband.

Mordrammo was not easily deceived, however. He spared the priestess of Forseti only the minimum attention, keeping his pick deployed where it was most useful- parrying Elrohir's attacks.

Talass growled deep in her throat.

_Well, fine._

Her light blue eyes opening wide in horror, Talass suddenly pointed off to the right and screamed.

"_ELROHIR! MY GOD, IT'S THE EARTH DRAGON!"_

And it was not tactics but pride that made the High Priest of that very same god, despite all his battle prowess, flick his eyes over for just an instant.

"_AAARRRGHH!"_

Gokasillion came in at Elrohir's best swing, cutting through magical protection, armor, robes and skin alike. The Voice of The Sacred Scaly One screamed and then spun around to slide the sword's blade out of his skin, and gazed with both astonishment and fury at the blood that was dripping from the wound.

Elrohir was already attacking again, but this time Mordrammo was able to parry.

"Think you're pretty clever, don't you?" the cleric snarled.

The party leader smiled. "We have our moments."

The contemplative, serene expression returned to Mordrammo's face.

"That was your last- enjoy it. You knew nothing from the very start, Furyondans. Act One is now over, and I shall enjoy Act Two from the playwright's suite."

A growl of some kind came from the High Priest's throat, sounding almost like rocks grinding against each other.

A tiny, star-like light appeared next to the ring on Mordrammo's right hand. It was swiftly followed by another, and then another. A second later, hundreds of white motes were swirling around the priest. His entire body abruptly flashed white-

And he was gone.

* * *

Grinding noises from above made everyone look up.

Four panels, identical to the one at the top of the stairs, were sliding open.

A large flask dropped down out of each.

There was an explosion as each one struck the stone floor. Not of fire, but of gas- a dark greenish cloud that seemed to somehow resist dispersing even as each one expanded outwards.

Elrohir stared at the unfolding scene in horror.

One flask had fallen at the back of the chamber enveloping Sitdale and Nerelas just as the half-elf had been about to attack his cowering quarry. Neither could be seen or heard anymore.

A second had fallen right between Tojo, Brother Milerjoi, Zantac-as-Aslan and Unru-as-Zantac. All four were quickly lost to sight.

The third had enveloped Hengist, Nesco and Arwald, whom Hengist had just succeeded in wakening. Elrohir had a brief glimpse of Arwald going limp again before his fellow fighter slumped over him, and the scene was closed up.

And the fourth had taken out both Argo Bigfellow Junior and Scurvy John.

* * *

"Elrohir."

His wife's voice was soft from disbelief and grief. When he looked over to Talass, he could see her eyes widen.

"_The Little Death_. Mordrammo's killing his own fellow Slave Lords just to slay us."

Unable to formulate a coherent reply, the ranger looked over the parts of the chamber that he could still see.

Sir Menn seemed to have come to his senses, and Aslan-as-Unru and Cygnus were helping him to his feet. Thorimund was coming towards Elrohir and Talass, skirting around the edge of one of the gas clouds.

"Thorimund- look out!" Talass yelled.

It was too late. Still _slowed_, Wainold's mage was unable to pull back in time as the gas by him suddenly expanded as if blown from inside by the breath of a giant. His collapsing form vanished in a puff of green.

"_We've got to get out of here!"_ shouted Aslan, reverting back to his true form as the five survivors congregated.

"Up there?" asked Cygnus, indicating the staircase.

"No." Sir Menn shook his head. "Their entire army is probably waiting up there. We've got to break through that stone wall and get back into the catacombs- the gas won't be able to get us in there."

"Let's go!" shouted Cygnus.

* * *

A hundred feet down the corridor, the stone wall blocking the passageway remained as immutable as ever.

"Cygnus," Talass asked, trying to keep her voice level, "do you have anything?"

His face white with grief and worry, Cygnus bit his lip and thought. "I could try a _fireball_, but there's no guarantee it would work."

"Do it," said Aslan.

"Wait!" Elrohir suddenly exclaimed.

* * *

The others stared at their leader.

Talass glanced over her shoulder. The Little Death was just starting to spill over into the corridor.

"Aslan," the ranger said quietly. "Do you have enough Talent left to _teleport?"_

Aslan gazed at his friend. The paladin's mouth tightened.

"Just barely, Elrohir, but if you think I'm going to leave you be-"

"Shut up and listen to me, Aslan." Elrohir's voice went hard and his eyes flashed steel at the paladin. "You're going to take Talass, and the two of you are going to _teleport_ back to Chendl, where you will drag Karzalin back here by his beard if necessary, find and recover our bodies, and retrieve them for later raising. No arguments- it's brutal logic, but you know it's the only way. I _order_ you as your team leader- _go!"_

"Elrohir," Talass gritted her teeth while folding her arms across his chest. "If you think I'm going to leave you, then you've got a-"

Without warning, a light green ray shot forth out of the approaching gas cloud and struck Aslan. The paladin's body was instantly outlined in a greenish radius.

"_Dimensional lock!"_ yelled Cygnus.

Elrohir whirled at the image he saw above him- and stared at the flickering in the air from a magical sensor.

Still augmented by _ventriloquism_, Ajakstu's cheery voice abruptly boomed out in their midst.

"You never learn, do you, Furyondans?"

Aslan closed his eyes in sorrow. He'd forgotten about the Slave Lord wizard, safe behind his _walls of force_ until he could protect himself from the gas, emerge and come after them.

Cygnus, who had already withdrawn what he needed from his spell component pouch, roared with rage and hurled the _fireball_ down the corridor.

"_Cygnus!"_ Sir Menn shouted. _"Are you mad? We needed that!"_

An explosion sounded from somewhere in the chamber, followed by a scream.

Cygnus didn't have time to enjoy it. "I'll _dispel_ the _lock_ keeping Aslan here!" He began to cast as fast as his shaking fingers would allow.

"Look out!" Elrohir suddenly yelled as he grabbed Cygnus and whirled him around.

The Little Death had arrived, and while the party leader had reacted with the best of intentions in giving Cygnus the extra few seconds he needed to cast his spell, the tortured look in the tall mage's eyes told him everything he needed to know.

Elrohir had broken Cygnus' concentration and ruined the spell.

And as the green fumes filled his vision, Elrohir turned at the last to his wife, who was already calmly looking back at him.

Even at the last, he couldn't read her face, but Elrohir knew. He had failed. He had failed her. He had failed everyone. And now, after a thousand lucky escapes, it was finally, really over.

"I'm sorry," the ranger whispered as an inescapable fatigue took him and brought him into darkness.


	153. Dream Of The Dead

"I'm not supposed to be here."

There was no one to answer a terrified Caroline Bigfellow.

She was standing underground, in a twisting and turning corridor roughly hewn from solid rock. It was narrow and the ceiling hung low, forcing her to stoop down. The rock itself shed forth a reddish glow that gave dim illumination but no comfort.

It was hot. It was too hot.

She abruptly realized that she was wearing only her grey _yukata_ robe. She was barefoot, and the rocky floor underneath her made her feet ache from the heat, and from numerous small abrasions, cuts and scrapes every time she took a step.

_How did I get here?_

It was a question Caroline couldn't answer. She couldn't even remember where she had been before she suddenly realized she wasn't there anymore. The Brass Dragon? Her cabin?

She did know one thing, however. She had to get out of here.

She had to get out of here fast.

* * *

The pain in her feet was getting worse. After what seemed like only a few minutes of walking in an awkward bent position, they were already swollen and festering with angry red blotches. It was getting almost impossible to keep going.

Caroline sank down to a sitting position on the unforgiving floor and kept her feet raised above it. She had to give them a moment's respite, despite the pain already starting to build in her backside.

There had been nothing but more tunnel. Not even a side passageway.

Caroline Bigfellow hung her head and started to cry for her husband. Her tears filled her eyes and her ears until she thought they must surely quench the infernal heat, but they didn't. Even when she stopped crying, she could still hear the echoes of her sobs-

No. They weren't echoes.

Someone else was crying.

Caroline whipped her head to both sides, but there was no sign of anyone.

She glanced back at the wall behind her. It almost seemed as if the crying was coming from _inside_ the stone.

She frowned. Could there be a chamber on the other side of a thin stone wall? And might it be cooler there?

Caroline pressed her ear aginst the rock- and immediately pulled black, crying and rubbing at the burn blisters already forming there. She cursed herself for her stupidity, then turned her head around and put her other ear as close as she dared to the surface.

Despite the heat, she shivered. The crying she could hear the most pitiable she'd ever heard. It was a cacophony of moans, wails and sobs. Caroline couldn't make out any specific words.

Whoever was on the other side was suffering worse than she was, and Caroline wasn't so eager anymore to find a way to join them.

The breeze Caroline felt on her cheek was little more than a whisper, but it was enough for her to peer down the corridor the way she had come.

The wind picked up slightly and a voice came, carried aloft by it.

* * *

_Death and oblivion._

_How often mortals confuse the two._

_We of course know better, but how they yearn to escape the inevitable._

_How often have we laughed at them?_

_How often have we indulged them?_

_Given them the bitter taste of unlife?_

_And how damned must a soul be, when denied even their own self-inflicted agony, to pine for their private Hell over ours?Is it not their own proverb which states how misery loves company?_

_So be it. Folly and determination are close enough kin for our purposes._

_One more chance for this one- or at least let him think so._

_The following are to be assembled under the auspices of their Most Dread and Awful Presence;_

_Let thirty generations pass from home. Every vestige must suffer at least a while._

_The hair of his children. A reminder of the pain of ungrateful offspring- of any species._

_The soul shell of a servant. What is a ceremony without a feast?_

_The blood of his slayers, for he himself has only dust to offer._

_The eye of a descendant, so that he may see clearly what he has wrought._

_Memories among the stones, so no sin be forgotten._

_The power behind his mirror, for his reflection already rests here with us._

_And the soul itself, born again into the Joy of the twice-damned._

The wind passed by, taking the words with it.

_These are the words of Dispater, Lord of The Second._

With a moan of pain, Caroline Bigfellow rose up back to her feet, and began limping down the corridor again.

* * *

She didn't want to follow those words, but she knew there was nothing the way she had came- and she'd never even make it back to her starting point in her condition.

She hadn't gotten very far before Caroline realized she could now hear the wailings and lamentations even without being next to the stone.

They were following her.

* * *

She had to stop.

The fire in Caroline's feet was traveling up her legs.

She pressed a hand against her stomach, willing the heat to go down with her mind, even though she knew it was an act of hopeless desperation.

She had to survive. _Now _of all times, it was essential that she survive.

Was it her imagination, or did the temperature drop just a little?

She concentrated again. Sweat from the effort joined the perspiration from the heat, drenching every inch of Caroline's skin that wasn't already soaked. Hot, salty sweat dripped into her eyes, and all she could do was try to wipe it clear with a hot, wet hand.

The temperature might have stabilized- it was hard to tell. It was still hotter than Caroline could stand, but she didn't seem able to make it any cooler with her mind.

The corridor here had widened a bit, and the ceiling was high enough so that she no longer had to duck or bend down, but there was still nothing but stone and the cries of agony that came from it.

And then Caroline Bigfellow heard The Voice.

* * *

No wind carried The Voice, and although it seemed to be coming from the direction she was traveling, it also seemed to come out of the very air around her at the same time. This was not _telepathy_- she could _feel_ The Voice, listen to it bounce off the red-hot walls.

The Voice was deep. Very deep- more so than Aslan's, and even lower in pitch than Sir Davos Rahldent of Chendl.

The Voice held anger. White-hot anger. Hot enough to melt rock. Hot enough to burn souls.

The Voice held contempt. It carried in it the distance from an emperor to the lowliest slave- or even from a god to a flea.

The Voice only spoke one word, but in that one word the most terrifying aspect of all about The Voice became instantly known to Caroline Bigfellow.

The Voice was familiar.

* * *

"Greetings."

* * *

The Voice was also a liar.

There was nothing welcoming about that word- two meaningless syllables floating in a sea of molten rage.

And as the barely controlled fury of The Voice swept over here, Caroline Bigfellow knew that fear once again; the kind she hadn't felt in years.

It was a rigid fear. A terror that instantly locked up very muscle in her body. Even her lungs refused to work for fear of inhaling that anger that was coursing against her skin like a lava bath.

It was a fear that had its closest cousin in the most horrific torture; a pain that one would gladly die to escape from.

And the only reason Caroline Bigfellow did not beg for death from the fear engulfing her was that there was more at stake here than just her.

* * *

Eventually- slowly- the fear began to subside. Gulping for breath and wincing from her dry, cracked throat, Caroline managed a one-word hoarse whisper.

"You."

The Voice laughed, but again it lied. There was no more mirth in that laughter than there was water in the midst of flame.

"You remember me, Caroline Bigfellow? While certainly no one exists- or did exist, I should say- who was more memorable; I am still surprised when a mortal manages the most rudimentary of concepts."

The reality- if it was reality- of what she was hearing was too much for Caroline. Her back up against the side of the tunnel, she slowly slid down until she was sitting on the floor.

"It can't be you," she whispered again, shaking her head wildly as if she might literally fling the horrid thought out of her mind. "You- you're dead."

"I was dead when you first met me."

Caroline clenched her fists. A small trickle of anger tamped down on her fear, if only a little.

"You know what I mean!"

There was a short pause.

"Ah, but Caroline Bigfellow- _you _don't know what _I_ mean."

Caroline was about to retort when suddenly a freezing cold injected itself into her back.

She screamed, hurling herself away from the wall, and saw _a hand_ protruding from it.

It was spectral; transparent. Caroline watched as the ghostly fingers twisted, seeking the warm flesh they had just been ensconced in.

Shrieks and caterwauls came from what sounded like just inside the stone.

Caroline winced. The cold had offered no relief- in fact; it had fatigued her worse than the heat. Her insides felt stiff, and the skin on her back felt like it was hardening, as if from either a burn or severe frostbite.

She was sitting on her calves now, and they were turning red from the heat.

And as she looked around for some sign of escape for the hundredth time, it finally occurred to Caroline with some certainty that wherever she was, she was going to die here.

"You must forgive the specters of Dis, Lady Bigfellow. They do so hunger for the embrace of the living."

Caroline was about to utter a wordless wail of torment of her own when a new thought burst its way into her head with a startling clarity. It was so strong, and yet so simple an idea, that it even distracted her from the crippling heat.

"A dream. This is just a dream!" Caroline said, rising to her feet again, watching as the specter's hand withdrew into the stone wall.

The Voice actually sighed.

"Yes, Caroline Bigfellow. This is indeed, as you say, just a dream."

Bolstered now, Caroline began to limp forward again, ignoring the screams still following her from the walls.

The Voice was silent, and it suddenly occurred to Caroline that even though this was only a dream and she would wake up eventually, there must be some special significance to it, and it might be a good idea to gather as much information as she could in the meantime.

She smiled to herself. Argo would be proud of her.

"Those earlier words," she asked The Voice aloud. "Was that…"

"Dispater himself?" The Voice responded disdainfully, which seemed natural to it. "No, mortal- few even among the natives here have ever directly heard the Iron Lord speak. A maggot such as you would certainly never receive such an honor. The speaker's name- although I am certain this is meaningless to you- was Titivilus, his herald and messenger, enumerating the Iron Lord's instructions."

"Maggot, eh?' Caroline used her knowledge of the unreality of her situation to boost her courage. "Don't think much of us mortals, do you?"

The Voice laughed a lie again. "What is there to think about? What deep, cosmic thoughts run through the minds of most mortals? What can I find to eat today; will I have enough coin to buy what I need; what shall I wear to the festival; does this man or that woman love me; will my children be safe today; will troops pillage my farm as they pass through; will our king's negotiations yield war or peace; are my dear departed parents sharing the paradise of Celestia?"

"Mortals are fit for three things, Lady Bigfellow," The Voice continued, the very air temperature in the tunnel dropping slightly from its cold words. "To be ruled, to die, and to be damned."

Another thought came to Caroline.

"Yet you yourself were once a mortal."

The Voice sighed again.

"True. The most powerful in history, mind you- but still mortal all the same. It would be truth to confess that at the time I considered myself the most powerful being in the multiverse. I am, of course, not."

The Voice hesitated. "Yet."

Caroline stumbled on, wondering when the dream would end.

* * *

She had come across a cave, but the red glow from the walls only penetrated a few feet. Keeping close to one wall, she could see the other wall receding further and further away as she walked on until only a faint red glow could be seen in the distance.

The cries of the specters had faded away, but new sounds were starting to impinge on Caroline's ears.

The squealing of rats.

Bat wings fluttering overhead.

Shadows danced just outside her vision. Occasionally, one or more pair of small, glowing red eyes would peer at her from somewhere in the cavern's central darkness.

"So, what are you now?" Caroline asked The Voice, which had not spoken in a while.

"Now? Only a memory, Caroline Bigfellow. A hostless memtat, if you would ever read and believe the rubbish that is The Book of Rolex. A vestige, as arcane scholars of Oerth might postulate. A bodiless soul, denied its rightful place in this universe, some Aardian sages might say. Answers always depend on who is asked the questions, do they not?"

"Speaking of rubbish, what was Dispater talking about, anyway?"

The Voice suddenly laughed again. It was so loud that it made Caroline stop and cover her ears.

* * *

"Why Lady Bigfellow- haven't you ever wanted to revive a pleasant memory?"

* * *

Caroline's newfound courage floundered, and she began to stagger along as fast as she could. Either the heat was getting worse again, or her burns were finally becoming too severe to be ignored.

_Why aren't I waking up, dammit? Do I need to find something first? How can I be in this much pain and not wake up? Please, Argo, my love- I don't want to dream about this anymore. I want to dream about you._

Tears filled Caroline's eyes again.

_I want to dream about you._

Every step was turning into torture again. Her knees buckled.

_About us. About all three of us._

"And now," The Voice interjected itself past her thoughts; "I do believe it is time."

Caroline's head snapped around. Ignoring the searing pain, she pressed one palm against the rocky wall to keep her shaking legs upright.

The Voice was different. It was no longer omnipresent.

It was very definitely coming from in front of her now.

"Time for what?" she croaked.

"Why, Caroline Bigfellow," The Voice responded with some surprise. "It's time for you to die."

* * *

Caroline screamed and hobbled away from the wall towards the center of the cave.

Away from the burning walls, it was noticeably cooler here, and even in her panic she cursed herself for not getting away from the heat as soon as she had entered the cave.

Then she remembered why she hadn't.

A rat-maybe- brushed past her leg as it scooted past. Bat wings far too large to be those of ordinary bats were flapping too close overhead.

"_You can't!"_ Caroline screamed. _"I can't die! This is only a dream- you said so yourself! This is only a dream! YOU SAID SO!"_

There was another short pause, and then The Voice spoke again from somewhere off to her right.

"My dream, Caroline Bigfellow- not yours."

* * *

"Argo!" She shouted out, changing her course to the left. "Aslan! Elrohir! Cygnus! Tojo! Anyone, _please help me!"_

From in front of her, a little closer.

"Did you think that I could even for a moment tolerate the presence of one of _you_- the mortals who enjoyed the greatest stroke of undeserved good fortune in all of creation? Who took my one moment of distraction and turned it into the most unearned victory in all of history? Did you think the simple fact of my not yet existing could save you from me? You confuse death and oblivion, Caroline Bigfellow- but I will show you the difference."

Caroline shrieked again and whirled around, but she was completely lost. The red glows in the distance had vanished. The rats and other creatures had gone silent. Only the faint sound of a dog barking from somewhere far, far away could be heard.

Unlike all the other sounds, Caroline found that one comforting, and she began to limp towards where she thought it was coming from, but she was only guessing.

She was in the complete black of the void.

From her left, further off.

"I give you this one small comfort, Caroline Bigfellow. Know that your friends if they survive, or others if they do not- will learn an invaluable lesson from what they find of you."

Caroline staggered. She ran in circles. She cried out- to the dog, to Zeus, even to The Voice.

"No- please don't!"

From her right, closer now.

"If you would ever seek to kill one who would be a god, you had best finish the job…"

Right behind her.

"… _OR IT'LL FINISH YOU!"_

She spun around.

It was Him.

* * *

The rigid terror engulfed Caroline Bigfellow like a tsunami of stone. She completely froze up, unable to scream for an instant that seemed to last forever.

The dead hand shot out, piercing through Caroline's robe and into the skin of her stomach like it was a sheet of dried parchment.

And the fires of Hell erupted inside Caroline Bigfellow.

Caroline's blood attacked her.

It came gushing out of the wound as the hand withdrew, but the hot fluid leapt _upwards,_ covering her body, her face, seeking her eyes, ears and nostrils.

She tried to scream again, but her blood poured down her throat and she swallowed it, and it came out through her belly and attacked her again.

Gagging, retching and flailing, Caroline collapsed to the ground-

-and fell off her bed in her cabin.

* * *

**22****nd**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

She was still incoherent, but suddenly there was something in her arms, and Caroline threw her arms around Grock.

The wardog stopped barking and began licking Caroline's face furiously. The young woman hugged Grock even more fiercely, and buried her face in the dog's short tan fur.

"I heard you, Grock. I heard you," she sobbed. "Thank you, thank you. You saved me. Lord Zeus told you to find me, didn't he?"

Grock simply continued to lick Caroline everywhere he could reach, and allowed his mistress to keep on hugging him until she was able to slowly sit up and draw in a huge breath.

She immediately pulled up her _yukata_ robe and examined her stomach.

Unblemished.

She had no burns, cuts or other wounds. Only her mind still carried the scars.

Caroline exhaled what she reckoned must have been five pounds of air, and looked around her.

Her little home had never looked so good.

Caroline stood up, but her legs were still rubbery, so she sat back down on her bed. Keeping one hand on Grock at all times, she began to consider the situation.

_That was it. That was that feeling I've had all these months. It all makes sense. I don't see how it's possible, but this was no mere dream. Let's see, who's at the inn now- Sir Dorbin, Monsrek, Fee Hal and Flond, I think. I'd best let them know about this._

She stood up and headed for the front door.

_Maybe I can ask Monsrek for a sending to-_

The fires of Hell erupted inside Caroline Bigfellow.

* * *

Her body spasmed into rigidity again, and she toppled like a statue to the floor, Grock barking and dancing around her all the time.

From somewhere outside, she heard the screaming of horses.

The pain was consuming her from inside. It was worse than the dream, it was happening, it was real, she was-

Caroline Bigfellow forced her mouth apart even as she felt her blood boil inside her.

"_MOOOOONSREEEEKKKK!"_

And Caroline Bigfellow began to bleed.


	154. Not Let You See

**22****nd**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The patrons on the floor of the common room of The Brass Dragon shrieked in fear as a figure clad only in a nightrobe came thundering down the stairs from above.

A figure brandishing a flaming sword.

Ignoring them, Sir Dorbin tore open the front door of the inn and ran outside. To his right, he could see Monsrek stagger, still-half-asleep, out of Flond's _shelterdome._

"Stay inside! Prep up!" the cleric yelled over his shoulder at the grey dome. "I'll shout if I need you!"

"You're already shouting!" came Flond's voice from within.

Monsrek rolled his eyes and ran as best he could towards Sir Dorbin, who was heading towards the Bigfellow cabin.

"Fee Hal!" Monsrek shouted at the squire who was just now exiting the inn, still struggling to get one boot on. "Go over to the stable and quiet things down there!"

Fee Hal continued to curse at his stubborn boot, but nodded curtly to the priest, who dashed off as fast as he could.

* * *

As Sir Dorbin pulled up to the cabin, the thirteen year-old serving girl was already banging on the door.

"Mrs. Bigfellow! Mrs. Bigfellow! Can you open the door? It's locked!"

Only moans and Grock's barking came from within.

"Stand back!" Dorbin gestured to the girl. "I'll handle this. Stay outside- we may need you!"

The girl's eyes widened with fear at the knight's blade, but then turned to his face with a beseeching look. "Please save her, Sir Dorbin! She saved Jack's life. She-"

Monsrek came up. "Locked?" he asked, ignoring the child.

Dorbin nodded. "Does Flond have a _knock?"_

The priest shook his head."No."

"All right then," the knight said grimly, sheathing Sear and grasping Monsek by the shoulder. "We're teleporting in!"

* * *

The first thing Monsrek noticed as the duo materialized just inside the front door was the blood.

And Caroline Bigfellow was lying in it.

Through the open front doorway of the bedroom, he could see the young woman curled up in a fetal position next to her bed. Blood was flowing from-

Monsrek abruptly spun around, grabbed Sir Dorbin and shoved him at the door.

"The key is hanging up on the wall there! Open the door and wait outside with the others!"

"What? Why-"

"Female matters, Dorbin- not for your courtly eyes! Have the serving girl get some cloths soaked in warm water- go!"

Sputtering in frustration, the knight fumbled with the keys, and eventually managed to open the door while Monsrek dashed into the bedroom.

* * *

Even from this position, the cleric could see that Caroline was bleeding from between her legs.

Monsrek knelt next to Caroline. Grock kept jumping on him.

"I know, boy, I know. Keep your paws off me- I'm going to help her, don't worry!"

Monsrek took hold of Caroline's shoulder and sent a healing prayer through her.

The priest frowned. There was some kind of resistance to the healing magic, but before he could analyze it, it broke and the prayer flowed through.

He gave Caroline another one, just to be sure. The bleeding stopped, but Lady Bigfellow was still writhing in pain.

Something was still very wrong.

Monsrek took a deep breath. This really was not his specialty. He was a priest of Trithereon the Summoner, not Estanna of the Hearth. He was more comfortable shedding blood than saving it, but being with Dorbin as long as he had had given the priest at least rudimentary skills in the healing arts.

_There's always one more injury than you have prayers_, Monsrek thought to himself as he gently began to maneuver Caroline into a sitting position.

But Caroline grabbed Monsrek's hands and threw them off her. Her eyes were still closed; her face contorted with pain.

"Lady Bigfellow, please! I'm trying to help, but I need your cooperation!"

Caroline abruptly stopped groaning. Her hazel eyes opened and slowly moved over to Monsrek's face. Her hands opened and closed randomly.

"Monsrek?" she asked in a small voice. "Is it really you?"

The priest smiled. "Yes, Caroline. It's me. I can heal you, but I need to know what happened, can you tell me-"

Caroline's eyes darted down the front of her robe, and then she took a deep breath and uttered a piercing scream.

* * *

"Monsrek! What the devil-"

Monsrek's right foot shot out just behind the door to the Bigfellow bedroom and with a kick slammed the door shut. "Stay outside, Dorbin!" he yelled over Caroline's continued wailing. He was seriously considering casting a spell on Lady Bigfellow to hold her motionless when Caroline grabbed the priest by his blue cassock.

_"Save him, Monsrek! Please, save him!"_

"Him? Who are you talking about, Caroline?"

But Lady Bigfellow's face suddenly contorted in agony again and she curled up on the floor again, her hands clutching her abdomen and her legs kicking and flailing. Monsrek took several sharp blows to his own shins as he bent over his patient.

Caroline was bleeding again, but it was darker; heavier. There was some kind of grey tissue that-

"What vileness is this?" muttered the priest to himself. He threw another healing spell, and the bleeding subsided again.

With trembling hands, Monsrek gingerly took the bottom edge of Caroline's robe and began to lift it up. "Please forgive me, Lady Bigfellow, but I must see what we are deal-"

The cleric's eyes widened in shock and he gasped.

He locked eyes with Caroline Bigfellow.

And finally understood.

* * *

They just stared at each other.

Every second, Monsrek's heart broke just a little more.

The cleric gently leaned forward to place his hands on Caroline's shoulders. The young woman, who was now sitting up, avoided his gaze and looked down at her bloody lap.

"Caroline," Monsrek began, groping for the right words, not even knowing if any existed. "Caroline, it was too early. The soul has not yet entered from beyond. This was only animate flesh. There is no one to save."

She continued to look down. Her voice was dull. "He was alive. I felt him. I could feel him every day."

Monsrek sighed. He didn't know how to explain this in a way that Caroline would understand. He was about to try again when she spoke.

"Argo didn't know."

She looked up at Monsrek.

"I was going to surprise him when they came back from The Pomarj."

The priest closed his eyes in grief. "I am so sorry, Caroline, but there is nothing I can do. There is nothing anyone can do."

When he opened his eyes again, Monsrek was surprised to feel a tear running down his cheek. Caroline's eyes, while bloodshot, remained dry.

"He mustn't know, Monsrek. None of them must ever know."

The cleric raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain, Lady- I mean, Caroline? Argo is your husband, and he would give the world for you! I think you should-"

"Monsrek," Caroline interrupted, her voice still dull but steady, "if you do not swear to remain silent, I will kill myself."

They stared at each other again, but this time it was Monsrek who broke contact and looked away. He didn't think Caroline was in her right mind, but it was also the central tenet of the Summoner that people make their own decisions.

"Very well, Caroline," he sighed. "I will say nothing of this particular matter. But the fact remains that something terrible has happened to you, and that I cannot and will not ignore. I implore you, _tell me what happened!"_

Caroline Bigfellow was silent for a long time. She petted Grock without seeming to know he was there. She just sat on the floor in a pool of her own blood, her eyes growing duller with every passing moment.

Finally, she spoke.

"He dreamt about me."

* * *

The stables were finally quieting down.

Fee Hal rubbed his left shoulder again . Sequester had clipped it hard with a hoof as the squire was struggling to calm the pegasus. As near as the teenager could determine from the young stableboy, Perlial and White Lightning had gone berserk, presumably upon hearing Caroline scream from her cabin. This had ignited all the other steeds present, but it was just as well they had, Fee Hal mused, for it was that sound that had awoken most of the current residents of the Brass Dragon. Only when the staff had gone around the back to investigate had they heard Caroline Bigfellow's cries for help.

Now the squire watched as his master slowly trudged from the Bigfellow cabin towards him. The serving girl had gone inside with some bar towels and a bucket of water.

The knight acknowledged his squire's questioning look with a weary nod.

"She'll live, although we're not quite sure what happened. Apparently, she had some kind of terrible nightmare and had fallen out of bed."

Fee Hal frowned. "Did she hurt herself that badly falling out of bed that she would scream so?"

Dorbin shook his head. "No. There's more to it than that. Dark magic, I'd guess, but her injuries were," he lowered his voice and inclined his head towards Fee Hal, "of a womanly nature."

"Ah," Fee Hal nodded in partial understanding, although in truth he felt a desire to be inside the cabin now with Monsrek, tending to Caroline himself.

"Do you wish to suit up, Sir Dorbin?" he added after watching his master stare silently at the cabin for several moments.

The knight shook his head. "Not yet," he replied distractedly, then muttered as much to himself as to Fee Hal.

"Monsrek's being secretive again. He either knows or is learning more than he'll share, I'm sure."

His deep blue eyes gazed thoughtfully at something Fee Hal couldn't see.

Then he turned and walked inside the stables.

* * *

The Brass Dragon's eleven year-old stableboy was not exceptionally strong for his age, but he had a way with horses. All the other steeds had with much coaxing, attention and treats, been returned to a quiet if nervous state. Now the lad was trying to tend to White Lightning and Perlial.

Both horses were standing in their stall, not moving but trembling fiercely. The steeds' initial cries had contained no intelligible words as far as the boy could tell, but now they were speaking, albeit in very low tones, but it was just snatches of phrases, repeated over and over again. Neither horse would respond to him in any way, despite all his pleading.

Standing there in helpless anxiety, the stableboy whirled at the large shadow behind him, then relaxed as he watched Sir Dorbin take in the scene.

The knight frowned.

"Why won't they open their eyes?"

* * *

White Lightning kept her eyes closed as tightly as possible. Tears ran very slowly but steadily from them. She showed no reaction when Dorbin gently laid his hand upon her, but when the knight moved to wipe her eyes clear, the animal shrieked and backed off.

"Please, Sir Dorbin!" the youth said, torn between anger and the respect due any knight. "You'll only stir up the others again! Please let me see what I can do."

Sir Dorbin clenched his fists in frustration for a moment, but then nodded.

"Of course, boy."

Relieved, the stableboy turned back to his charges. He stroked White Lightning and uttered soothing phrases into her ears. The horse did not open her eyes, but her rapid breathing slowed somewhat. She continued to repeat the same words.

"Leave us alone… leave us alone…"

The stableboy looked over at Sir Dorbin while he made a few brief passes over White Lightning's coat with a brush. "I don't think she means us, Sir."

Sir Dorbin folded his arms. "She doesn't, boy. Of that one thing, I'm certain."

Even with her eyes closed and tearing as well, Perlial seemed to sense that her closest companion had moved away from her, so the grey mare took several tentative steps towards her. The stableboy maneuvered himself so he was between the two animals, and placed one hand on each of their flanks so they would- hopefully- realize he was there and not crush him.

They stopped. The boy had to stand on his toes to wrap his arms even partially around the neck of each animal. He scratched where he could reach and continued to talk gently to them.

Perlial's words were different.

"Not let you see… not let you see…"

Abruptly, both horses heads sank down, as if they had fallen asleep. They hadn't, but their breathing slowed down to a regular rhythm. It was hard for Sir Dorbin to see, but it appeared as if they had stopped crying as well, although their eyes remained tightly closed. Their muttered phrases grew quieter and quieter until the knight could no longer distinguish them.

The stableboy slowly scratched Perlial's ears, and moved his hands down her face. She seemed to accept this, even leaning in a little closer to him.

The lad smiled at Sir Dorbin, who smiled back.

The youth dried the mare's tears as best he could and was about to turn back to White Lightning when he leaned in closer to Perlial and said, "Eh? What's that, girl?"

Sir Dorbin peered at them.

The stable boy moved his ear right up to Perlial's mouth. "What's that you're saying, Perlial? I can't quite make that out."

He listened for about thirty seconds, after which it was apparent that Perlial had stopped talking completely. The boy frowned and shook his head in confusion, and then glanced back at Sir Dorbin, who moved his gaze from Perlial's closed eyes to the youth's open ones.

"Who," the child asked, "is Kar-Vermin?"


	155. Lich

**22****nd**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

Monsrek sat in one of the armchairs in the Tall Tales Room, staring into the fireplace.

He barely noticed the heat coming from the flames within, or the sounds of customers in the common room outside being served a morning meal or making ready to depart.

Nor could the priest have commented, if he'd been asked, on the quality of the ale in the half-empty pewter mug he held in his right hand.

His concentration was focused inwards; on thoughts, ideas, possibilities and explanations. It had been a painstaking process for Monsrek to slowly but gently extract the full tale from Caroline Bigfellow of everything she had seen, heard and felt while in the "dream," and no doubt it had been even worse for her.

There was no good the cleric could see at all in this scenario, but the one theory that was the least fantastic- a natural tragedy brought on by an extreme nightmare- had seemed as fragile as delicate crystal even when Monsrek had first thought about it.

That theory was irrevocably shattered when Sir Dorbin told him about the horses.

* * *

"I've been looking for you."

Monsrek blinked several times before he returned himself to the room. Turning his head, he saw Sir Dorbin standing in the open doorway of the Tall Tales Room. The knight, now clad in his silver plate mail, scowled at his long-time friend.

"You know," Dorbin continued from where he stood. "Technically, we're not supposed to use this room while they're absent."

Monsrek returned his gaze to the fireplace. "What about if they're dead?"

* * *

Sir Dorbin moved so quickly to Monsrek's side that if his clanking armor had not given him away, the priest might have supposed the knight had teleported the distance.

"What?"

"Bigfellow never received my _sending."_

The knight bit his lip. "Well, according to you there are three possibilities for that- not counting the unlikely one of magical interference. He's asleep, he's unconscious-"

"- or he's dead," the cleric added with a sigh. "Hell of a time for it."

"It was nighttime in The Pomarj, same as here," Sir Dorbin countered. "Argo could easily have been asleep when you used the prayer."

Monsrek looked up at his friend with a sour expression. "How many hours do you sleep per night when _we're_ out in the field?"

"Could still be the case," Dorbin grumbled stubbornly.

The priest shrugged. "We'll know soon. enough. I'll try Elrohir or Aslan later today, after I've rested up." He took another swig of his ale and asked, "Did you leave Caroline under guard?"

The knight nodded. "The serving girl is staying in the front room, and I have Fee Hal and Flond in rotating shifts outside."

"You were planning on heading back to the Castle Chauv tomorrow. Do you still intend to?"

Sir Dorbin nodded. "Yes- and I'm taking Lady Bigfellow with me. I think it may do her good to get away from this place for a while."

Monsrek nodded in agreement, but said nothing.

With several grunts, Dorbin eased his armored bulk down onto the other armchair and stared grimly at his friend.

"Tell me the truth, Monsrek. What are we up against here?"

The cleric sighed. "I don't know yet, Dorbin- and that is the truth."

He shot a return glare at the knight.

"I know that look, Dorbin. Anything I keep in confidence is nothing you need to know. You'll have to trust me on that."

The fighter shrugged. "Guess I'll have to, won't I?" He paused a moment, then continued. "All right then, Monsrek- answer me this- of all the possibilities here, what's the absolute _worst_ one?"

"A lich."

The Tall Tales Room was quiet for a while, except for the creaking of two chairs and the crackling of burning wood.

Sir Dorbin looked thoughtful when he finally spoke again. "We've battled so many kinds of undead, I've lost track. All abominations- all unholy. I've only heard tales of liches back home. To be honest, I'd doubt if I could tell one on sight from a skeleton or zombie."

Monsrek finished off the last of his ale in one swig.

"Your misperception," the cleric announced, "would not last long."

* * *

The serving girl looked up, startled, as Monsrek entered the Bigfellow cabin. The priest could see the poor child was weary from lack of sleep.

She inclined her head towards the closed bedroom door. "She won't eat, Monsrek, and I don't think she's slept, either."

The cleric gave her a reassuring smile. "I'll see what I can do. I'll stay with her for a while, child. Go and get yourself some rest. Than you for staying with her."

The girl nodded, cast a worried look towards the rear of the cabin again and left.

* * *

It was evident at first glance that Caroline Bigfellow hadn't slept. She was wearing Talass' nightrobe, which the serving girl had brought her, and was sitting hunched over the edge of her bed in the same position she had been in when Monsrek had last left her some four hours earlier. There was no depressions in the blanket anywhere but where she was sitting. Grock sat nearby, a silent guardian.

Caroline did not raise her head as Monsrek entered. Her black hair hung down in a greasy, tangled black mass, obscuring her face.

The priest sat down on lone chair in the room and looked around. On the end table beside Bigfellow's bed lay an untouched tray with fried eggs and coffee.

Monsrek took a deep breath and addressed the top of Lady Bigfellow's head.

"I will not besiege you with platitudes, Caroline. I do not pretend that I can comprehend the tragedy that you have suffered, or the pain it has wrought on your heart."

The cleric did not expect her to respond, but Caroline's voice, thin and listless, came from behind the ebony strands of hair.

"You were right, Monsrek."

The priest tilted his head. "Pardon?"

"You were right." Caroline repeated. "Back in Fireseek, when I accompanied you to Willip, remember? I asked you about children, and you told me they never mix with the lifestyle people like you and I have chosen. You were right- I should have listened. I…"

Her voice trailed off, and Monsrek could think of nothing to fill the silence.

Grock rose to his feet and walked over so that his face was directly under Caroline's. He nuzzled her knees, seeking attention. One hand moved absently to pet the dog's head.

The priest tried another topic. "Sir Dorbin will be departing tomorrow for the Barony of Chauv. I understand he wishes to take you with him. Is this agreeable to you?"

Caroline shrugged. "I don't care."

Another uncomfortable silence ensued. Monsrek knew the question he had come here to ask wasn't going to make Lady Bigfellow feel any better, but he could think of no small talk to engage in, so he just decided to get right to it.

"Caroline," the priest moved to place a reassuring hand on her knee, but the young woman started to flinch, so he abandoned it. "Caroline, please listen to me. I still have not uncovered the true import of your dream-"

"- _His _dream," she interrupted, her voice still dull.

Monsrek nodded. "His dream, very well. But there _is_ an evil presence that may not be forever confined to the Region of Dreams, and I need your help, Caroline, to understand it better."

"It can't be Him. We destroyed Him." Caroline's head shook slightly from side to side. "We laughed and sang, there on the side of the cliff. We were so happy, we even danced. We…"

She fell silent, and then raised her head up.

Another pang of grief struck the cleric's heart. He had rarely seen someone look so utterly sad and worn, as if the vital energies of life itself were slowly leeching out from her.

"Monsek," Caroline Bigfellow asked plaintatively. "Why can't I cry?"

"I don't know, Caroline," the priest responded at length. "I suspect the horrors you have suffered are so great that even tears will not suffice to assuage them. Be assured, though. They will come in time."

The young woman nodded, although Monsrek didn't think she was convinced. He decided to return to his main topic.

"I need to ask you one question, and then I will leave you alone, if you desire, although of course we will never be more than a shout's distance away. But since you have mentioned the scene of His destruction, I need you think hard on it, and remember. Can you do that for me, Caroline?

He could see her start to tremble.

"I know this is hard for you, but Argo has told me again and again what a wonderful heart you possess, Lady Bigfellow- and yes, this one time I will call you that, for you are a lady indeed; a woman any man would count himself blessed to have as a wife, and a woman blessed in return to have one such as Argo Bigfellow Junior as her husband. He has told me how much you care for others. Well, all those that you love may be in great peril from this evil, and I need to ask you just one question. I have a theory which may be nothing more than folly, but your answer will tell me whether to pursue or discard it. Will you do this for me, Lady Bigfellow?"

Monsrek gave Caroline the best smile he could manage under the circumstances, and was gladdened when at least a sickly reflection of it appeared on her face. "All right," she whispered.

"Now, this is third-hand to me- I only know what Sir Dorbin told me, and he had heard it from Elrohir, but as I understood it your enemy was on the far side of a chasm which you managed to cross unexpectedly quickly. You surrounded and then destroyed Him in hand-to-hand battle, is that correct?"

Caroline nodded weakly.

"Now this is the question, Caroline. I need you to concentrate on the aftermath of the battle, starting from the point after you had destroyed Him. Besides the celebrations, besides the singing and laughing and dancing, before you left that scene…"

Monsrek took one more deep breath- he could feel the anxiety in his chest growing with every passing second- and continued.

"At any point after you had destroyed this lich, Caroline- this Kar-Vermin, _did anyone remember to destroy his phylactery?"_

Caroline just stared at Monsrek with a confused expression on her face.

"What's a phylactery?"


	156. Mordrammo's Plan

**Unknown**

**Drachen Keep, The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir couldn't move, but the earth did.

It was a slow swelling, almost like being at sea, save from the rumbling and creaking of stone everywhere. A fine shower of dust and pebbles fell down upon the ranger, drawing him further back into consciousness.

His left eye was swollen shut, but he managed to open the other one enough for a somewhat blurry picture to emerge.

He was lying face down on what could only be a prison cell, and clad only in a dirty loincloth. Bare stone walls loomed over him. A thin stream of light from off to his left suggested a window, barred no doubt, to the outside. An iron door was situated in the midst of the wall to his right.

Elrohir's left ear, pressed against the cold stone, picked up the rumbling of the earth deep beneath him. Somehow, it reminded him of his cooshee Dudraug on the rare occasions that the elven hound showed his displeasure.

It sounded like nothing so much as a growling.

Now other sounds impinged upon the ranger's hearing. Cries of terror. They seemed to be coming from both outside the window and from the other side of the iron door. From the latter also came the sound of a man shouting in anger.

The growling ceased, and the earth stopped rumbling.

Elrohir couldn't move.

There was a grating noise on the far side of the door, and it swung open.

Mordrammo barged in.

* * *

The High Priest of The Earth Dragon needed only two long strides to reach where Elrohir lay on the floor. He quickly knelt down so as to stare directly into the ranger's one open eye.

Mordrammo was no longer wearing his dragon helm, and Elrohir could see the cleric's round face, a very light brown in color. His thin mustache, extending a good three inches past his lip in either direction, was literally quivering as the priest trembled in rage.

The cleric grabbed Elrohir's hair and yanked his head of the floor several inches.

"What have you done, Elrohir of Furyondy, that you have angered the Sacred Scaly One so?" Mordrammo hissed, hate billowing from his dark brown eyes. "Never in the history of Suderham has he made his displeasure known so graphically. Even now, with you and your allies helpless and awaiting final judgment, does he still stir the very Oerth itself to quake in rage!"

Elrohir couldn't move.

He couldn't even speak. His throat was cracked and raw, and even the effort of attempting speech was beyond him, but his face apparently betrayed the thought that ran through his mind.

_Helpless? Then we're all- still alive?_

Mordrammo grinned maliciously and dropped Elrohir's head back onto the floor.

"Oh yes, Elrohir- you're all still very much alive- but don't become too comfortable with that thought. It's a strictly temporary state of affairs, I assure you."

The High Priest seemed to relax somewhat, sitting down on the floor next to his prisoner, bending one leg underneath him and clasping his other knee with both hands.

"The _Little Death _is just that," he explained to his captive. "A useful tool for securing sacrifices. "Of course, I'd just as soon slain you all after you'd served your purpose, but criminals in Suderham not sent into slavery have always been thrown into the caverns far beneath Drachen Keep to perish there, a symbolic if not literal sacrifice to the Sacred Scaly One. Tradition must be maintained. It's very important in an ordered society like ours- or yours- wouldn't you agree?"

Elrohir couldn't move.

"There'll be quite the ceremony as you're lowered into the caverns. All the nobility of Suderham will be there with us, as will a few of the common folk, chosen by lottery, to see justice done. You won't be awake for it, of course. I'm a practical man, as I told you before, Elrohir- and I don't believe in taking chances."

Mordrammo bent down further so as to be eye-to-eye with the ranger again.

"For all that you've accomplished, you're such a blind, pitiful fool, Elrohir. You had no chance from the start. You were surprised to see Scurvy John amongst our number, were you not? You shouldn't have been. We needed a new naval strategist to replace Feetla, and who better than one who just happened to have first hand experience with the very same upstarts who had wrecked our operations in Highport and at the stockade? And he did _so_ much want the opportunity to meet you all again."

The cleric straightened back up, his eyes gazing upwards towards the dim streaks of daylight.

He chuckled. "It was so very amusing to listen to you try and play along with my idea, Elrohir. Of course I've always known that you are here on the behest of King Belvor. That little charade was for the benefit of my fellow Slave Lords. I wanted them to be in the right frame of mind for when I discovered those papers on you after," he grinned again, "_personally_ searching your unconscious form."

Mordrammo glanced down to see the ranger's questioning eye upon him again.

"Why, the papers that proved that you had been hired by Edralve herself to kill me, so that she might assume command of The Nine," the High Priest continued in a mocking tone. "Don't you remember making that devil's deal with that accursed black elf? No?"

The cleric bent down close to Elrohir's face again. "Such a pity you won't be around to tell anyone that."

Mordrammo straightened up again, drumming his fingers on his knee as he glanced towards the open door.

Elrohir couldn't move.

"Edralve has been a pain in my side for too long," the High Priest continued, his voice lower now as he continued to stare out into the corridor beyond. "Naturally, Feetla, despite his useful skills, had to go- he was a slave to her every depraved whim- but the rest of her faction will think twice about supporting her now. Soon, I will once again have no rivals for my leadership of The Nine."

He looked back over at Elrohir. "A pity you all have to die. Anyone of you would be a more than adequate replacement for Edralve," the cleric mused. "But that would go against your oh-so-important morals, wouldn't it, Elrohir? Tell me, Furyondan, how are you going to, as you put it, _do the right thing_ now?"

Mordrammo laughed softly again, then glanced back towards the door as new sounds came from outside.

It sounded like shouting to Elrohir, and there was also a clanging noise, as if a small gong was being struck.

The High Priest's eyebrows rose. "Ah, it must be that time again. The priestess, Talass…"

He abruptly spun around to face Elrohir again.

"Your wife, isn't she, I believe?"

Mordrammo bent down once more to stare directly into the ranger's face again.

"Rest assured, Elrohir. She's getting our… _special treatment."_Elrohir could move.

* * *

The ranger's right hand shot out to clamp down on the priest's throat.

Mordrammo gasped, his eyes bulging. The cleric flailed wildly, but Elrohir rose up on his left elbow and managed to slam the man down on his back.

The High Priest's left hand reached for the jeweled idol of The Earth Dragon that hung on the chain around his neck, but Elrohir's left hand grabbed it and held it tight.

The cleric bucked with his legs, twisting and squirming. Elrohir tried to climb on top of him to pin him down, but the ranger's legs just weren't cooperating.

The pain in Elrohir's hands was excruciating, but all he concentrated on was squeezing tighter and tighter and tighter.

Panic was showing in the High Priest's eyes now. He tried to scream for help but nothing came out. Elrohir's dirty fingernails were starting to cut into the flesh of his neck.

Mordrammo suddenly slipped his left hand free. Elrohir grabbed what he presumed to be the cleric's unholy symbol to prevent him from making use of it- but that wasn't what the priest was going for.

A bright light exploded in front of Elrohir as something slammed into the back of his skull.

With a moan, Elrohir went limp, slumping onto his side, and Mordrammo brusquely shoved the ranger over onto his back before the cleric rose to his feet, still gasping and clutching his neck. The war pick in his left hand dripped fresh blood.

The Voice of The Sacred Scaly One was only a blur through a pain-stained eye as the cleric paused at the cell doorway.

"Save your anger, Elrohir of Furyondy," Mordrammo snarled. "In the dungeons, you'll have nothing else."

A _boom_ and a _clank_ indicated the High Priest's departure. Without his rage to ignore it, the agony overwhelmed Elrohir again, and he had no choice but to surrender to it.


	157. At The Castle Chauv

**24****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Castle Chauv, Furyondy**

**(About 60 miles north of the Brass Dragon Inn)**

The first thing Caroline noticed was that the sun had gone down.

The young woman hadn't seen the first appearance of the crop fields as their horses trotted northwards on the dirt road. She hadn't spotted the increasing number of serfs and thatch huts as they approached the village which lay sprawled beneath the hill that boasted the Castle Chauv. Indeed, she'd even missed the moment when the castle itself had first loomed on the horizon. It was only the glow of scattered torches that made Argo's wife realize that their two-day journey was nearing its end.

Grock, whom Caroline had insisted on taking along, barked and ran off after a chicken he spotted, drawing angry shouts from someone.

Caroline rubbed her eyes, trying to wipe away her fatigue. The cloud of overwhelming depression that had been her constant companion since that terrible night clung tightly to her, but she suddenly realized she was hungry as well as tired, and ready for something other than hardtack and dried fruit. She peered ahead over Sir Dorbin's shoulder at their destination.

Chauv Castle, even at it's undamaged height, had not been as impressive a structure as the Aerdian castles Caroline had seen back east in the Great Kingdom, and the destruction wrought by the earthquake several months past was all too evident. It looked as if the castle had been split in half by the tremor, and the eastern section of the stone keep had collapsed and tumbled down the hill from where it was located. It had been only partially rebuilt, and was still surrounded by scaffolding. As Caroline watched, a line of grimy and solemn-looking peasants trudged down from the hill, heading home for the evening from their back-breaking reconstruction work.

Two knights, each with an entourage of squires, pages, heralds and ostlers, approached their group on foot as they reached the bottom of the hill. Sir Dorbin halted his steed, and with a gesture bade Fee Hal hold his position and that of their draft horse as well.

The two nobles could not have looked more different. One was no older than perhaps twenty. His face bore such a stern demeanor though, that even before he came close enough for Caroline to see his features clearly, she had pegged him as a son of the late Baron Chauv.

The other man was in his late sixties or perhaps even early seventies, but still wore his full plate armor like a second skin. The holy cross of St. Cuthbert was prominently embossed on his breastplate. Even with his visor up, his ruddy cheeks and easy smile were almost obscured by a snow-white full beard.

"Hail, Sir Dorbin! 'Tis good to see thee again!" The elder knight greeted his Aardian peer with the archaic accent sometimes employed by devout worshippers of The Cudgel. "Her Ladyship will be most pleased."

Dorbin nodded. "Well met, Sir Silverton. I again thank you in advance for your hospitality." He glanced back at Caroline, who was biting her lip and clearly nervous at meeting new people.

"Caroline, may I present Sir Kenneth Chauv and Sir Silverton. Good sirs, this is Lady Caroline Bigfellow."

Lady Caroline Bigfellow, out of deference to Sir Dorbin, managed one of her usual smiles- which is to say, a smile that fooled no one into thinking its wearer was actually happy.

Sir Silverton bowed as low as his armor would permit. "Welcome, Lady Bigfellow, to the Barony of Chauv. We are honored."

The younger knight stepped right up and held forth his hand. Caroline, recognizing the gesture, placed her hand in his and allowed the noble to plant a kiss upon it. Sir Chauv's scowl vanished as he eyed Caroline more closely than she would have liked.

"We are indeed honored, Lady Bigfellow, to have such unexpected- and such lovely- company."

Caroline could only nod and withdraw her hand, clutching more tightly onto Sir Dorbin with the other.

"We shall stable thy horses, Sir Dorbin," Silverton said. "The Baroness awaits thee in the front chamber."

Sir Dorbin nodded and turned around. "Unpack our belongings, Fee Hal. I shall speak to Lady Chauv about Caroline."

His squire nodded, sparing a quick but pointed scowl at Sir Chauv as he dismounted.

Caroline allowed Lady Chauv's son to help her off her horse and immediately looked around for Grock, but the wardog was already heading back to her side. She reached down and scratched his ears, grateful for the momentary opportunity to avoid dealing with all this nobility.

She never even remembered walking up the steps cut into the hill or entering the castle, but suddenly she and Sir Dorbin were standing in the entrance hall with Baroness Chauv, who was surrounded by three teenaged ladies-in-waiting.

The last time Caroline had seen the Baroness, the noblewoman had been wearing a simple if well-made traveling outfit. Now Her Ladyship boasted a gigantic gown of varied gold and burgundy coloring. The lower half of her slender body was completely invisible beneath a skirt that surrounded her a good three feet in every direction. She glided forward placidly to meet her visitors, her voluminous sleeves nearly touching the floor despite her outstretched hands.

"Sir Dorbin," she smiled at the knight, who promptly bowed down upon one knee. In reflex, Caroline did likewise.

"Your servant, Lady Chauv- as always. If it please Your Ladyship, may I present," the knight added, indicating Caroline as they rose, "Lady Caroline Bigfellow."

"I remember her well," the Baroness turned her charming smile upon Caroline. "She was most hospitable to my husband and I in our hour of need. I will always be grateful."

That memory actually made Caroline feel a little better, so the younger woman's voice didn't tremble quite as much when she replied. "I am honored, Your Ladyship."

"Circumstances have arisen which make it preferable for Lady Bigfellow to spend several days away from the inn," Sir Dorbin explained to their hostess. "May I be so crass as to prevail upon you to grant her hospitality for a short time, as well as for myself and my squire?"

Lady Chauv nodded, still smiling. "Of course, good Sir Dorbin." The noblewoman then turned to address Caroline directly.

"I must inform you that I have no guest rooms ready that would be suitable for you tonight," she explained, "but if you would be willing to share the quarters of my ladies," she indicated her servants with a tilt of her head, "I will have proper quarters prepared for you by tomorrow evening."

"Of course, Your Ladyship," Caroline responded promptly, although in truth she dreaded the idea of sharing a room with three strange girls. "Your hospitality is more than I deserve."

Lady Chauv waved away the compliment. "Nonsense. You are my honored guest. Refresh yourselves as you wish, and then we shall all sup together."

* * *

Caroline blinked in surprise as the serving girl addressed her again.

"My Lady. Could you hold forth your hands, please?"

Embarrassed, Lady Bigfellow smiled weakly and did as directed. The young servant poured a stream of clear water over her outstretched hands and then dried them with a small towel.

Caroline kept finding herself falling into a fugue state. She realized she was sitting at a huge, oaken dining table with the Baroness, her son and Sir Dorbin, although she had no recollection of how she had arrived here. There was no sign of Fee Hal, so apparently "all" did not include squires.

The meal was quite pleasant if not spectacular, consisting of salted salmon, peas and rice,a light golden beer which the Baroness claimed was gnome-brewed, and a sweetened almond paste called marzipan for dessert. Despite her hunger, Caroline's depressed state kept the food and drink from being as appealing as it would have been otherwise, but she concentrated intently on it, for the main purpose of staying out of the dinner conversation as much as possible. Whenever possible, she slipped a piece of fish to Grock, who sat cunningly silent under the table by her knees.

Sir Kenneth Chauv seemed to be prone to boasting, if his contribution to this evening's conversation was typical. Caroline only half-listened to it, as it seemed to her that he was doing it mostly for her benefit. All it served to do was to make her even more uncomfortable. Fortunately, Sir Dorbin seemed to realize this, for at some point he jumped in.

"Forgive me, young Sir Chauv, but I must ask Her Ladyship- my Lady, I notice the reconstruction of this castle is not much further along than from my last visit. Had you not hired paid laborers to hurry the rebuilding?"

The Baroness frowned but nodded, her manner turning noticeably more somber.

"I was forced to let them go. Coin is becoming scarce for my Barony, I am sorry to say. Baron Chartrain has increased the amount that is my due to him this year, and there is little point in raising my own taxes, for my serfs and freemen have little to spare. I am told the yield will be poor this year come Harvesting, and I cannot afford to hire druids to remedy this. As it is, many peasants grumble that working on my castle robs them of time spent in their fields, and this is true, though it cannot be helped."

Dorbin nodded sympathetically, but said nothing.

"We will have more coin by the New Year, mother- I promise you that," Sir Chauv said. The young knight's tone was quiet, but it couldn't hide his own embarrassment at having to admit to financial woes in front of other nobles.

Lady Chauv patted her son's hand. "I know, my son. I know you will not fail me, but that is still half a year away."

"The annual New Year's End Festival will be held here this year," the Baroness explained to her curious guests. "All the Noble Council shall attend, and possibly even His Royal Majesty himself. The prizes offered in this festival's events are grander even than those at the King's Festival just recently finished in Chendl. Winning even some of them would greatly enhance our coffers- not to mention our prestige."

"We shall win them all, mother." Kenneth's voice regained its boastful air. "I have yet to meet my equal in joust, and Sir Silverton is an archer without compare. That is two in the hand right there."

"Let us not run our hands through these riches until we have them, my son," the Baroness gently rebuked her son. She then looked over at Caroline.

"My husband-"

She grimaced.

"My _late_ husband, I am told I should say, though in truth it pains me greatly to dwell on that- was more astutue in affairs of state than I am. While I am sure few of the common folk raised their mugs to him at night, it cannot be denied that he ruled this Barony justly and well."

"Those peasants don't realize how well they have it off," Sir Chauv scowled. "They should-"

"Be silent!" Lady Chauv snapped at him.

There was a brief but uncomfortable silence, which the Baroness broke by clearing her throat, taking a final swallow of beer and continuing.

"I was merely commenting that sometimes we don't realize what we have until it is gone. Far too often do we dwell only on the negatives in life."

For the first time since dinner had begun, Caroline came out of her shell, if only partially. "I am so sorry for your loss, Lady Chauv," she said sincerely, even wishing for a moment that she could confide in the noblewoman about her own loss.

The Baroness smiled back while taking a deep breath to push back the tears that had threatened. "Thank you, Lady Bigfellow. Your sympathy especially means much to me, for I know that your husband is off on service to our king even as we speak, and cannot be far away from peril at any time. I shall pray to The Cudgel every night for his safe return until I hear word that it is so."

Caroline's eyes grew wide in shock.

She had been so absorbed in what had happened to her- and even dreading how she would ever be able to look her husband in the eye again when he returned- that the full reality of the situation had not yet hit her.

What if Argo _didn't_ return?

Come to think of it now, hadn't Monsrek said something to her about contacting her husband via a _sending_, if only to tell him she had been unnerved about a terrible nightmare involving Kar-Vermin? Caroline was pretty sure the priest of Trithereon had never mentioned to her what that reply had been.

She shot a glance over to Sir Dorbin, but the knight had already averted his eyes.

Caroline's breath caught in her throat.

* * *

Lady Bigfellow tossed and turned in the bed set aside for her. It had been almost three hours, and sleep was no nearer than it had been at the beginning.

She hadn't needed to feign not feeling well to be excused from the after-dinner tea. Caroline wasn't feeling well- even by her own recent standards. The Baroness, rebuking herself for "reminding you of your worries," had only reluctantly acquiesced to Caroline's request. Sir Dorbin had caught up to her and whispered the truth, or at least what he said was the truth- that Monsrek had been unable to reach either Argo or Aslan with his prayers, but as soon as he reached any one of their group, he would notify Dorbin through _sending_ at the earliest possible moment.

There were footsteps outside the door now, and hushed feminine voices. Caroline rolled over so that she was facing the wall, drew the blanket more securely over her and pretended to be asleep as the door opened and the ladies-in-waiting arrived for the night.

The three servants had of course been properly deferential to Lady Bigfellow, but they no doubt viewed Caroline as a noblewoman, even if she didn't see herself that way, and must have resented sharing their quarters with her, even for one night. Caroline's relentlessly gloomy mien hand't endeared her to them, either.

"Shhh- she's asleep!" the eldest, Michelle, hissed to the others in a stage whisper that Caroline knew would have woken her had she actually been asleep.

"Thank The Saint- she's a gloomy girl, that one!" whispered Jolene, another of the girls.

"Oh, leave her be," Aleena, the youngest at what Caroline had guessed at no more than fifteen, piped up. "Haven't you heard her husband is off on a royal quest, and hasn't been heard from since? How would you feel?"

"I'd feel better just knowing I _had_ a husband," Jolene responded amongst the sounds of undressing. "As the widow of a knight, at last I wouldn't be thrown out into the cold."

Three sighs of relief told Caroline that the crushing corsets the ladies were undoubtedly forced to wear during the day had been discarded.

"Well, I'm for one glad Ehlissa isn't here to hear you talk about men that way," Aleena retorted. "Married and gone only a week now," she sighed, her voice dreamy. "Away from work and toil. I can't wait to find my true love."

"Be sure to warn him beforehand what a scatterbrain you are," Jolene shot back, but her voice was teasing now.

There were muffled exclamations, and the sounds of pillows being wielded, but Michelle's voice soon put a stop to it.

"Such children. My oh my, aren't there any grown-ups here I can show my magnificent new gown to? Perhaps I should wake up Lady Bigfellow!"

There were squeals of protest, and the sound of boxes being moved around and other noises. Eventually, they all gaveway to indrawn breaths and sounds of admiration.

"It's beautiful, Michelle!"

"That silk, so white and soft- is it elven?"

"Look at the gold filigree. That's the real thing!"

"And these gemstones- they're small, but look how many of them there are!"

"Even the cloak is magnificent- what kind of fur is it?"

"This outfit would be the envy of the Baroness herself! Does she know about it?"

"Are you daft? She'd take it away from me in a moment- say I was putting on airs or something. No, I'm going to try it on tomorrow when I get a break, but I'm keeping this under wraps until I'm married and well away from here, just like Ehlissa."

"But if it came from Sir Kenneth," Aleena's voice was more serious now, "Her Ladyship would know for sure, wouldn't she?"

Caroline could almost hear Michelle shrug. "So? I've seen him stand up to his mother before. I'm sure he'd do it for his future wife."

"And you're positive this came from him?" Jolene asked, some skepticism evident in her voice. "You said this had been delivered anonymously this morning, and there was no note."

"Put it this way," Michelle responded, her voice dripping with smugness. "If it didn't, that means there are _two_ noblemen secretly vying for my affections. I can live with that, couldn't you?"

"Unless the one who sent this turns out to look like a troglodyte," Jolene smirked.

There followed more exclamations and the _whump_ of pillows, but Lady Bigfellow ceased listening.

* * *

Even after all the sounds had ceased for the night, Caroline lay awake, wondering how and why she was feeling even more uneasy than she had before.


	158. In The Dungeons Of The Slave Lords

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

The earth was moving again.

Once more, the rumbling deep below Elrohir's head and the pebbles and dust falling from below awoke the ranger, but there were significant distances this time.

For one, opening his eyes didn't help. It was completely and utterly black.

Secondly, the rumbling wasn't only coming from beneath him. Elrohir could hear the subterranean growling from all sides and even from above, where it was accompanied by the erratic but alarming sound of stone cracking.

And finally, as the sounds of the tremor faded away, they was replaced by other sounds. The moaning and groaning of other people regaining consciousness.

They sounded like they were very close.

* * *

"Argo?"

There was the sound of coughing and moaning, but then the reassuring voice of Elrohir's fellow ranger answered him.

"Hey, Elrohir. For a moment I thought you weren't going to join the party."

"Wouldn't miss it," the group leader muttered as he slowly raised himself into a sitting position. Although he was heavily fatigued, as well as both parched and starving, Elrohir noticed that he didn't seem to be sporting the bruises he had upon his last awakening.

"Who else is here?" he asked.

A cacophony of voices answered him at once.

"Hold it! Hold it!" Elrohir cut in with as close to a shout as he could manage, holding up his hand for silence before belatedly realizing no one could see it. "I'm going to do a role call. Answer when you hear your name. Aslan."

"I'm here, Elrohir, but before you go on, I think I should let you know we've got a problem."

"Damn- and everything was going _so_ well!"

"Stitch it closed, Argo!"

"What is it, Aslan?" Elrohir asked.

There was a pause.

"My Talent is full- but I can't use it. I can't use it at all."

Everyone went quiet..

"There's some kind of metal collar around my neck," the paladin's voice continued. "I presume it's suppressing my Talent somehow, but there's no seam in it that I can feel."

Elrohir sighed. "All right, Aslan. We'll take a look at it once we get a light going." The ranger's voice trembled slightly before uttering the next name. "Talass."

"I'm here, dearest."

Her husband couldn't repress his sigh of relief.

"Are you-" Elrohir swallowed hard- "all right?"

"Fairly, considering that I expected to wake up dead," the priestess commented. "However, they're taken my holy symbol along with everything else. I have a _light_ orison, but it's useless if I can't focus on the prayer."

"Same situation here, Elrohir." Cygnus' voice cut through the darkness and the mumbling of other voices. "They stripped me down to the bone. I can't use my _light_ cantrip either."

"Understood, Cygnus. I know you're here.- Zantac, how about you?"

"Present and sorry to be so."

"You and me both, Zantac. Nesco, how about you?"

He waited.

Just as he was about to call out her name again, Elrohir heard Lady Cynewine's reply, but it came weakly and in spurts, through sobs.

"I… I'm here."

Elrohir furrowed his brow. "Nesco, are you all right?"

He thought he caught the word "Yes" amongst his fellow ranger's tears, but clearly Nesco wasn't all right. Elrohir clenched his fists in frustration, but he had to account for everyone else first. He was still the leader here, and everyone needed his help. He had to continue the role call.

"Tojo?"

There was no reply.

"Tojo?"

Elrohir's blood slowly began to chill.

"Elrohir."

This was the voice of Sir Menn. "I've already accounted for Sitdale and Unru. Don't samurai have some sort of code against being taken alive at all costs?"

Elrohir couldn't hear anything else now over the sound of his own labored breathing.

_If Tojo woke up at any point during his captivity like I did, would he have immediately tried to kill himself, or been killed by his captors after he attacked them in a fury? Please let me be wrong. Please._

The ranger suddenly realized he didn't even know to whom he was praying.

"Elrohir, this is Arwald. Hengist and Thorimund are here and all right, but we've also been completely stripped. Is there anyone here who still has _any_ of their possessions?"

Several seconds produced the series of negative replies that Elrohir had been expecting.

"Well, Elrohir," Arwald continued. "Are you up to leading us out of here, or do you want me to assume command?"

The ranger stiffened at the harshness just below the fighter's words.

"I'm still in charge here until we find Wainold, Arwald," he snapped. "And I suggest you don't forget that."

"So what's our first move?" Sir Menn asked.

"If I may," Thorimund cut in. "I only need a tiny piece of phosphorescent moss for my _light_ cantrip. I assume we're in the dungeons of the Slave Lords-"

"Natural caverns, more like," came the voice of Sitdale. "Judging by the echoes of our voices I'm hearing and the rough feel of this floor."

"My thought exactly," responded Thorimund. "That kind of moss isn't all that uncommon underground. If we start moving, we might encounter some."

There were mumbled agreements from the other mages present.

Elrohir thought hard, trying to regain the mantle of leadership that seemed in his mind to be sliding away from him. "All right, Thorimund. That's a good idea, but let me ask Talass something first. Dearest, if we rested up here for a while, could you regain some prayers that you could still cast even without your holy symbol?"

His wife seemed to hesitate before replying.

"Yes, but I don't think we have that kind of time."

Elrohir frowned in the dark. "Why not?"

"The Earth Dragon."

Silence covered the blackness again.

"Your vision, Talass?" asked Aslan.

"Yes." The cleric's voice was softer now. "He's going to make the volcano erupt- and soon."

"That'd collapse these caverns," Sitdale's voice couldn't hide the half-elf's gloominess. "or at the least fill them with molten lava."

"That doesn't make sense," Zantac cut in. "A volcanic eruption would destroy this whole island, wouldn't it? Why would any god wipe out his own worshippers like that?"

"I don't know, Zantac." Talass sounded too tired to argue. "I only know what I saw."

Elrohir took a deep breath. "All right then, people. Here's what we're going-"

"Hey," interrupted Unru. "There's something by my foot."

* * *

Nesco Cynewine sat with her arms clutched tightly around her knees, rocking back and forth.

There were two reasons for her grief. The first was her sadness and anger at her absolute _uselessness_ during the battle that had led to their imprisonment. She had been hit, one-two, by spells that took her right out of the fight. Nesco didn't know what had transpired after that, but she was sure she could have made a difference. True, she was still alive, but that was through no effort of her own. She could have just as easily been dead.

Again. Useless. Again.

But as bad as all that was, it was the second reason that was hurting Nesco even more at this moment. She knew that at some point, the group would be able to obtain some kind of light source, and then they would be able to see.

See that aside from a torn and dirty loincloth that didn't feel like it was going to last that long anyway, Lady Cynewine was completely naked.

She didn't want Aslan to see her like that. Not here. Not now. And no matter how childish she told herself she was being, Nesco couldn't push that thought out of her mind. She couldn't stop her tears- and that made her all the angrier for it. She felt like just staying here. Maybe the others wouldn't realize she had-

"Nesco-sama?"

Nesco jerked her head up.

It hadn't been any more than a whisper. The others had all crowded around Unru and whatever the object was that the illusionist had discovered- Nesco couldn't decipher all the voices talking at once.

Stifling her sobs, the ranger scooted towards the direction where she thought the voice had come from.

"Tojo?"

Incredibly, she heard the sound of the samurai choking back tears of his own- if such a thing was possible.

"Are you injured, Nesco-sama?"

"No, Tojo," Nesco whispered back. "I'm just-" she hesitated- "I guess I'm just being foolish, is all. But what about you?"

The samurai was quiet, but Nesco could hear his heavy breathing beside her. She could imagine his violet eyes dancing around uselessly in the blackness.

"My daisho- gone," Tojo eventually whispered, his voice threatening to crack. "I have been defeated, dishonored, captured. My honor- is rost forever."

Lady Cynewine took another deep breath to clear her head. Somehow, it felt better to focus on other people's worries than her own.

"No, Tojo. It's not. We will escape from here, and we will find the Slave Lords, and we will kill them, and you will get your swords back. Would that not restore your honor?"

"We both know that wirr not happen, Nesco-sama," Tojo replied quietly. "Even if we can escape and Asran-sama can regain use of his Tarent, you know what he wirr say. He wirr wish to tereport home to requip and then return."

Nesco could imagine the samurai shaking his head in the dark.

"That wood not be honoraber course for me to take," Tojo continued. "My honor not restored even if I die in attempt to regain daisho- but I have no other choice."

Tojo paused for a moment.

"If I not recover daisho and kirr Srave Rords, I cannot reave this isrand."

"But if the volcano erupts-"

"Then I die here, Nesco-sama," the samurai finished.

* * *

They were both silent.

Lady Cynewine began to think about Yanigasawa Tojo.

She remembered how exotic he had looked and seemed when she had first seen him in the throne room of King Belvor. She remembered his uncanny skill and bravery in the battles of Highport.

She certainly couldn't forget his unexpected rage when she had innocently asked about his dastana. Watching his duel with Icar had been an unforgettable experience- as was the first hints of the dishonor that weighed on his soul every day and night.

And she remembered him taking hold of her hand when it looked like all was lost.

His confession. Her revelation.

Her kissing him on the cheek. Her falling off the roof of the stockade at the sheer shock of him moving to do the same, even if it was only a tactical diversion.

She wished she had been there for him during whatever had occurred to convince the samurai to go on living- if only for now.

Fighting side-by-side with him when they returned to the stockade.

His loyalty. His honor. His weaknesses.

Nesco Cynewine decided. There was something more important than a selfish, romantic dream that was never going to come true anyway.

She leaned forward, her hands outstretched- and caught one of Tojo's hands in her own. The samurai, startled, tried to jerk away, but Nesco held fast.

And gave him the only words of comfort she thought would work.

"Then I will die beside you, Tojo-sama."

She knew his face was turning towards her.

"Nesco," the samurai said softly. "You do not-"

"I am not Nesco," she replied. "I am _Nesco-sama_, remember?"

Tojo said nothing.

"Tell me, Tojo-sama," she whispered as close to his face as she dared. "You have given me the greatest honor imaginable. Do not samurai stand together until the very end?"

Tojo tried to speak, but only an odd gasp came from his chest.

He squeezed her hand.

* * *

"Elrohir- Tojo's here!"

The others whirled around at Nesco's voice.

It did sound to the team leader like two figures were walking up to them. "Tojo!" Elrohir snapped. "Why didn't you-"

"Tojo's fine, Elrohir!" Lady Cynewine interrupted, no trace of her earlier tears evident in her voice now. Nesco was all business again. "He just needed some time to collect his thoughts, that's all. What was it you found, anyway?"

Elrohir considered. He was glad that Tojo was with them- he couldn't deny that- and it didn't take a great leap of logic to guess that his earlier silence had to do with the fresh dishonors the samurai had recently undergone. He wanted to hear his friend's voice though, before he dropped the matter.

"Tojo," he asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Errorhir-sama," came the quick reply. "I ready to stand and fight by your side."

"It's a cloth tube of some kind," Unru put in, perhaps in an attempt to divert anyone else from continuing this subject, "with wooden rings on each side. There are papers inside, but of course we can't tell what they are yet."

"I wonder what it's doing here," Nesco mused. "Unless it's just more boastings from The Nine about our inevitable doom."

"Nothing inevitable about it, Nesco," Elrohir responded. "Miracles are my specialty, remember? We're going to-"

Sitdale suddenly interrupted.

"There's a light down that way."

* * *

It took a moment for the crowd to maneuver themselves into a position where they could see what the half-elf's keen eyes had first spotted, but it was there, all right.

At an indeterminate distance away, a small globe of light hung in the air. It might be from a lantern, Elrohir thought. It was being held at about the right height, and was slowly bobbing about. It wasn't constant in intensity, dimming and brightening slightly.

"Was that there before?" Cygnus asked.

"No," Sitdale replied. "It just appeared now."

"Well, if no one else is going to," Argo said quietly, followed by a loud _"Hellloooo!"_

There was no response.

"I don't think that was very wise, Argo," Sir Menn muttered.

"I'm sure whoever it is already knows we're here. You'd be surprised at the racket fourteen people can make, even without armor," the big ranger replied easily. "Well, what now, fearless leader?"

Elrohir could feel all eyes turning towards him.

"Everyone assemble in the same positions we had in the catacombs," he announced. "We're heading towards that light."


	159. Work With What You've Got

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"It's moving away from us," Sitdale announced.

Elrohir frowned and turned around towards the approximate area where he knew the half-elf was located. "Are you sure? It looks like it just disappeared."

"No. It's just gone behind a bend in the tunnel. I can still see a dim illumination," Sitdale's voice came back.

"I was wondering why we didn't seem to be getting any closer to it," Aslan muttered.

"That's not good news." Bigfellow's voice sounded from just behind Elrohir.

The team leader frowned in the darkness. "Why not? Maybe whoever it is is just afraid of us, Argo. You yourself pointed out there are fourteen of us."

"Not likely," his fellow ranger replied. "We're all stumbling along in this tight tunnel in the dark, tripping over each other's feet. He's got a light source. If he wanted to flee, he could easily leave us all, pardon the pun, in the dark."

Elrohir sighed and considered their options while running a hand through his hair. Argo's logic seemed sound, which meant the very real possibility of a trap.

"Start moving again, everybody," he said. "I want that light."

* * *

Argo's description of their tactical situation was, if anything, too flattering. The tunnel they were traveling down averaged about ten feet wide, but occasionally narrowed to nearly half that, forcing people to crowd and bunch up together. Elrohir's pre-arranged marching order was already taking a hit, as individuals were forced to move backwards or forwards, or squeeze against a wall to let someone else past. It was, at best, a fluid situation. Already he could hear grumblings and mutterings about this or that person's clumsy feet. It couldn't be helped, though. Elrohir didn't want anyone out of arm's reach of at least one other person until such time as they could get some light of their own.

* * *

"I wonder how many days have elapsed?" Talass wondered aloud as they slowly made their way forward.

"Three or four, I'm guessing," came Bigfellow's voice from ahead.

The priestess frowned in the dark. "How could you know that, Argo?"

"I'm guessing by the amount of stubble on my chin," the ranger responded. "Caroline usually starts slapping me around if I let it get to this point. She likes her men clean-shaven."

Talass smiled to herself, but said nothing.

"That reminds me, Talass," Thorimund asked the cleric from behind. "It's been a couple of days, at the earliest. Weren't you able to recover all your prayers during this time?"

Talass sighed wearily. "No. They knew I was a priestess, so they kept me awake- never let me sleep more than an hour or so at a time. They would bang a gong, or shout at me." She scowled. "Mordrammo called it his _special treatment."_

There came a sudden mix of exclamations and complaints from the group as the party was abruptly halted.

"That was it?" Elrohir's voice came from the very front. "That was all they did?"

"_All they did?"_ Talass nearly shouted back angrily. "Wasn't that enough? Do you think that I-"

But a chorus of "Hey!" and "What are you-" erupted front in front of the priestess, and then suddenly Talass felt Elrohir fling himself into her arms and hug her for all he was worth.

Mystified, Talass held on as she felt her husband bury his face in her shoulder.

"It's all right, Elrohir," was all she could think to say. "It's all right."

Elrohir reluctantly pulled away, pulling a deep breath.

"I know, dearest. I know."

Without further comment, the ranger turned around and made his way back towards the front.

* * *

The corridor was beginning to snake its way towards the right. Occasionally the light would reappear, and then disappear around another bend.

"The sand on the floor- it's getting thicker," Sir Menn noted from his approximate position behind Aslan. "When we started, I could feel the stone underneath with my toes. I can't, anymore."

"I think these walls are sandstone," Sitdale offered. "At least, they feel like it."

"On a volcanic island? That doesn't make sense," Hengist commented.

"No, it doesn't," the half-elf agreed, before falling silent.

It didn't make sense to Aslan either, and the paladin was about to ask how such a thing might be possible when something slid by his foot.

* * *

"Ye gods!" Aslan exclaimed. "What was that?"

No one answered him, because the first three ranks of the party were already experiencing the same sensation.

What felt like small fish or eels swimming through the sand were darting all around them. While unnerving though, the creatures- whatever they were- didn't seem to be immediately harmful.

Elrohir had signaled for a stop when he'd felt the first brush by his ankles. It took a moment for the others to come to a halt, and there was more unavoidable shoving.

_We're like a blind inchworm_, thought the ranger. _Odin help us if we're forced into combat like this. Wish I had my mother's eyes._

Trying to avoid the sensation at his feet, the party leader peered down the corridor. The light seemed to have stopped ahead, as well. Elrohir guessed its distance at anywhere between forty and sixty feet away, but he couldn't even be sure of that estimate.

"Move ahead," he ordered. "Very, very, carefully."

* * *

"I am so damn thirsty," Zantac's voice sounded from someone in the group's center, "if we kill something, I'm drinking its blood."

"Trouble is, those somethings usually have the same idea about you," retorted Unru.

"Yeah? Well, I've still got some offensive spells I can cast just fine," snorted the Willip wizard. "In fact, I could-"

"Quiet!" interrupted Elrohir from ahead, once again signaling for a stop.

The ranger peered ahead, straining with his ears as much as with his eyes.

"There's a fair amount of sand shifting just ahead, Aslan," Elrohir reported. "Do you think-"

And that was as far as he got before he was attacked.

For all the world it felt to Elrohir like a giant boulder had slammed directly into his face, but it was accompanied by a stinging abrasion, like he was suddenly standing in the midst of a desert sandstorm. Even as he staggered backwards in agony, blood spurting from his nose and slamming into Argo Bigfellow behind him- knocking both of them off their feet- the ranger's instincts were telling him that somehow, the sand itself had attacked him.

"The light!" shouted Aslan. "It's coming back at us!"

* * *

As the illumination swiftly approached, Elrohir finally saw his first scene since he had awoken.

And as so frequently seemed to be the case, it wasn't a good one.

Lying sprawled on his back with Argo underneath him didn't afford Elrohir the best view. It also didn't help that his eyes kept wanting to squint shut from the pain of what was very possibly a broken nose, but the party leader could still make out Aslan and Sir Menn stamping with their feet at a pile of sand in front of them.

Pseudopods of sand were extending from the pile and attacking them. Elrohir could see Aslan was already bleeding down his left side, particles of sand still embedded in his skin.

"At least we've got light now!" Sir Menn yelled. The knight kept trying to stomp on a harder lump of sand beneath him that he guessed to be part of the creature's body, but it kept slipping away from under his foot.

"We don't want it!" Argo suddenly shouted so close to Elrohir's ears that his fellow ranger winced from the noise.

"That's not a lantern!" yelled Bigfellow. _"It's a will 'o wisp!"_

* * *

"Watch it!"

"You watch it! Give me room!"

Cursing and yelling at each other- as well as pretty much slamming Unru face-first into the tunnel wall as they shoved past- Cygnus and Zantac peered around a bend in the tunnel to view the combat before them. Elrohir and Argo were helping each other to their feet now, and with Aslan and Sir Menn already engaged there was no room to further advance.

"Let's _missile_ it!" shouted Zantac. "We've each got one! I'll go first- you follow up if need be!"

"We don't know what that thing is!" Cygnus shouted back. "It might take a dozen _missiles_ and not drop! I'll try _sleep_ first! You keep an eye on the wisp!"

"How are you going to cast that? You don't have your component pouch with you, Strawbrain, and _sleep_ requires-"

Zantac stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth falling open before he glanced down at his feet.

"That's right, oh corpulent one!" Cygnus yelled as he swooped down and grabbed a handful of sand. The Aardian mage's arm was already going through the prescribed motions as he flung the sand forward, his gestures matching the arcane syllables flowing from his lips.

Aslan had just flung his arm in front of his face to try and block another blow when the pseudopod in front of him abruptly toppled over like a sand castle collapsing from the raising tide.

"It requires sand," Cygnus smirked to his fellow mage.

Zantac was just thinking up a retort when the will 'o wisp winked out, and they were all plunged into blackness again.

* * *

The last two minutes or so had been rather chaotic. It had not been until Tojo had been brought up from the rear that the party felt confident that the sandling- as Unru had christened it, for lack of a better word- had been slain. Despite the darkness, the samurai's hands had dug swiftly though the sand until he found what felt like a slowly pulsing ball of wet sand. He squeezed this until it popped, sending trickles of some liquid through his fingers. The creature did not stir after that.

"What exactly is a will 'o wisp?" Nesco wanted to know.

"I'm surprised you haven't encountered one before," Argo answered. "They're malevolent creatures found mostly in swamps that feed off the fear of dying creatures. They often lure unknowing travelers to their doom in quicksand or other hazards, and then lurk around to feed off their essences. They can deliver a powerful electric shock and they're all but impossible to hit, but they're not likely to stand and fight. If they turn off their glow, you can't see them, and I'm guessing that's what this one did."

"It fled, then?" queried Sir Menn. "Do you think it might return and try to ambush us?"

"Can't say," Bigfellow admitted. "We'll know if it happens."

"Comforting thought," came Unru's voice. "Still, I doubt it could dish out nearly as much damage as Stick and Stack here. You two want to watch where you're going next time? My forehead still hurts something awful."

"Stop complaining, Unru," Elrohir growled. "I've got you beat, I'm sure."

"Not anymore," Aslan's voice suddenly spoke from beside him. Elrohir was about to ask what the paladin meant when he felt a finger touch his nose, and the sharp pain there suddenly vanished, leaving only a dull ache.

The group leader gingerly felt his nose before responding.

"Thank you, Aslan, but you shouldn't have done that. It wasn't that serious, and I know you have only your paladin's grace available for healing. Save it for when we really need it."

"You're the best fighter among us, Elrohir- with the possible exception of Tojo under present circumstances. The longer you stay alive, the less likely anyone else will need that kind of healing."

"So I'm the front line of defense, eh?" the ranger asked, hoping his friend could hear the smile in his voice.

Apparently Argo could, at least. "What else are for leaders for?" he quipped.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Cygnus asked the unseen Zantac besides him.

I still have a _sleep_ spell," his fellow mage answered, "but I don't intend to walk around carrying a lump of sand in my hand for who-knows-how-long. I'm putting it in my pouch."

"What pouch?" Cygnus asked, frowning.

Zantac sighed heavily. "The one I'm making."

A disturbing thought came suddenly to Cygnus.

"Zantac," he suddenly asked. "Did you just take off your loincloth?"

There was a pause before the reply came.

"Aren't you the one who always says _you work with what you got?_ What are you going to do if you find several pieces of moss or, pray-to-Boccob, a piece of usable quartz?"

Cygnus reflected silently on Zantac's words while trying not to visualize what was going on next to him.

Then he shrugged and began to unwrap his own loincloth as well.

"Oh, great," Thorimund muttered as he, Sitdale and Unru followed suit.

"Just remember," the illusionist reminded everyone, "Aslan was way off the mark."

* * *

"I'm sure glad I'm not a wizard," Sir Menn's voice carried a palpable relief.

"Do you know how to use a sap?" Elrohir asked suddenly.

* * *

The knight sucked in his breath with a gasp.

"You _can't_ be serious."

"Get naked, get sand, fill up and shut up," the party leader commanded. "That applies to our entire male contingent here."

There was no sound for a while but that of heavy sighs, cloth being manipulated and sand being picked up.

"When we get home and tell them what happened," Hengist's voice cut through the dark, "everybody leave this part out."

* * *

The party continued to slowly move down the tunnel, but Elrohir, after some reflection, had ordered some changes. Tojo, who was as nearly dangerous unarmed as armed, now walked up in front beside Sitdale, who along with the samurai sported the best senses in the group.

The group was still on edge. The sand beneath their feet was still fairly thick, and occasionally several of the small eel-like sand creatures dashed by- Cygnus had postulated they might be the sandling's young- but nothing rose up to attack them.

"What's this?" Sitdale suddenly asked, stopping and bending down.

"What?" Elrohir asked impatiently after several seconds had passed with no further word from the half-elf.

"Riches beyond compare, Elrohir," Sitdale responded. "Here."

Elrohir felt the hilt of a small blade being shoved into his hands.

The ranger turned it over and ran his fingers over the dagger. It was heavily rusted and even more heavily corroded by sand- he'd be lucky if it didn't snap off at the hilt at the first hit- but it still felt comforting in his hand. Sitdale had been right. Riches beyond compare.

"Here, Aslan," Elrohir heard Sitdale continue.

There was a pause.

"A human skull?" Aslan's voice queried, but not without a smile they could all hear. "Sitdale, you shouldn't have."

"I've been told I'm the generous type," the half-elf quipped. "You'll probably only get one throw with that- make it count."

"What, nothing for the rest of us?" Argo asked petulantly.

"Sorry. That seems to be it."

"I keep hearing you have a sharp wit, Bigfellow," Unru chuckled. "Use that."

"Well, if you're looking for a long weapon-"

"_Move on, people!"_ Elrohir announced, more loudly than he would have liked.

* * *

The tunnel narrowed, and then ended perhaps a hundred feet or so further on.

All traces of levity vanished from Elrohir's mind.

_Time wasted_, he thought. _Time wasted we don't have._

"Turn around, everyone," the ranger sighed. "We're going back."


	160. Unlucky

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"These are humanoid bones, all right."

Elrohir sighed, but Argo's pronouncement had merely confirmed what his own fingers had been telling his brain for the past minute that the party had been crouched down, silently examining the small pieces and shards that they had encountered in this tunnel.

"What makes you so sure?" Elrohir asked, delaying the inevitable.

"I'm holding a thigh bone in my hand," Bigfellow's voice answered out of the darkness.

The party leader's grunted. "Well, there's another weapon for you, Argo. I haven't found anything nearly as large- certainly nothing big enough to be useful."

"Elrohir." That was Lady Cynewine. "Some of the larger fragments- I can feel teeth marks on them."

"I felt them too, Nesco," the Aardian ranger admitted. "And judging from their size, I'm guessing whatever it was is large enough to give us problems- especially if there's a pack of them."

"Will the good news ever cease?" Argo's cheerful voice couldn't belay the concern underneath it.

"Well, you can put your loincloth back on now," responded Unru. "That should be good news for the rest of us, especially once we have light."

"Sorry to disappoint," Bigfellow replied, "but when we got back to our starting point, I found a few small stones on the floor next to the entrance to the tunnel we're in now. I dumped my sand and converted my sap into a crude sling."

"Who's holding your ammunition?" the illusionist wanted to know.

"That would be me," came Talass' not-entirely-pleased voice. "I don't have a sap, so I have the free hand. I don't have much else to do at the moment."

"You carry the bulk of our healing in your faith, Talass."

The sound of the paladin's voice caught and held everyone's attention, stopping all side conversations.

"Praise be to the All-Father that you can heal without your focus, Talass," Aslan continued, "Without you and Sitdale, we're not getting out of here."

* * *

"I said _hold on!"_ Elrohir snapped at the mass of bodies pressing against him from behind. "Tojo and Sitdale said the passage forks here!"

"Which one do you want to take, Elrohir?" the half-elf inquired.

"We could split up," Zantac's voice suggested from behind. "Cover more ground."

"No," Elrohir replied. "I want to-"

The ranger was abruptly thrown sideways as the stone under his feet buckled.

Louder than even the combined noise of sixteen people yelling and shouting as they toppled into each other or the stone wall next to them was the rumbling and growling that emanated from deep within the rock all around them. The _crash_ of what sounded like a very large rock falling from the ceiling echoed all around them, but fortunately there were no cries of pain that indicated a direct hit.

After perhaps a minute, the ground stopped moving again.

"That tremor was worse than the last one," Elrohir heard Aslan's voice note as the group laboriously rose back to their feet.

"They'll only get worse," Talass made no effort to conceal her pessimism. "They'll come more quickly, as well- until the volcano erupts."

"We'll make it out of here before then." Sitdale's optimism was more evident in his words than in his tone. "Elrohir, I believe I was asking you which passage we should choose."

"We take one on right," Tojo suddenly announced.

* * *

Elrohir frowned in the silence that followed the samurai's remark. "Why, Tojo?"

"I hear scream down that way."

"Are you sure that wasn't me?" came Unru's voice from in back. "Zantac trod on my foot when we-"

"I am certain," the samurai responded. "Hear scream from down right tunner. Awso berieve stone faw to ground that way."

"If there is someone there, they might have been hit by falling debris," Aslan surmised.

"That doesn't mean it's any safer that way," Cygnus cautioned. "I don't think we're going to find any friends in this labyrinth."

"True," Elrohir conceded, "but it might mean another chance for light. Let's go."

* * *

This particular passageway had sharper turns than the previous one- some almost ninety degrees. The group had just started to round one of these turns to the left when Sitdale thrust out his right arm to halt Tojo beside him and announced, "Light."

"The wisp?" asked Elrohir quickly.

"I don't think so," the half-elf replied. I can't see the light's source, but it's greenish in color, and it doesn't seem to be moving. As best as I can tell, there's some kind of open chamber about thirty feet in front of us, and the light is coming from within."

"Careful," advised Bigfellow. If there's any kind of a dangerous situation involved, the will 'o wisp might still be lurking nearby."

"Ahead, people," Elrohir called out. "Slowly, now."

"If we go any slower, we'll be walking backwards," grumbled Thorimund from the rear.

* * *

Elrohir gazed in silence at what he saw in the middle of the chamber and then addressed his companions.

"Listen to me, everyone. Move in carefully, but spread out along the walls in both directions. _No one_ is to take any other action until I say so- understood?"

There were mixed acknowledgements and some more grumblings of discontent, but they soon died off as the group edged into the chamber. Only Nesco remained just outside, muttering that she preferred to guard the rear.

At last, there was light again, even if its green coloration cast everyone in a rather sickly pallor. Elrohir turned his attention away from the center of the chamber to examine his compatriots.

He himself didn't look all that bad, considering. The party leader had retied his loincloth sometime after Sitdale had handed him the dagger, although it looked like an even more pitiful weapon than it had felt. Still, there was no denied it beat a makeshift blackjack.

Tojo also seemed calm, and identically uninjured, although filthy and grimy, as they all wear. The samurai, needing no weapons, stood gazing at the light source with his arms crossed and his usual expression- a blank one- on his face.

Sitdale, apparently completely unconcerned about his nudity, was currently examing the dimensions of this room- a rough circle about thirty feet in diameter, with the ceiling only about fifteen feet overhead. A wide passageway led out to the left of where they had entered. The half-elf idly swung his impromptu component pouch around as his curious eyes took in everything.

Aslan, on the other hand, was very conscious of being naked, and the paladin's obvious attempts not to let that show only made it worse. He kept on taking deep, long breaths and his light blue eyes were darting everywhere except to any of the other fifteen people present. His left hand held the skull he'd received by its eye sockets, while his right clenched his blackjack so tightly small streams of sand were leaking out of it.

Sir Menn also did not look very happy, although the knight had a challenging expression to his face, almost as if he was daring anyone to say anything inappropriate. He looked as if he about to dump his sand and retie his loincloth, but than apparently thought better of it and just stood there with a resigned sigh.

Argo, even now, had a wide smile on his face. The big ranger leaned casually on his bone club like a nobleman idly leaning on his walking stick. He twirled his makeshift sling a few times and then made his pronouncement.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why they call me _Bigfellow!"_

"Poor vision?"

Argo gaped and turned to his left.

"Very amusing, my good lady. Tell me you've seen larger!"

Even more unconcerned than Argo, Talass casually slipped past him.

"Speaking as a follower of the God of Truth- yes, Argo, I have."

All eyes followed Talass now. Elrohir knew from his wife's background that the Fruztii had no inhibitions at all regarding nudity. The priestess had a lithe figure- an athletic but not muscular build.

A moment after Elrohir belatedly realized he was daydreaming, staring longingly at his wife, was the realization as she came to stand beside him of the meaning of her words.

Elrohir flushed a cherry red.

Argo silently bowed to him with a flourish.

"It would be difficult to imagine a bigger waste of time than this," Arwald announced, scowling from his position along the wall near the passage they had come through. Trying to ignore his own embarrassment at his current condition, the fighter turned to the four mages on his left. "What are we facing here?"

_Each other, it looks like, _was Cygnus' internal reply as he, Zantac, Thorimund and Unru regarded each other. Wizards were by nature a competitive lot, and that instinct apparently carried over into- other aspects.

All four of them pointedly looked away from each other when they realized what they were doing.

Cygnus smiled to himself.

_I win._

Clearing his throat, the Aardian mage turned to face Arwald and began to answer his question…

* * *

"Lady Cynewine?"

Nesco nearly jumped at the quiet voice behind her. She'd been facing one of the tunnel walls more than the corridor itself, somehow hoping she'd find a niche big enough to melt into and stay there forever, away from prying eyes.

Instinctvely, Nesco hugged her chest as tightly as possible, although that was more difficult in her case than it was for Talass. If anyone had come up behind her, she would have guessed it to be Tojo, but it was Hengist's brown eyes, now tinted an odd green, that greeted her instead as the ranger glanced over her shoulder.

The warrior dipped his eyes downwards before speaking.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Lady Cynewine, but your misery is obvious even to a dullard like myself. Is there not anything I can do? You, um," he stammered, holding out his sap, "could take this, dump out the sand and tie it around your, um, your-"

"That's all right, Hengist," Nesco replied, his embarrassment making her smile even through her threatening tears. "It's- it's a bit more complicated than that."

"If you will forgive me for saying so, Lady Cynewine," Hengist continued, his voice shaky and his eyes still firmly directed downwards. "You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen," and here he inclined his head forward slightly and spoke still more softly, "moreso than Talass, and even more than Caroline Bigfellow, and I assure you, that's saying something."

Nesco didn't know how the same words could both warm her heart and yet make her even more uncomfortable, but they did. She desperately hoped Hengist wasn't about to say what she thought he might- that would just add another unbearable layer of despair to this whole-

Hengist raised his head.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, Lady Cynewine. I do not know if he feels the same way about you as you do about him-"

"What?" The word was torn from Nesco in a- thankfully strangled- shriek.

_Lord Zeus, does everyone know?_

Hengist unknowingly answered the ranger's question for her. "Ever since I came here to Suderham with the others, I have seen the way you look at Aslan, Lady Cynewine. Perhaps that is only because I have spent most of that time looking at you. Again, forgive my insolence. It is not intended, merely the byproduct of a man who has been unlucky at love his entire life."

He risked a brief smile at Nesco.

"But people like you and I, Lady Cynewine- we must never give up. Somewhere out there is that one special person, and if you are fortunate indeed to have yours within arm's reach, then I only implore you- once safety and security is no longer an issue- don't let fear rob you of that chance."

Nesco stared at Hengist- a person she'd hardly even registered these past few days- and gave him another smile.

And this one, she could even feel deep down in her heart.

"Thank you, Hengist," she whispered.

"Anytime, Lady Cynewine," he replied softly, and then cast a glance back towards the others. "And now, I'd best help my companions save the day," the fighter quipped as he strolled back into the chamber.

* * *

"Shriekers are giant mushrooms, just as they appear to be," Cygnus was explaining to the group, pointing to the four man-sized fungi arranged in a rough square in the center of the small cave. "When they detect light or noise within about ten feet or so, they emit a piercing shriek."

"And that was probably what you heard, Tojo," Sitdale added, looking over at the samurai.

Tojo gave no acknowledgement as he stared intently at the mushrooms.

"You think they reacted to the tremor?' Sir Menn asked his companion. In response, the half-elf pointed at the floor, next to the fungi.

"That shattered stalactite is probably what set them off."

"We could make tools out of those chunks- or weapons." The others looked over at Hengist, who had emerged unannounced back into the room.

"What's the point of the noise?" Zantac wanted to know.

"It can serve as a warning," Thorimund announced grimly, "but it's just as often used to lure prey to the scene."

"So they're dangerous?" Aslan asked, frowning.

Thormord's son shrugged. "Well, like all fungi, they subsist on organic matter, but you'd have to stick your hand under one and wait for several hours before you even felt anything."

"The problem is, shriekers often exist in symbiosis," Cygnus explained. "The shriek often lets other predators know that food is in the area."

Argo frowned while his fingers ran over the tooth marks in his bone club.

"I'll station guards at the entrances to this chamber- I'm not too concerned about the shriekers. It's those that I want," Elrohir said, pointing. "Are they dangerous?'

Arranged in a rough circle around the base of the four giant fungi were smaller, ovoid moss-like plants, each about the size of a foot-sized rock. It was these from which the green glow came.

Numerous glances were exchanged.

"I can't say," Arwald admitted after a while. "I've seen luminous green moss before, but not like that. Those look almost like some kind of terrestrial sea urchin."

"I can't say about the moss either, Argo spoke up, "but I'm more worried about violet fungi."

"Violet fungi?" the party leader repeated, looking again at the giant mushrooms. All four of them were in shades of purple, from a deep violet color to a mixed grey-purple combination. "What are they?'

"You might be looking at them, Elrohir," Cygnus replied. "They look identical to shriekers- until they attack."

"Attack?" Elrohir stiffened, his hand tightening his grip on his dagger.

The tall mage nodded. "They have fronds hidden underneath their caps that flail around like whips. Each is not only coated in a flesh-eating acid, but they carry a powerful toxin as well. Powerful enough to kill."

Elrohir tried to sift through all this. A thought occurred to him. "Do they shriek as well?' he asked Cygnus.

The magic-user frowned in thought, and then looked elsewhere for the answer.

It was Arwald who gave it. "No. They're often found with shriekers, but they don't shriek themselves."

"Ah." Aslan grasped where his group leader was heading. The paladin turned to the samurai. "Tojo, how many screams did you hear?"

Tojo pursed his lips with the effort to remember, but then shook his head. "Cannot say, Asran-sama."

There was a brief silence.

"I can _detect_ for poison in one of those mushrooms," Talass offered. "It's not much, but it's something."

"Every little bit helps, dearest," Elrohir said, then furrowed his brow as he glanced over at his wife. "You also have your prayer that can delay the effects of poison, don't you?"

The priestess shook her head in frustration. "I need to focus on my holy symbol for that."

"I want at least one of those glow-fungi, if not more," Elrohir said determinedly. "I'll do it. Argo, hand me that bone- it'll give me a bit more reach-"

"I'll do it, Elrohir."

All eyes turned to Hengist. Sitdale did not notice Nesco's face peering over his shoulder.

"I've been stung by a violet fungi before and survived," Hengist explained. "Besides," he added with a weak smile, "I didn't exactly pull my weight during the battle up above."

"That's no reason to take foolish risks now," Aslan said sharply.

Hengist shrugged. "Is it any less foolish if someone else does it? Who are we going to risk? Our team leader? Our transport home? One of our healers? One of our mages who'll be able to create light of their own once we have the moss? You think I don't know I'm the weakest fighter here?"

No one could answer him.

Satisfied, Hengist reached over to Argo, who handed him the thigh bone.

"Be careful," Bigfellow said with no trace of a smile.

Hengist nodded. "I will be."

"Wait a moment." Elrohir, reluctantly deciding to let Hengist make the attempt, returned to issuing commands. "Unru, Zantac and Cygnus- you three block off that other passageway. Sitdale and Nesco- you two watch where we came in. I want the others ready to-"

"_Silence!"_ Talass suddenly shouted out.

Elrohir turned to his wife.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, his voice cold.

Talass gave him her look.

"No, not _you_- I meant my prayer of _silence!_ I can still use it- and I can cover all four of those fungi with it! That'll prevent any shrieking!"

"Oh," responded Elrohir, recovering his composure. "Good thinking, dearest," the ranger added after clearing his throat. "I still want both exits covered," he told the others.

"First things first," the priestess of Forseti said, extending her arm towards the closest mushroom and uttering in the divine language of prayers.

Talass finished and looked towards Hengist. "No poison in that one."

Hengist nodded. "Good. I'll come at the glow-moss from that angle, then. With any luck, all four of them will be shriekers."

"I can't but note that luck hasn't been our staunchest ally," Zantac muttered.

* * *

Nesco knew she was supposed to watching the tunnel they had come from for any threats, but she couldn't help glancing back and watching with baited breath.

Everyone was in position. Only Hengist was inside the _silence_ field. The fighter inched forward on his stomach, stretching the thigh bone out as far as possible.

The wide end of the femur bone reached the glow-fungi.

And the mushroom next to the shrieker suddenly shot out four brown fronds from the underside of its cap.

One raked across Hengist's bare back, leaving a patch of dissolving skin.

The fighter opened his mouth in a silent scream and swept the club forward in a wide arc- but not at his attacker.

Three of the glow-fungi were flung out and away from the mushrooms.

At the same time, the two mushrooms further away silently rose up on a mass of root-like feelers. Fronds extended from them as well as they scuttled towards Hengist.

Everyone but the spellcasters plunged towards the fungi as Hengist was lost in a sea of fronds.


	161. The Cost Of Light

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Yanigasawa Tojo was the first to reach Hengist, even as a stone propelled from Argo's crude sling flew over the samurai's head. Tojo ducked around waving fronds and grabbed Hengist around his torso.

It was only when he tried to pull the fighter out of the melee did Tojo realize how much the lack of food and water had affected him.

Argo's stone lodged in the cap of the violet fungi that was coming around the shrieker, but the mushroom continued its slow, steady advance.

Cursing, Bigfellow dropped his sling and advanced.

Elrohir advanced to cut off that same mushroom, and prevent it from further approaching Hengist. The ranger ducked low to avoid an attacking frond and then buried his dagger in the fungus' cap. He then pulled it back, digging out as much sponge-like material as he could in the process, and then did it again.

Muttering a quick oath, Sir Menn plunged into the _silence_ and swung his sap at the fungus that had first attacked Hengist. The hit rocked the giant mushroom back on its tendrils, but it came right back, fronds flailing wildly. One struck a glancing blow off the knight's shoulder.

Unru cast _shocking grasp._

Sparks briefly danced around the illusionist's fingertips as Unru took a deep breath and advanced forward next to Sir Menn, waiting for the right moment to touch a fungi and discharge the spell.

Aslan sidestepped to give himself a better line of sight and then hurled his skull at he same fungus that Sir Menn was battling. The paladin overcompensated to avoid hitting the knight however, and the skull merely glanced off the mushroom and silently broke into pieces on the rocky floor when it hit.

The third violet fungus was scuttling around the back- making for Argo now that its path to Hengist was blocked- when five streaks of white energy suddenly tore into it from the far side of the chamber.

The giant mushroom shuddered for a moment, and then exploded into tiny fragments.

"_One down!"_ Cygnus yelled to Zantac, who nodded in acknowledgement.

"I'll follow up!" his fellow wizard shouted, but Cygnus shook his head.

"Save it! I've got nothing left but a _charm_. If something does come down from this tunnel, you're going to have to be the one to stop it!"

Zantac grunted his understanding, but that meant the Willip wizard could only look on in frustration now.

He decided to himself he'd give them a few more seconds to get Hengist out, and then he'd jump in, Cygnus be damned.

Sitdale was even more frustrated than Zantac.

Despite being both a wizard and a cleric as well as a ranger, the half-elf had no useable spells at the moment.

He glanced over at Nesco.

"Go," she said quietly. "I'll cover."

Sitdale waited for a clear moment, then dashed past Argo to the rear, scooted down and grabbed a chuck of the shattered stalactite that lay on the floor.

Arwald was also next to Sir Menn now, swinging his sand-filled blackjack. His strike elicited the same reaction as the knight's had, although Arwald managed to avoid being hit by any fronds.

A moment later, Talass was between him and Unru. Bereft of any usable prayers or weapons, the priestess silently rammed her fist as hard as she could again and again against the mushroom's spongy flesh, heedless of the fronds waving wildly all around.

Having no other options as well, Thorimund came in next to Elrohir and Argo and started punching that fungus as well for all he was worth, shouting uselessly into the _silence._

With a mighty yell, Tojo lunged backwards, pulling the unmoving Hengist with him.

The samurai landed on his back, with Hengist on top of him.

And for whatever reason, that act seemed to send two remaining violet fungi into a fury. Their fronds cut through the air indiscriminately.

Argo, Talass, Sitdale, Thorimund, Arwald and Unru were all hit.

Bigfellow standing just outside the silence, yelped with pain. Ignoring the blistering wound on his right wrist however, the big ranger grabbed a pointed chunk of the stalactite and rammed it as far as he could into the mushroom next to him.

Argo's arm went in so far that he lost his grip on the rock, but the fungus abruptly wavered and then fell over, its fronds going limp.

Elrohir immediately stepped over the dead plant and was rushing to flank the remaining mushroom when Unru touched it with his _shocking grasp. _Blue sparks raced over the mushroom's cap and down its roots.

The last threat toppled over, dead.

* * *

The wounded were quickly assembled together about fifteen feet from the battle scene. It was quickly apparent that Thorimund and Unru had taken the worst of the fungi's final attacks. Talass, forfeiting prayers that she could not cast without a focus anyway, healed Hengist completely of his injuries, but he'd been poisoned at least twice, and that was something Talass couldn't change.

Sitdale healed Sir Menn, Unru and Thorimund of their wounds, while Talass cured Argo and Aslan. Despite her protests, the paladin then used his grace to heal her, as well. He then finished up by healing Sitdale, who had refused to heal himself.

All that were left were the poisoned.

* * *

Elrohir didn't want to leave the chamber's exits unguarded even now, but the team leader couldn't bring himself to give any commands as eleven of the group clustered around the other three lying on the rocky floor.

Unru seemed the best off of the three. The illusionist was shivering uncontrollably as if from cold, but he kept trying to brush off comforting hands, directing them towards the others.

"I'm fine… he managed through clenched teeth. "Don't… you recognize the… the shiver of victory… when you see it?"

* * *

Thorimund was only semi-conscious, but occasionally one of the mage's limbs would spasm until Elrohir and Argo grabbed them and pinned them down.

"Come on, Thorimund," Zantac moved his fellow wizard's head so that his green eyes, made even more brilliant by the current light, stared into his own. "You can't leave me with the responsibility of telling your father you were killed by a goddamn _mushroom."_

Thorimund's voice didn't rise above a whisper.

"That'd… that'd show you... wouldn't it?"

"You don't have to show me, Thorimund," Cygnus bent down close so Thormord's son could hear him better. "I wasn't going to tell you this, but I tried to learn the _darksight_ spell when I trained up at your Guild." The tall mage shrugged. "I couldn't."

Thorimund's shivering seemed to subside. A thin smile crept across his face.

"Need to… take care of both of you… don't I?"

* * *

"Wake up, Hengist- please, _wake up!"_

Arwald kept diverting his attention between Thorimund and Hengist, but now the fighter gave Thorimund's hand a quick squeeze and then bent low over his fellow warrior, brushing Hengist's hair away from his face and gently slapping his cheek.

Even in the green light, Hengist's tanned face looked more pallid than before. He had shivered as the others had initially, but had stopped upon losing consciousness.

Arwald looked over at Talass, desperation in his eyes. _"Please save him!"_

Talass grasped Hengist by both shoulders and prayed with all her might.

_Please, Lord Forseti. All things are possible through you. Take this prayer- take all my prayers for this one boon I seek. Grant me a miracle, oh Justice Bringer. I beg this of you- heal this poor soul!_

Sir Menn looked to his left. Tojo, who been kneeling besides the knight, silently rose to his feet and left the others. Menn couldn't keep the look of surprise completely of his face as Nesco Cynewine took the samurai's place.

"Don't go, Hengist," Lady Cynewine said softly, stroking his black hair. "Who's going to teach me more lessons about," she gulped hard, "love, if you leave me?"

There were numerous raised eyebrows at that, but Nesco paid none of them any heed. Even her partial nudity wasn't bothering her right now. She just sat there, silently willing Hengist to get better.

Hengist's body suddenly erupted into spasms. All those surrounding them pushed his limbs down as best they could. Hengist's mouth opened, and a drizzle of white foam pushed past his lips and dribbled down his cheek.

His eyes opened.

There was a sea of words as everyone started talking at onc,e but Talass waved them back. "Give him some air! Don't crowd him!"

Reluctantly, everybody obeyed.

Hengist eyes darted around. His body had gone limp again, so the others released their holds.

He locked eyes with Nesco, and a weak smile appeared on his lips for a moment.

Nesco smiled back and cupped his cheek with her hand. The ranger could feel the tears coming again, and she knew she wasn't going to be able to stop them this time.

Now it seemed as if Hengist couldn't even turn his head on his own. The fighter's brown eyes tried to turn over to where Thorimund was lying next to him, but they couldn't go that far.

Arwald squeezed Hengist's hand. "Thorimund's going to be all right, Hengist- and you are too. Remember, we're all going to have to explain every detail of our adventure here once we meet up with Wainold again. You know how the man is about that sort of thing, right?"

"You know it… a... stickler for detail," came the tired voice of Thorimund beside him.

Hengist tried to smile again before his jaw muscles gave up from the effort. His eyes seemed to wander before settling upon Arwald.

Unexpectedly, he spoke, but his voice was barely recognizable.

"I… got it, Arwald… I… got us light."

"Yes," Arwald replied, his own blue eyes shining now. "I knew you would, Hengist. Now we'll get out of these dungeons for sure."

It took several tries for Hengist to get the next words out.

"Three… out of four… violet fungi… never seen that… many before… hardly seems fair… don't you… think?"

He got one last smile out before closing his eyes for good.

* * *

Sobbing filled the chamber.

No one would remember for how long.

Time didn't seem to matter as much anymore.

Until the next tremor hit.

* * *

The entire world seemed to tilt to the right.

Caught off-guard, the entire party fell down. On his back, Elrohir looked up at the ceiling- and only now realized that there were more stalactites up there.

Cracks appeared in one of them, but it didn't fall.

Their own screams and shouts were swallowed up by the roaring within the stone as surely as if by Talass' _silence._

After what they guessed at about a minute and a half, the tremor subsided.

Heavy breathing filled the room now. The first voice Elrohir heard clearly was an angry one.

And it was directed at him.

"Well, Elrohir," Arwald hissed. "You've got your light."

* * *

The ranger turned his head to regard Arwald.

_He's distraught_, Elrohir tried to remind himself. _He's going to lash out at you from sheer pain. You know that. You have to stay calm._

The problem was, the group leader could feel himself pushing against his personal breaking point as well.

"This is not the time for recriminations," he said slowly, choosing his words with care. "Hengist volunteered, and we all agreed. We all did our best to try and save him. You know that's true, Arwald."

"But none of you died," Arwald said quietly. Sir Menn told me about how two of his friends died protecting Argo's wife, and now my best friend has died just to get you some light. Tell me, Elrohir," he seethed, "when does one of _your_ own die?"

"You don't have to worry about that, Arwald."

The fighter looked over to his right. Talass was sitting on the floor not far from him, her hand on Hengist's cool forehead.

The priestess looked over, but she wasn't looking at Arwald. She wasn't looking at any of them.

"Soon," she whispered. "It's going to happen very soon."

* * *

Arwald's lip trembled, but he seemed unwilling to ask Talass anything more. Instead he turned back on his current group leader, gazing angrily up at him.

"You've forgotten one more thing, Elrohir. You didn't want to look for Wainold before all of this. He could have dealt with those fungi even easier than the shambler-"

"Arwald," Elrohir interrupted, raising his hand, "Wainold is-"

"_DON'T SAY IT_!" Arwald screamed, jumping to his feet. _"Stop saying he's dead! You don't know him! You don't know Wainold a tenth as well as I do! You have no idea of the scrapes he's gotten himself out of in the past!"_

"Don't be a fool, dammit! Do you think I _want_ him to be dead?" Elrohir couldn't stop himself. "You've got to accept the fact that Wainold isn't going to appear and save you anymore!

Arwald gaped at the ranger in fury.

"Save me? You think I'm some sort of coward? Why, you-"

He suddenly grabbed a rock from the ground and began to stalk towards Elrohir.

"Hey…"

* * *

Arwald looked down, wide-eyed, at Thorimund.

The mage raised an eyebrow. "What do you think… Wainold's going to say… if I have to… tell him… you killed Elrohir?"

Arwald dropped the rock and knelt down besides Thorimund, squeezing the wizard's hand.

"He doesn't understand," Arwald whispered, fresh tears running down his face.

Thorimund nodded weakly. "I know." He peered into his friend's face. "Get… a grip on yourself… I'm not… going anywhere."

Arwald's face shot up. His eyes sought out Talass.

The cleric came up next to the duo and knelt down as well. She examined Thorimund briefly. When she spoke though, it was directly to the magic-user.

"I can't swear to it, but yes- I think you're going to live." A frown crossed the priestess' face. "But you're going to be very weak for a while, Thorimund. I have to be honest- the slightest shock could kill you."

Thorimund's emerald eyes seemed to wander for a moment, and then he hoarsely croaked out, "Zantac!"

The Willip wizard came running and knelt down beside his peer.

"Yes, Thorimund?"

Thorimund took as deep a breath as he could manage and eyed Zantac sternly. "You heard… what Talass said… I can't have… any more shocks."

"Yes?" Zantac, asked, puzzled. "So?"

"So," Thorimund slowly responded. "When we get out of here… no more of… your terrible taste in… clothing."

With a groan, Unru raised himself into a sitting position. The illusionist weakly jabbed a thumb towards himself.

"Hey," Unru wheezed. _"I'm_ the jokester here."

They laughed until their laughs turned back to tears again.

* * *

Elrohir slowly looked around. He felt so fatigued he felt like he could curl up on the bare stone and fall asleep without any problem.

The ranger tried to shake his head clear- with limited success- and take stock of their situation. There was so much that had to be done.

The wizards needed to gather the moss for their light spells. Elrohir also wanted to take a few of the glow-fungi themselves along for added insurance.

Arwald had been right in one thing. The cost of light had been high.

The rock chunks might be scraped into something a little more useful before they left, Elrohir considered. He knew Arwald would insist on carrying Hengist's body, so additional considerations and changes would be needed to the marching order. He might move Tojo back to the-

Elrohir looked around.

Where _was_ the samurai?

He spotted him a moment later. Tojo, holding one of the glow-mosses in his hand, was standing about ten feet down the exit tunnel. Before Elrohir could say anything however, the Yanigasawa samurai whipped his head around.

"Something coming! Animer of some kind!"

"A what?" Sir Menn asked.

The answer to the knight's question came rushing into Tojo's light.

* * *

The creature was squat, and covered in thick, coarse, grey fur. Four short but powerful legs, with vicious-looking claws on each foot, propelled it forward. It's pointed snout, which boasted a black stripe down the front, opened, revealing a wide mouth full of sharp teeth.

Elrohir suddenly realized it was a badger.

A badger the size of Dudraug.

When still a child, Elrohir could already identify an animal that wa starved with hunger, and the ranger knew instantly that there'd be no other option. This beast was going to fight to the death.

With a squeal, the animal rose up on its hind legs.

As Tojo stepped into its path, the dire badger attacked.


	162. The Pool

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

As fast as the animal was, Tojo was faster.

The samurai's right fist rammed into the badger's stomach even as his left forearm interposed itself in the path of the carnivore's teeth.

The creature roared with rage as it lunged at Tojo. He knocked aside the badger's jaws, but the beast's claws dug deep gouges on the samurai's right shoulder and down his left side.

Argo snatched up his bone club lying on the floor.

Elrohir was also already in motion. One of the few of the group who had been standing up when Tojo had shouted, the ranger ran as fast as he could, squeezed by the battling pair and then swung his sap at the dire badger's back. It was a solid hit, but had no effect on the enraged creature.

Unru rose unsteadily to his feet, but Sir Menn also got up, gently moved the illusionist aside with a warning to stay out of the fight and began to rush forward. He managed to squeeze past Tojo's left and up to the badger's side before realizing that it was too tight a space for the optimum use of his sap. Unfortunately, by that time Sitdale was right behind him, and the knight couldn't back out.

Meanwhile, Argo, Arwald and Aslan had moved to flank the badger on its opposite side. None of the others could advance, either because they were spellcasters or because there just wasn't any more room in the cramped tunnel.

Seemingly berserk, the beast continued to attack Yanigasawa Tojo to the exclusion of anybody else. The samurai again avoided the creature's deadly bite, but the beast's claws once more dug furrows of red in his flesh.

"_Tojo! Pull back!"_ Elrohir yelled, but the samurai seemed deaf to his voice.

Elrohir- not for the first time- cursed his friend's single-mindedness even as he thanked him for providing the distraction they needed. While Argo slammed his bony club against the creature's skull, the others attacked with saps and rocks.

Tojo saw his opening. The side of the samurai's open hand chopped into the dire badger's neck, and the creature collapsed on its side. It wasn't dead, but the other five warriors quickly pounced on their fallen foe, and it was all over in a matter of seconds.

* * *

After healing Tojo of the majority of his wounds, Talass unobtrusively edged up to her husband while the others were sharpening rocks and pinching pieces of moss of the glow-fungi.

"I can heal twice more, dearest," she whispered. "That's it."

* * *

"Are we ready to move out?" Elrohir asked several minutes later. "Let's go- I don't want to be in this chamber when another tremor hits."

Arwald had tried to hoist Hengist's body over his shoulder, but the fighter was just too weak to manage that now. Sir Menn, long accustomed to wearing his full plate armor, volunteered, and although it was a heavy load, managed it. Elrohir suspected Menn's generous offer was motivated at least in part that it gave him the opportunity to put his loincloth back on.

Elrohir couldn't hide his displeasure at this. They'd all have to move more slowly so as not to leave the burdened Sir Menn behind. This would cancel much of the gain they'd achieved by now having light to travel by. Elrohir was sorely tempted to point this out to Arwald, but the fighter had been waiting with a ready scowl when Elrohir had turned his eyes in his direction, and the ranger had decided to just drop the matter.

Sitdale stood idly by, fingering a glow-fungus he held in one hand. The creatures seemed to be harmless enough, although they had the annoying habit of slowly crawling away whenever they were set back down on the floor, so they needed to be held in hand. Like all those who previously wielded the crude saps, Sitdale had replaced his loincloth and now wielded a roughly-sharpened rock in his other hand. It was probably better suited as a chiseling tool than as a weapon, Elrohir noted, but at the moment it was the best they had. The group leader had decided Sitdale would continue in the front rank of the new marching order, next to himself.

Argo and Aslan would constitute the following rank. Elrohir kept hoping that the paladin would inspire his teammates with some encouraging words, but Aslan seemed as depressed as any of them; possibly even more so. The paladin's free hand kept wandering up to the grey metallic collar around his neck. Talass had examined it and declared it to be a cursed item of some kind. Once they had escaped and she was able to regain her prayers, the priestess was confident that she would be able to remove it, but until then it was impossible.

He feels useless, Elrohir realized. The ranger wanted to offer comfort to his friend, but he was so tired, hungry and thirsty that no suitable words came to mind, and he was sure the paladin wasn't in the mood for bland platitudes.

Elrohir knew _he_ certainly wasn't.

His wife was nearby, holding a glow-fungus in one hand and a rock in the other. Talass kept taking deep breaths, as if to steady her nerves, and seemed disinclined to talk to anyone.

Argo was less than his usual cheerful self at this point as well. He'd replaced his loincloth, denouncing his sling as useless and kept tapping the bone club into his other palm. Bigfellow also seemed distracted, but Elrohir had a good guess his fellow ranger's thoughts were drifting to his wife Caroline back home.

Elrohir could sympathize. Ever since he had awoken in the dungeons, the ranger had harbored the unspoken hope that Monsrek might attempt to contact one of them with a _sending, _just to let Bigfellow know his wife was all right. Although Sir Dorbin wouldn't be able to _teleport_ directly to their location, the clever knight would surely be able to devise some sort of rescue plan once Elrohir explained their situation.

But there had been nothing.

Cygnus and Zantac would be the next row. The two wizards looked as fatigued as anyone else, but the simple fact they were able to put pieces of moss into their makeshift pouches seemed to lighten their spirits a bit. It had been decided that even though each of the small glow-fungi only shed illumination half that of their _light_ cantrips, carrying three of them would insure that the entire group would be bathed in light, even if it was green. They'd save the spells for if and when they were needed.

Talass and Unru would follow. The illusionist had insisted he was fine, although he was clearly weaker and more unsteady than any of them save Thorimund. Although she said nothing, Elrohir saw his wife flash a brief look of concern at Unru. The ranger had to smile, thinking only a few days ago how Talass had been ready to smash her warhammer into the same portion of Unru's anatomy that now hung down naked and unprotected.

The next line would consist of Arwald and Thorimund. Thormord's son was conscious and could walk, but that was about it. The others had insisted that he put his loincloth back on and abandon any ideas of further spellcasting. Arwald, now also carrying a rock, had taken the self-appointed job as his protector and that was fine by Elrohir, although that might mean Arwald would be slower to join any future combats. That would _not_ be fine; especially as Sir Menn- one of their best fighters- was far too encumbered now to be a useful combatant.

The knight would have the next rank to himself. This was so if battle were to break out in another of these narrow tunnels, Menn would at least be have a place to put Hengist's body down before joining the battle himself. Elrohir still thought that a fight might be decided one way or the other long before the knight could bring his fisticuffs into play.

Tojo and Nesco once again comprised the rear guard. Despite the difficulties they'd had months ago, the two seemed to getting on fairly well now, and Elrohir never forgot to be grateful for that. Tojo seemed like his old impassive self, although the ranger suspected his samurai friend might insist on recovering his swords once they escaped.

Elrohir sighed. He wasn't looking forward to attempting to talk Tojo out of that idea, but he had no time to worry about that now.

Lady Cynewine, holding a rock in one hand and the third glow-fungi in the other, seemed ready to move out, although she looked as tired as everyone else. Nesco seemed to at least have overcome her reticence at having anyone see her topless, although Elrohir expected this was more due to ennui as confidence.

Elrohir had known that Nesco Cynewine was an extraordinarily attractive woman since the day he'd seen her in her velvet dress at her mansion in Chendl, but he marveled that she still retained a hint of that beauty even disheveled and covered in grime and dust. She wasn't quite his type- no woman would ever compare to Talass in his eyes- but Elrohir couldn't resist glancing over to Aslan.

He noted that the paladin was looking everywhere except at Nesco- or Talass for that matter- which made him unique among the eleven males present here.

Dismissing these thoughts as trivial, Elrohir was about to issue the command to fall into formation when Unru cried out.

"Garl's nuts- I forgot all about the parchments!"

The others clustered around as Unru removed the wooden rings from the cloth tube, removed the four sheets of parchment within and carefully unrolled them. One was very small- only a few inches long, but the other three generated intense excitement upon the spellcasters present.

"Spells!" Zantac exclaimed. "By Boccob's staff, what I wouldn't give for a prism right now!"

Elrohir looked at him curiously.

"It's a focus for our ability to read magical writings," Zantac explained.

"What does that small one say?" asked Arwald.

In response, Unru held it out for the others to read.

_**Fellow Furyondans,**_

_**This is all I could manage. It is possible to escape the dungeons, though I know not how. The Nine are preparing to depart sometime this day. May your gods be with you.**_

_**Your friend**_

Argo raised an eyebrow. "Fellow Furyondans," he mused. "That's interesting. I wonder who it could be. Still, it's always nice to have friends, even if you don't know who they are."

"Wished he could have snuck a prism in that tube," Zantac grumbled. "We can't make use of any of these spells."

"Can't be helped," Elrohir said. "Come on- we're out of here."

* * *

The tunnel had ended in a T-intersection several hundred feet further on, and Elrohir had chosen to take the passage to the right. He hoped that his announcement had sounded knowledgeable rather than the blind choice it really was, but no one had asked for an explanation, so he hadn't had to conjure up one.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Nesco commented after a few minutes of silent trudging.

"Only one?" asked Unru.

Nesco ignored him. "How can our mysterious friend know that there's a way out of here if he doesn't know what it is?"

"It's possible that someone has escaped from here in the past," Argo conjectured.

"And even if they haven't," Sitdale spoke up, "it stands to reason. We have to be close to the surface. Check out these walls," the half-add added as they walked on. "These are limestone, unlike the sandstone walls we encountered earlier. You can't have limestone without water, nor can you have fungi."

"Let's not forget that badger," Bigfellow reminded everybody. "They may be burrowing animals, but they always dwell near the surface, no matter how big they are."

"But wouldn't the Slave Lords have noticed and plugged up a hole big enough for that badger to move through?" Nesco wondered.

"I don't think the exit from here is going to be a hole we can simply stroll through, Nesco," Elrohir said. "Given the ravenous condition of that badger, I'm guessing it fell through a sinkhole, or perhaps a tremor collapsed its burrow and stranded it down here. We have to be alert for any traces of moving air. Our exit may be no more than an inch or so in diameter, but working together, we should be able to widen it enough for us to squeeze through."

"You're more optimistic than I am, Elrohir," Aslan muttered.

The team leader searched in his mind for something spirited to say that wouldn't spark derision in his friend.

"There is some cause for hope," he eventually went on, choosing his words carefully. "Mordrammo told me that these caverns are usually used to dispose of Suderham's worst criminals- those whose offences are too severe to warrant slavery."

"Is that supposed to make us feel better?" snarled Arwald.

"It should," responded Elrohir, more forcefully now. "Consider- how many of the condemned do you think they put down here at one time? This is just a hunch, but I don't think it's usually more than three or four at the most. This time, there are-"

The ranger bit his lip.

"-thirteen of us. That many people, _if they can cooperate_," he added with a pointed look at Arwald, "can accomplish amazing things."

Talass frowned. "If that's the case, why didn't they put us down here in smaller groups?"

Elrohir was silent for a while.

"I've been thinking about that, dearest, and I think I might know why." He took a deep breath. "They had to rush our imprisonment. I believe that Mordrammo knows- or at least suspects- that Mount Flamenblut is going to erupt as well. The Earth Dragon is angry, and even he, the Dragon's High Priest, doesn't know why. That's why he and the other Slave Lords are getting ready to evacuate."

"That's why we have to stop them," Nesco suddenly announced. She then turned to her rear guard companion. "Tojo, you know more about the Earth Dragon than any of us. Do you have any idea what we might have done to make it so angry?"

The samurai walked on in silence, but it was clear he was deep in thought. Occasionally, his violet eyes would flash over to Nesco, seemingly of their own accord, and then it seemed Tojo literally had to wrestle them back to looking straight ahead.

"Cannot say, Nesco-sama," he eventually sighed. "Earth Dragon of Nippon devourers its enemies, but does not waste time on hatred. It is spirit whose worship is grounded in tradition going back many years. Fayure to appease Earth Dragon onry way I think of to enrage it so."

Tojo's eyes narrowed.

"There more hidden purposes at work here. Mordrammo know more than he ret on."

Aslan appeared ready to say something, but then let it drop and remained silent.

* * *

"That's a vein of coal."

Sitdale pointed to a dark streak running along the left wall of the tunnel.

Elrohir gazed at the wall, running over any possible uses to which this new find could be put.

"We could dig out enough of it with these rocks for a decent-sized fire," Argo contributed.

The team leader considered, but then shook his head. "We have nothing to light it with, and even if we could, we'd have no means of transporting hot coals. Let's move on." He looked ahead. "The corridor makes a sharp turn to the right up here. It's also getting narrower. Watch your step."

* * *

It was just beyond the turn that they saw the irregular-shaped outcropping in the wall. Several of the group recognized it simultaneously.

"Flint!"

A number of people rushed forward at once, forcing Elrohir to restore order. A few minutes later, several large chunks had been obtained via their crude stone tools.

"We could light that coal now, if we wanted to go back and get some," Nesco suggested, but Elrohir again shook his head.

"No. Coal burns hot. It requires more heat to ignite than just the sparks we could get from this flint. Keep moving, people."

* * *

The tunnel widened up slightly as it continued, but it also began to twist and turn more frequently.

"This tunnel is sloping downwards," Sitdale announced. "Not sharply, but it is."

"There's also more water," Argo put in. "I can feel the dampness in the air, and look- the walls almost have a sheen of moisture on them."

"Well, we don't want to be going down. We want to be going _up!_" Sir Menn grumbled from under his burden.

"I'm well aware of that, Sir Menn," Elrohir sighed. "Let's follow this for a little while longer. We can backtrack if we have to, but if we are approaching water, we just might find something potable."

That thought was enough to keep everyone going.

* * *

"_Water!"_

Elrohir cursed inwardly when he heard Sitdale shout the word, and his fears were confirmed an instant later when what felt like a dozen people began to shove against his back, propelling the ranger awkwardly forward despite his protests.

The party staggered into a small pool, roughly half-moon shaped. Cold water sloshed around their ankles. There were two other visible passageways leading out of this area, and all three seemed to be spaced roughly equally around the curved wall. The far passage, about twenty feet from where they had entered, sloped visibly upwards and a small but steady stream of clear water ran down it into the pool.

The water was crystal clear, but even in the dim greenish glow of their mosses, the group could see that the floor sloped away sharply towards the straight wall, almost at a forty-five degree angle. Only ten feet away from where they stood, the water would be over their heads.

From what else they could make out, the floor was covered with- _something._

"This calls for some real _light,"_ Cygnus announced, and several seconds later a reassuring white glow emanated from the piece of flint the wizard held in his hand.

Argo bent down and with a yank pulled something white off the floor of the pool.

"It's some kind of cave shellfish," the big ranger said. "A mussel of some kind. The floor is covered with them."

"And look!" Sitdale cried. "I see some blind cavefish, and there's even a few crawfish scuttling about!"

Elrohir was about to reply to this when he noticed that half of the group were already drinking from the pool.

He was about to cry out, but then the ranger stopped himself short. He was the one who had encouraged this, after all. Elrohir knew he could last longer than many of his friends could without water, but the soreness in his throat at the sight of all this cold, clear water became impossible to resist. When he saw his own wife, the paragon of restraint, cupping water in her palm and then lifting it to her lips, he realized that they were just going to have to take their chances.

Repressed sighs and even exclamations of joy erupted from numerous lips as the party not only drank, but began to wash themselves off as well.

Sir Menn laid Hengist's body down as carefully as he could in the entrance to the middle passageway, which seemed dry and level. Rubbing his shoulders and arching his back, the knight was about to join the others when his gaze suddenly went to the far passage, from which the water was coming in.

"Cygnus," Menn said. "Cygnus! Hold your light still a moment!"

The wizard obeyed, and everyone else froze and went silent, expecting danger.

Sir Menn pointed to a spot on the wall to the left of the far exit. "Your light is glinting off those rocks there. Is that more flint?"

"No," Cygnus replied, slowly wading towards where the knight was pointing.

"No!" he suddenly exclaimed, water splashing about as he began trying to hurry towards it. "It's quartz, for the love of the gods- _it's quartz!"_

* * *

"We seem to be a little crowded here," Cygnus snapped a minute later.

The mage was speaking the truth, for the group had become a mob around the magic-user, who was sitting at the edge of the passageway they had entered, the scrolls in his lap. The party had chipped off many pieces of quartz with their stone tools, but sober examinations of them all by the five wizards present had excluded all but one of them, and they were unsure if even that one was of sufficient quality to allow the spell to work.

"If you'll all give me enough air to breathe, I'll try to read them," Cygnus continued. The crowd pulled back a little, but their excitement was palpable.

After what seemed like forever, Cygnus incanted and then began to move the piece of quartz over the parchment.

"It's working," he announced after a moment, to the sound of a dozen sighs of relief. "It's slow going; I have to go half as slow as I ordinarily would, but I should have more than enough time to get through these."

"And even if you don't, we can continue on," noted Zantac, and his fellow mages nodded.

* * *

"_Invisibility,"_ Cygnus muttered after about two minutes.

"Always useful," Unru commented.

Cygnus nodded and then moved on to the second scroll.

"Hmm," the mage muttered. "I've never seen this spell before." He continued on for another minute or so, and then looked up at the expectant faces.

"This spell affects fires. It can make them larger or smaller, within limits."

The other mages looked at each other, but it was clear none of them were familiar with it as well.

Thorimund shrugged. "A personal creation of either Ajakstu or Lamonsten. Must be they… have a lot of time on their hands." He leaned against the wall to steady himself, breathing heavily but muttered "I'm fine," to Arwald's look of concern.

"And finally," Cygnus pronounced after going over the final scroll for another two minutes, "a _jump _spell."

Zantac wasn't impressed. "Useful for one person perhaps, but it doesn't help the rest of us."

"We make do," Cygnus replied, rising to his feet.

"Speaking of making do," Unru commented, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth, "am I the only thinking that sparks from, oh, say- flint- could now be made into a fire hot enough to burn coal?"

"For what purpose?" Elrohir asked, frowning.

In response, the illusionist reached down and yanked up a cave mussel.

"Food."

* * *

Elrohir watched in dismay as the group went into a frenzy of activity at the very word. Some rushed to dig out coal and pile it back at the entranceway while others began pulling up shellfish as fast as they could. Nesco even caught a good-sized cave fish with her bare hands while Argo snapped up small crawfish. Only he, Aslan and Talass stood apart from the activity.

"Elrohir." His wife's face was lined with worry. "We don't have time for this."

"I don't like it either, dearest," the ranger replied. "but unless you can tell them that the volcano is going to erupt in the next five minutes, I don't think there's any way of stopping them. Too bad you're a priestess of Truth," he added wryly. "You could lie to them, otherwise."

Talass scowled at her husband at the very thought. Bigfellow, close enough to overhear, turned around.

"If you'd like another reason for resting besides the obvious one of us not dropping dead from fatigue and hunger, here's one. Some of these mussel shells are long enough that I think I can sharpen them into serviceable daggers."

Talass turned to the big ranger, but the cleric's light blue eyes held only weariness, not anger.

"And how will that help us when a thousand tons of rock comes crashing down on our heads, Argo?"

Bigfellow gave her his first pained smile of the day.

"If I thought we were only five minutes from finding the exit, my good lady, I'd be

sprinting for it."

Aslan, who had been silent for the past several minutes, suddenly pointed down into the water. "Look at that."

Elrohir came splashing over. "What is it?"

The paladin's face was as grim as ever. "There. Bare patches on the pool floor where none of us have been gathering yet."

Aslan looked up to meet Elrohir's gaze.

"We're not the only ones who harvest here."

* * *

"Best meal I've had in my entire life," Zantac sighed as he tossed another empty mussel shell away.

"Just might be your last," Cygnus mumbled through a mouthful of cooked crayfish flesh. He finished it off, and then glared at his fellow wizard. "Who appointed you Guardian of the Fire, anyway?"

Zantac shrugged. "There's only room in here for one of us to tend the fire and actually do the cooking. You forget- one of my brothers is a fisherman. It's not the first time I've had shellfish. I know how to cook them. Here," he added, picking up another roasted mussel and tossing it at the Aardian mage. "That should be enough meat to keep your bony ass going for another month."

Talass, having given in, was licking her fingers clean. "Well, at least we'll die with full stomachs."

Argo called over from the middle passageway, where he and five others were currently sitting. "I've got another dagger finished, Zantac. Toss me another mussel."

"Can't you just take an empty shell?"

"Hey, we rangers need to eat, too."

Zantac snorted and tossed him a shellfish.

* * *

Elrohir and Aslan were over by the far passageway. That tunnel was too wet to sit down in, so the two stood in water up to their calves, silently eating the cave fish that Lady Cynewine had donated to them.

"Have to admit, Zantac knows what he's doing," Elrohir mumbled through his last bite of fish. "This is cooked perfectly. He even managed to partially fillet it with one of those shell daggers."

Aslan nodded silently in agreement, bending down to wash the fish juices off his fingers in the water.

"Aslan," Elrohir began, taking the plunge. "We're all in dire straights here, but there's something else going on with you. You know that a group is only as strong as its weakest link. As your team leader, I _order_ to tell me what's bothering you."

The paladin flashed his friend a brief sardonic smile, and then looked away at the pool.

"I don't need to tell you, Elrohir. You've already figured it out."

The ranger frowned in confusion. "I'm a slow learner. Help me along."

Aslan took a deep breath.

"I _am _our weakest link."

* * *

When the paladin looked back around, he saw what he expected- Elrohir staring at him, dumbfounded.

"Aslan, are you insane?" Elrohir had to fight to keep his voice down. "What makes you say that?"

In response, Aslan tugged at the collar around his neck.

"I have no Talent," he said sadly.

"So? We've been without your Talent lots of times before! Quite recently too, I might add!"

Aslan shook his head. "Not like this. Even when my Talents were depleted, we knew I'd have them again soon enough. Our tactics, and our actions based on them, were all predicated on holding out until I had mindrested. Without my Talent, what am I? A short, naked man throwing skulls around."

"You're also a paladin!" Elrohir felt constrained to point out the obvious.

Aslan shrugged. "And where has that gotten us? We have clerics with us who can heal. Would my detecting for evil auras on every mushroom and animal we come across make things any different? I was a Talent long before I was a paladin, Elrohir. Even while I was in training to become a paladin, I used my Talent in every way I could think of, just to make sure I wouldn't fail in the trials I had to undertake."

He turned around and leaned back against the cave wall, closing his eyes in sorrow.

"My being a paladin didn't help Hengist, did it?"

Elrohir again tried and failed to think of something to say.

"Hengist was only here because I brought him here," Aslan continued. "Thorimund, Arwald, Sir Menn, Unru, Sitdale, even Wainold- it was all my idea, remember? I was the one who decided to call for reinforcements!"

The paladin opened his eyes, but he wasn't looking at Elrohir.

"I never realized how little I am without my Talent."

"Aslan, that's not-"

"I'm going to wash up," Aslan said suddenly, and without another word waded out into deeper water.

* * *

Nesco Cynewine let the feel of the cold water invigorate her.

The group was getting ready to leave. Zantac was already extinguishing their fire, and Argo had handed out the four shell daggers he had managed to carve, including one to Nesco, who had tossed her glowing moss to Elrohir. The shellfish knives were almost as crude as the pointed stone tools that had shaped them, and there wasn't much room to hold them without cutting one's own hand on the sharpened edges, but it had been the best Bigfellow had been able to manage under the circumstances.

Lady Cynewine had decided to take one last quick dip before they left. A few others, sharing her thought, had done likewise but they had already returned to shallower waters, leaving only Nesco and Aslan in the deeper end.

She could see the paladin swimming now, taking a long, leisurely circuit by the far wall of the cavern. The paladin clutched a glow-fungus in his right hand. Aslan had earlier dunked his head into the water several times and repeatedly ran his hands over his dripping hair and through his beard. Nesco recognized the gesture- Aslan was trying to wash away unpleasant thoughts.

Lady Cynewine desperately wanted to make him feel better, but she thought that she might not be the best person to attempt that right now.

She couldn't be sure that in doing so, she might not let something slip.

Nesco felt the floor slide away below her toes as she began to swim towards Aslan. The ranger had swum in the canals of Chendl many times in her youth, and considered herself reasonably at home in the water, if not quite as good as others she had known.

Aslan, treading water now, was staring at the far wall when he suddenly turned around.

Nesco also stopped and treaded water, taking care to keep the water at about neck level. She briefly considered splashing some water at the paladin in an attempt to cheer him up- even if only through sheer embarrassment- but she didn't want Aslan to think of her as being frivolous.

In the dim green light, Aslan had an odd look in his eye that Nesco found unsettling.

"Nesco," the paladin began. "This wall doesn't go all the way down to the floor. This pool is only a small portion of this body of water- most of it is past this wall. I don't know if there are any air pockets on the other side, but I'm going to take a brief swim over there and find out."

"Why?" Lady Cynewine couldn't help but ask. It seemed unduly dangerous to her.

In response, Aslan pointed to the far passageway.

"There's water coming in, Nesco, but I don't see any coming out. I also felt some currents while I was swimming. There has to be an egress for all this water. It might even be large enough to swim through."

The paladin smiled, but it was without mirth.

"I may be useless," he said softly, more to himself than to Nesco, "but I don't have to be a burden."

"Aslan, wait!" Nesco called out, but he had already gone underneath.

Lady Cynewine had no idea what the paladin's last statement had meant, but she suddenly decided she didn't think it was a good idea for Aslan to be by himself for any length of time.

She took a deep breath and clutching the shell dagger in her right hand tightly, plunged down after him.

* * *

Even carrying all the dirt from their bodies, the water's clarity still amazed Nesco. Ahead of her, she could see Aslan swim downwards about ten feet- the length that the far wall extended under the surface, and then vanish behind it as the paladin began to swim back upwards. Only the faint greenish glow remained.

Nesco had just about reached the wall herself when the water suddenly grabbed the ranger and mercilessly spun her end over end. A roaring filled her ears, and she could feel her breath being forced out of her lungs.

The next tremor had arrived.

* * *

"_Look out!" _Elrohir cried over the cracking of stone overhead and the splashing as his companions toppled over into the water. Cries of alarm filled the cavern.

Larger splashes occurred as several chunks of rock fell into the pool from the ceiling.

The group leader tried to keep his gaze out over the water even as he struggled to remain on his feet. He had seen Aslan and then Nesco go under, but swimming out to rescue them during the tremor was an impossibility.

_What in the Nine Hells were they thinking?_ he thought to himself even as he cocked his arm back to throw.

* * *

Nesco Cynewine felt something hard slam into her midsection.

The ranger felt the last of her held breath leave her lungs in a gasp even as she continued to flail around wildly. Her makeshift dagger slipped out of her hand and was lost.

It had gone dark again- Nesco couldn't see what she had rammed into, but she had a guess- it was the bottom of the rock wall. It wasn't very thick, but the turbulence all around her still made swimming an impossibility.

She was trapped, and she was drowning.

_Aslan!_ Her mind cried out even as panic started to overwhelm her.

And then the green glow was back.

* * *

Somewhere at the very edge of the ranger's fading vision, that wonderful light was back.

Nesco had no idea which way she was facing anymore, but the turbulence was starting to recede.

With her last effort, Lady Cynewine maneuvered herself from under the wall, and then pushed off from it with her feet towards that glow as hard as she possibly could.

And several seconds later, broke water.

Coughing and gasping while still treading water, it took many more seconds for the ranger to recover herself to the point where she could see clearly.

What she saw as the tremor faded was Elrohir and the others wading out towards her and shouting.

And the other thing she saw was the glow-fungus that Elrohir had flung out over the pool. It lay bobbing in the water only a foot or so away from her. That had been the light she'd pushed off towards.

Nesco's head had snapped around even before the terrible conclusion had reached her brain.

There was no sign of Aslan. There was no sign of any light from beyond the wall.

The ripples from the tremor faded.

The name rang off Nesco's ears again and again as the word repeatedly erupted from a dozen throats.

"Aslan! Aslan! Aslan!"

The water became calm and clear again.

The pool looked just as peaceful and inviting as when they first arrived.

* * *

"Oh, Lord," Nesco whispered. "Aslan, please… no."

"_NO!"_ she screamed and was about to dive under again-

-when ripples began to return at about the same spot where the paladin had gone under.

Nesco halted her dive as she felt several of the others swimming up besides her, but she still couldn't tear her eyes away from the growing ripples. She wasn't going to relax until she saw Aslan break water.

And Lady Cynewine knew she was going to be very hard-pressed not to kiss the paladin when he did.

She could only hope that Aslan would chalk it up to sheer exuberance.

There was no light with the shape that was now swimming back under the rock wall, but that didn't concern Nesco. The turbulence must have torn Aslan's glow-fungus out of his hand. She thanked Zeus that the paladin had found his way back without it.

The underwater figure grew closer and closer now. It was-

It was-

It was too big.

* * *

Lady Cynewine felt Elrohir's hand grab her shoulder and yank her backwards as an explosion of water erupted only ten away from her.

A white exoskeleton glistened a faint green in their two remaining moss-lights. Water ran down white chitinous plates, feelers and a fan-finned tail that, for all their colossal size, looked horribly familiar to everyone.

The crawfish before them had to be at least nine feet in length.

And caught in one of the creature's gigantic claws was Aslan.

* * *

Blood seeped from all around the paladin's torso, where the spines on the inside of the crawfish's claws had sunk into his skin.

More blood, mingled with water, dripped from Aslan's mouth, but he did not scream for help.

There was no pleading look in his eyes.

As far as they all could see, there was no life in the paladin's body at all.


	163. Aquatic Battle

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"_Fall back! Anyone without a weapon, fall back!"_

Heads snapped around. Unru was wading towards them, splashing noisily. It had indeed been the illusionist that shouted, but before Elrohir could say anything, Unru stopped in chest-high water and began to cast a spell.

Elrohir only had seconds to decide. The party leader had been about to order everyone to flank and surround the giant crawfish, to at least try and keep it from swimming away with Aslan. He remembered the paladin telling him about his conversation with Sir Dorbin back at the Brass Dragon. How the knight had mentioned that Unru, for all his exasperating personality, was a brilliant battle tactician.

Yet this was hardly a normal battle situation; even as far as any combat could be called "normal." The ranger had no clue what kind of useful spells Unru might have left. The illusionist didn't have any of the two remaining scrolls from the tube with him, so it wasn't either of those two incantations. If his plan didn't work-

Elrohir decided.

"_Do as he says!"_

* * *

The monster had surfaced almost vertically, but now the giant crawfish came splashing down, sending a giant spray of water everywhere.

As Elrohir hurriedly wiped the water from his eyes, he saw that Argo and Tojo had already arrived.

Even as the samurai's fist punched right through one of the creature's scales, Bigfellow's bone club landed a solid blow on the thing's side. The crawfish made a horrible squealing sound and its free claw came at Argo, but the big ranger ducked underwater and the appendage swept harmlessly past overhead.

"What the-" Elrohir heard someone gasp from the rear.

The ranger spun around to see Unru directly behind him.

And to his left.

And diagonally behind him and to his left..

And so on.

* * *

Five identical Unrus were now moving slowly forward towards the crawfish. All were shouting and splashing, trying to attract the monster's attention as much as possible. Elrohir was reminded of how the cloak-thing in Markessa's stockade had created shadow duplicates of itself.

_That should be a good distraction,_ the ranger thought. _But it won't be worth anything if we can't capitalize on it- we need to free Aslan!_

* * *

"Arwald!"

Lady Cynewine could see Wainold's friend, clutching a shellfish dagger in his hand, wading towards them.

"Arwald!" she shouted again, holding out her hand. "Throw it to me!"

The warrior stopped, clearly not pleased at being ordered out of the action. "Nesco, I-"

"_Arwald, please!" _Nesco allowed the desperation in her heart to color her plea.

The fighter hesitated a moment and then tossed the makeshift weapon. He turned around and bellowed for someone to throw him one of the remaining two daggers.

Nesco caught it, wincing as the sharp edge cut into her hand. She ignored the dripping blood however, and caught Elrohir's eye again.

"Elrohir," Lady Cynewine gulped. "I've got an idea."

Several seconds later, both of them were underwater, swimming in a wide arc designed to bring them around to the creature's rear.

* * *

The monster's right claw snapped shut again with a bony _clack_ as it shot towards Tojo but the samurai, dodging for all he was worth, managed to avoid being speared. With an unspoken glance between them, he and Bigfellow paused momentarily in their attacks, concentrating only on evasion now.

It was an odd feeling as the pack of Unrus came up behind them and to their right. The illusions weren't perfect- Tojo's keen eyes could see that the real Unru's splashes were being partially superimposed on his _mirror images,_ but the samurai hoped that their opponent wouldn't have the intelligence to realize that.

Apparently, it didn't. The free claw plunged down- right where one of the Unrus was standing- and the image vanished in a geyser of water.

And at just that moment, when the creature's claw was out of position, Tojo and Bigfellow struck again. Argo's club caved the thing's exoskeleton in where it hit, and Tojo punched another gaping hole in the crawfish's armor. A dark, thick liquid poured out and fouled the water.

The crawfish began to turn around. Its head lowered, and Argo knew it was getting ready to retreat. There was no way they could stop it.

And it still had Aslan.

But then Elrohir erupted from the water, the ranger's muscular arms straining upwards. Both of his hands grasped the lower half of the crawfish's pincher that was still holding the paladin.

The creature squealed again and raised its left claw high, bringing Elrohir with it and lifting the ranger out of the water completely.

The other claw came sweeping around in a fast arc- it passed right through another of Unru's _mirror images_, dispelling it, and continued on towards Elrohir, who was struggling in vain to pry the monster's other claw off of Aslan.

But then the crawfish suddenly went into a great spasm, and lifted its body again in a great spray of water. It was hard for Elrohir to see what was going on. His body was being jerked to and fro, splashing water was everywhere, and the green glow-fungi light was still too dim to make out great details, although a white light was growing closer, indicating Cygnus must be moving up. The shouting of the ranger's friends and the creature's squeals interspaced with water slamming into his ears, so Elrohir couldn't hear anything clearly, either.

Then he caught a glimpse of Nesco.

She was climbing up the crawfish's back.

* * *

The next instant, Lady Cynewine was lost to sight as the crawfish came smashing down, submerging its body underwater. A miniature _tsunami _washed over everyone. Elrohir had a brief vision of Argo, Tojo and all three Unrus being lifted by the swell and carried backwards before the wall of water hit him. The ranger closed his eyes tight and hung on until his arms felt like they would shred to pieces from the strain. The claw carrying both him and Aslan dragged across the pool's surface.

The crawfish raised its body out of the water yet again.

Amazingly, Nesco was still attached.

Elrohir couldn't believe his eyes. How could Lady Cynewine manage to stay on that thrashing and rearing monster? It was worse than trying to ride a bucking stallion.

Then he saw Nesco swing her right arm ahead of her. The green/white light mixture glinted for a moment off the shellfish dagger for a moment before Nesco rammed it between two of the crawfish's plates.

And then Elrohir understood.

_She's not using it as a weapon. She's using it as a piton!_

* * *

Any second, Nesco expected to die.

Her senses were all but useless in this aquatic maelstrom. She was rising and falling. Water crashed against her, and she could hear little but the monster's squeals and hisses.

She moved up a little further, but that was it. This was as far as she could go. The crawfish's scales became too smooth and small at this point.

The creature's body narrowed towards its neckless head, which was twisting around, trying to somehow avoid this thing climbing up its back and still keep it in sight. Nesco wasn't interested in the crawfish's head, however.

The ranger saw what she wanted and held out her left hand.

The crawfish's two largest antennae swung back and forth non-stop, sensing, tasting, hearing.

One of them slid right into Lady Cynewine's grip, and she grasped it tight, pulling back with her left hand while readying her right.

The monster stopped thrashing. Its head reversed course and came directly at Nesco.

The ranger stared straight into the thing's black, unthinking eyes.

The cilia surrounding the creature's mouth reached out for Nesco.

"Tell me if this hurts," she snarled.

With one swift motion, Nesco yanked the dagger out of the creature's body and cut across the taut antenna, slicing it cleanly in half.

* * *

Apparently, it hurt.

The crawfish let out a deafening squeal and then spun around, rising up as high as possible.

Nesco was thrown off and hurled through the air.

Her flight seemed to take an unnaturally long time to her.

As the ranger fell, she saw Arwald and Sir Menn, both armed with shellfish daggers, cutting into the beast. Then she caught a brief glimpse of Elrohir, Argo and Tojo. Their team leader was still trying to pry open the thing's left claw and free Aslan. Argo had wedged his bone club inside and was trying to lever it open and Tojo had grabbed the joint behind the pincher and seemed to be applying pressure.

There was a tremendous _crack _and a yell,but Nesco didn't know if Tojo had broken the crawfish's claw, or if Argo's bone club had broken under the strain.

_Or maybe_, Nesco thought as she suddenly realized pain was exploding through her skull, _I just cracked my head open on a rock._

The water, the noise and the pain all quickly faded away to nothing.

* * *

Only an instant seemed to pass, for when Nesco opened her eyes again, her head was hurting again.

The smiling face of a half-elf loomed over her.

"Glad to have you back, Lady Cynewine," Sitdale said.

Nesco tried to take in her situation. She was lying on cold, wet stone, so she must be in one of the passageways. Probably the central one, for Hengist's body was lying a few yards up the tunnel. Sitdale made no move to interfere as the ranger moved to sit up and then shook his head sadly as she sank down again, groaning from the increased pounding in her skull.

"What happened?" she asked, trying hard not to let the pain overwhelm her. "Did I hit my head on a rock?"

"No," came the voice of Cygnus from nearby. "You hit your head on _my_ head."

The tall, thin frame of the Aardian mage came into view. Someone's loincloth was wrapped around his head. It was dark with both water and blood.

"I tried to catch you," the magic-user explained. "I didn't want to take the chance you might hit the water wrong and break your back or your neck." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure if I didn't do more harm than good."

"You acted very nobly. Thank you, Cygnus," Nesco replied, managing a thin smile. It was only then that she realized another loincloth had been wrapped and tied around her own head. In a momentary panic, she glanced downwards, then sighed with relief. Someone else had donated theirs.

A quick glance revealed the donor to be Sitdale. The half-elf smiled as his eyes followed hers.

"The crawfish?" Nesco asked, her eyes quickly moving back to his face.

Sitdale nodded. "Dead," he replied, tilting his head towards the pool. Nesco slowly turned her head to follow. One glow-fungus still floated serenely in the calm water, illuminating a large, unmoving shape beside it.

And then everything else was abruptly hurled out of Lady Cynewine's mind.

"Aslan!"

This time, both Sitdale and Cygnus put out restraining hands on Nesco's shoulders as the ranger attempted to rise again. Neither of them were smiling now.

"They're working on him," Cygnus said quietly.

* * *

"Zantac," ordered Talass, "bring the _light_ closer."

The Willip wizard, currently holding Cygnus' glowing piece of flint, obeyed. The light illuminated the paladin's limp form, which Talass was currently straddling. The puncture wounds encircling his torso were now little more than severe-looking bruises, thanks to one of the cleric's two remaining healing prayers.

Aslan still wasn't moving at all, however.

"He's not breathing!" Elrohir cried out.

His wife gritted her teeth, pausing in her current activity of lifting Aslan's arms up and over his chest and then returning them to the supine position.

"I _know_ that, Elrohir, but Aslan is still clinging to life. My prayer could not have healed his wounds otherwise."

"Then why isn't he breathing?" asked Arwald.

Talass literally had to bite her lip to stop her yelling for everyone to just back off and giver her room to work. Fortunately, Zantac answered for her.

"Water has filled his lungs."

Talass grunted. "Happens often to sailors who are washed overboard. Sometimes you can save them."

The unspoken conclusion to her sentence hung in the air. It might as well have been written in magical, glowing letters.

_And sometimes you can't._

* * *

Talass put an ear next to Aslan's mouth.

Nothing.

The priestess growled deep in her throat, and then placed her right hand flat on the paladin's hairy chest, just below his breastbone. She placed her left hand on top of her right one, and began short, rhythmic pushes, apparently trying to push the water out.

There was a brief commotion as Nesco Cynewine literally crawled through the shallow end of the pool over to Aslan's side, despite Sitdale and Cygnus' attempts to dissuade her. Argo Bigfellow, who had yet to utter a word but still had not taken his eyes off his friend's face, silently moved aside to let the soaking-wet ranger in. Talass spared no more than a brief scowl for this before returning to her work.

Nesco clasped one of Aslan's hands. She hoped that the water streaming down her face might hide her tears.

"Aslan," she whispered. "Please…"

The rest of her words were mouthed silently, but when she saw Elrohir staring at her from the corner of her eye, she looked away.

* * *

"Would your final healing prayer make a difference, Talass?"

Elrohir's voice broke the silence which had lasted over a minute now. All eyes turned to the cleric.

"Maybe. Maybe not," she replied, not pausing in her work or even looking up. "It's your call, Elrohir. I'll try it if you ask."

The ranger took a deep breath and was about to reply when he heard three sounds in rapid succession.

A gasp, a choke, and then retching.

The sweetest music he'd ever heard.

* * *

Talass rolled Aslan over on his side as Zantac moved away to avoid the water and vomit that issued from the paladin's open mouth. Everyone was talking and yelling at once, but Talass angrily swatted away every hand that moved to touch Aslan now.

"Give him room, dammit! His lungs won't work if you're sucking up all the air around him!"

Everyone obeyed- Nesco reluctantly- and fell silent, intently watching the paladin now. The pallor of Aslan's face, or at least what was visible of it beside his unruly beard- was decidedly less blue now. Talass was leaning close over him now, whispering instructions for him to just breathe slowly and not to talk; everything was all right now.

There were jealous looks when Talass sneaked in a quick hug, and then groans when she demanded of them all that they give Aslan at least two or three minutes of peace before anyone spoke to him.

They were very long minutes.

"As the leader…" Elrohir mumbled, and scooted over to him before anyone else could object.

* * *

Aslan was sitting up now, supported by Talass, who had filled the paladin in on the basics of what had happened. The paladin's light blue eyes met Elrohir's briefly as the ranger squatted down beside him, but then they drifted off.

"First, I thank Lord Odin, Forseti, Zeus and every deity I can think of you're all right, Aslan," Elrohir spoke, squeezing his friend's shoulder.

Aslan laid his hand on top of Elrohir's and smiled weakly.

"And second," Elrohir continued, "what exactly do you think you were doing out there?"

The paladin met his gaze again.

"There's an egress to this pool somewhere, Elrohir, and I was looking for it. I had just gotten behind that wall when the tremor hit. Then I felt something grab me and-" he shrugged. "That's all I remember."

"A dangerous maneuver to attempt alone."

Talass frowned. Her husband's voice was growing colder and more solemn with every syllable.

"Trying to prove your worth to us?"

The dropping of Aslan's eyes was all the answer Elrohir needed. The ranger's own eyes narrowed. "Now you listen to me, Aslan, and you listen good."

Talass opened her mouth to protest, but Elrohir silenced her with a gesture and a savage look.

"Do you remember what you told Nesco in the Hall of Pillars? That if she wasn't capable of pulling her own weight, we wouldn't have her with us? And what about what Tojo said to all of us right before we encountered the Slave Lords? That he wouldn't associate with us if he didn't consider us honorable and capable companions on the same level as himself? Shall I cite other examples? If you think you're that worthless without your Talent, Aslan, then you're also saying that all of our estimates of your abilities are dead wrong, and I frankly find that supposition insulting."

The paladin stared at him.

"The day I think you're as useless as you seem to think you are," Elrohir continued," I'll personally remove your hairy butt from my marching order, but until then you will continue to fight, struggle and triumph like the hero that we all know you are. You understand me, Aslan?"

After what seemed like a very long moment, a grimace came over the paladin's face.

"Loud and clear, Elrohir," he said softly. His face alternated between cheer and sadness, or perhaps it held both at once.

"Thank you for saving me," the paladin said softly, and then looked over Elrohir's shoulder at the mass of people eavesdropping. "Thank all of you."

There was a massive outbreak of smiles.

"Good," finished Elrohir, rising to his feet. "I'm no good at these restoring-hope speeches. That's your job, and I've got enough to do as it is."

"How are you feeling, Aslan?" three voices spoke up simultaneously.

Aslan spun his head around to his left- and gasped.

Three identical Unrus walked over and smiled down at the paladin. Three cocky grins and three pairs of mischievous brown eyes regarded him.

"By the Aesir," Aslan managed, his eyes as wide as saucers. "I've died and gone tae Hel's Realm!"

The smiles turned into laughter, which turned into a sea of hugs.


	164. How You Lie

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

_We're a mess, _thought Elrohir. _Myself as much as anyone._

The group leader tried to shove the thought aside as he began pushing, pleading and cajoling his companions to resume their places in his marching order before they left the pool.

It refused to be ignored, however, and even grew strength with every new observation Elrohir noted.

Any brief improvement in the party's physical condition from their recent meal and brief rest had been more than wiped out by their battle against the giant crawfish. Everyone looked worse than ever. Elrohir knew that a little make-up would be all that would be needed for the lot of them to do a credible job of passing for a horde of zombies.

Sitdale took his place in the front row alongside Elrohir without any complaint. The half-elf, now holding the _light_-imbued piece of flint, even managed a brief smile as he caught Elrohir's eye, but there wasn't much behind it anymore.

Aslan was coming up to assume his place in the second rank when Nesco walked up and tapped the paladin on the shoulder from behind.

"Are you sure you're all right, Aslan?" she asked timidly. "I mean, we could rest here for a few more minutes, if you think it would help."

Aslan didn't need to turn and see Elrohir shaking his head before he responded. "I'm afraid not, Lady Cynewine," the paladin replied with a sigh. "It won't be long before the next tremor hits- or worse. I'll go on because I have to go on; the same as any of us." He offered a tired grin. "A nice long rest and good food back at the Brass Dragon- that's the thought that's keeping me going right now."

Nesco glanced over to Elrohir for a moment.

_His offer before we started all this_, she wondered. _They all asked me to come back and live with them when this is all over. If by the grace of the Thunderer we all do make it back, will that offer still stand? Lord, that seems like a lifetime ago._

The paladin's voice interrupted her reverie.

"Talass said you were praying over me, Nesco." Aslan took a deep breath, and at least managed to keep his eyes near Nesco's face. "Thank you again."

Nesco frowned in puzzlement. _Prayer? I was praying, but only in my heart. How could Talass have-_

_Ah_, the ranger realized. _She must have seen-_

Now it was Aslan's turn to look puzzled, but Nesco just flashed an embarrassed smile, nodded, mumbled, "I'd best get back to the rear," and left to rejoin Tojo, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves as she did so.

_I'm so glad Talass doesn't know how to read lips._

Nesco did not see Talass' husband staring after her with narrowed eyes. Elrohir pursed his lips for a moment, and then turned and headed towards his wife.

* * *

Argo tightened his grip on his bone club as he came up and glanced over at Aslan. The paladin still looked uncharacteristically pale and weak to him, but then Aslan quickly glanced over to him before the big ranger could look away.

"Concerned, Bigfellow?" the paladin quipped. "One might almost think you'd care, if they didn't know better."

"I never claimed not to care," Argo responded with a shrug, "but I'd be more concerned about Lady Cynewine if I were you."

The paladin frowned at him.

Bigfellow gave Aslan a raised eyebrow. "I assume she gets your cabin if you shuffle off before we get home. Might not want her covering your back."

Aslan was about to retort when he detected additional meaning behind the big ranger's auburn eyes. And perhaps a question. Neither of which he felt like dealing with right now.

The paladin just shrugged and pretended to examine the shellfish dagger he held in his right hand.

* * *

Zantac and Cygnus were also silent. The two wizards moved into position behind Aslan and Argo. Cygnus seemed engrossed in the glow-fungus he held in one hand, but Zantac did glance up as Elrohir strolled by.

Talass, having just assumed her position behind Zantac and next to Unru, frowned as she watched her husband stride over to her. Elrohir's face held a grim expression.

* * *

It was only at the last moment that Elrohir decided not to confide in his wife his suspicions concerning Lady Cynewine. Every moment longer the ranger thought about, he had to admit it didn't seem worth bringing up now.

_She'll probably tell you you were mistaken, and to be true I can't be sure I wasn't,_ he thought. _And then she'll say it's irrelevant at this point anyway._

Elrohir sighed. Fine. He wouldn't mention that particular piece of business now, but that had always been secondary anyway.

He had something else he'd wanted to say to Talass for a while now, and he didn't give a damn what sharp comments she might have to say about _that._

Talass crossed her arms and took a step forward to meet her husband. The cleric kept her face neutral. "What is it, Elrohir?" she asked, beating him to the punch.

Elrohir took a deep sigh and began.

"Is there any additional information you might have for me at this time, dearest?"

* * *

Talass' eyes narrowed.

"Such as?"

Elrohir flashed his wife a sardonic smile. "You've been consumed with your vision all this time, dearest, and yet you never referenced it once all the time you were working to save Aslan."

Talass didn't bother to hide her irritation. "I was _rather busy_, if you hadn't noticed," she scowled.

Her husband plowed on, undeterred. "You also seem quite confident that Mount Flamenblut is in imminent danger of erupting. I'm going to ask you this directly, Talass- are you remembering any more of your vision now that we seem to be moving towards its fulfillment?"

Elrohir almost missed the hesitation in his wife's reply.

But he didn't.

"In what way?"

He wished she wasn't pushing him like this.

"Insofar as to which one of us isn't going to make it back?"

Talass took a deep breath and looked down. It seemed to Elrohir that the cleric was choosing her words carefully.

"I don't know who it's going to be, Elrohir."

"But you have a suspicion. I heard it in your voice when you answered Arwald earlier."

His wife's light blue eyes flashed up to meet his own.

"Why do you say that?" she challenged.

"As I said- it didn't seem to me that you ever thought it was going to be Aslan- even as the rest of us were falling into a panic."

Talass made a gesture of hopelessness. "What would you have me do, Elrohir- _not_ try to save Aslan because I thought he wasn't going to be the one?"

The ranger shook his head. "Of course not, dearest. We both want the same thing- we _want_ your vision to be wrong. Oh, you can't admit it, being a priestess and all, but I know you want all of us-" here he paused and took another deep sigh- "all of us that are still alive to make it off this island and safely back home."

Talass' expression softened a little. "Of course I do. But that still doesn't explain why you think I might have suspicions about one person or another as to who might be referenced in my vision."

Elrohir said nothing in reply. He merely mimed putting a ring on his finger while staring hard into his wife's eyes.

He saw the hesitation again.

And then he saw Talass' lip tremble.

"Don't worry, dearest," she said, her voice hard and brittle-sounding at the same time. "It isn't going to be you."

"I'm not worried about myself, Talass. I just need to know if you have any feelings or suspicions about who it might be."

Talass couldn't even look at him anymore. She simply turned away and stepped back next to Unru, staring pointedly away from him.

When she heard her husband's voice again, it was cold.

"I don't expect dishonesty from you, dearest," the ranger said as he turned away. "Never from you."

"_There is no dishonesty!" _Talass abruptly shouted, whirling back to face him, heedless of eleven faces turning towards her own. _"I didn't say anything!"_

Elrohir stopped, but he never turned around.

Talass could hear the sadness in her husband's voice as it came back to her before he walked off towards the front of the line.

"You're a Priestess of Truth, dearest," Elrohir said. "Silence is how you lie."

* * *

As per Sitdale's suggestion, the party had trudged up the third passageway- the one that sloped upwards and that carried a slow stream of water downwards towards the pool. It twisted and turned as most of these tunnels again, but continued for perhaps three hundred feet or so. Signs of water grew more and more evident and then the tunnel opened up again into another chamber, perhaps thirty feet in diameter.

But this one contained a miniature forest.

Fungi of all shapes and sizes filled a good portion of this chamber. As in the last cavern, Elrohir ordered his companions to spread out along the wall as they entered. It didn't seem right not to admonish everyone to keep an especially sharp eye out for shriekers or violet fungi, even though the ranger knew it was a superfluous warning.

Those seemed to be the only type of mushrooms _not_ present here, by Elrohir's reckoning. A fantastic assortment of sizes, shapes and colors met the ranger's eyes everywhere they roamed. Some were of the traditional toadstool shape, but others boasted elaborate, flowery heads, like oyster mushrooms. Still others looked like giant, spongy rocks- some type of puffball, perhaps. The tallest of these fungi loomed nearly nine feet tall, with thick trunks just like those of terrestrial trees.

Blue, green, red, pink, yellow, white, even black- the subterranean flora put on a stunning show. Elrohir could feel the hunger building in his throat again, but he forced it down and addressed his companions.

"No one is to take any of these," the ranger ordered. "I couldn't even begin to tell which varieties might be poisonous. Given our luck, I wouldn't be surprised if they all were."

At this, Sitdale, still standing next to him, pointed towards the floor.

"Not to everyone," the half-elf remarked.

* * *

The floor of this chamber was covered by a mossy peat of some kind, no more than perhaps an inch thick. Still, it had been all too easy for the half-elf ranger to spot the tracks.

Elrohir couldn't place them. They were of some kind of three-toed biped, roughly human-sized. The group leader knelt down to examine them more closely, as did Sitdale and Argo.

"It was going barefoot, whatever it was," murmured Sitdale.

"What strikes me is how shallow the impressions are," Elrohir frowned. "This thing might be as tall as a human, but it couldn't weigh much more than a halfling."

"The foot is almost round, but the toes are stumpy," Bigfellow observed. "I don't think this thing can run very fast." He favored his fellow rangers with a pained smile. "Well, that's the first thing _I_ always look for."

"At least under current circumstances, I can't fault you for that, Argo." Elrohir rose to his feet, his eyes again sweeping the cavern.

The tracks skirted the edge of the mushroom forest, and then led to one of the larger toadstools. Walking slowly over to it, Elrohir could see that thin strands of the orange trunk had been carefully peeled off from it. Somehow the ranger was reminded of butternut squash.

He looked upwards again. The cave's ceiling was uneven, ranging from perhaps ten to twenty feet in height, and sported numerous stalactites. Water ran down from a crack in the ceiling down the largest of the stalactites, and fell perhaps a foot before running down the largest of the many stalagmites before pooling on the floor and finally running down the passageway they had came.

"Elrohir," Arwald's voice came in back. "Given the flow of water here and the growth of these mushrooms, how recent would you guess these tracks are?"

The ranger considered, and then took his best guess. "I can't be certain, but I'd wager not more than a day or so." He looked at Argo, who nodded his agreement. "Why do you ask, Arwald?" Elrohir wanted to know.

"Because I just found an empty mussel shell."

* * *

When they had first entered, Elrohir had noted that the cavern that housed this fungi forest had three passageways leading from it in a "Y" shape. They had entered from the "stem" tunnel and had all spread out towards the right at Elrohir's command, rather than in both directions as in the previous fungi chamber. Elrohir was currently standing near the passageway to the right. At Arwald's words, the ranger spared a brief glance down it, but he was currently at the very edge of their illumination and could see no further. Elrohir was about to ask Sitdale to bring the _light_ up when he suddenly heard the voice of Yanigasawa Tojo all the way in the rear.

"I see mushroom, Errohir-sama."

Elrohir furrowed his brow in confusion. What in The Nine Hells was Tojo talking about?

"Of course you see a mushroom, Tojo!" he finally replied in exasperation. "There are mushrooms all around us!"

"Very true, Errohir-sama." The samurai's voice held not the slightest hint of reproach to it. "But most of them not warking towards us."

* * *

The pushing and shoving that followed as the front of the party doubled back on the rear was hardly a textbook example of expert dungeoneering by any means, Elrohir thought ruefully. That was all forgotten now though. The ranger gaped in astonishment as he saw the figure now paused in the left passageway, just outside the chamber.

"_It's the mushroom folk!"_ Elrohir heard Unru crack wise from somewhere.

The illusionist's description, while crass, seemed to fit. The creature did indeed look like nothing so much as a human-sized mushroom. Unlike the violet fungi however, this mushroom had short, stumpy feet and two human-like arms, which ended in three-fingered hands. It was an uneven white in color, but what looked for all the world like brown shelf mushrooms were actually growing out of its skin at several places on the creature's chest. Even more amazing was the pale orange fibrous pouch, complete with shoulder strap, that the thing was wearing.

_It's earthsilk!_ Elrohir suddenly realized. _They must harvest it from the giant toadstools and spin it into earthsilk just as dwarves do!_

At first it seemed like the creature was wearing a giant, oversized red hat, but then the ranger could see that it was the humanoid's head. While the cap's skin was the same white as its skin, it was almost totally covered in a reddish moss which glowed with a faint scarlet illumination.

"Growing your own light source," noted Thorimund. "I must say… I'm impressed."

Under the cap were what looked like two protruding, white puffball mushrooms, but somehow Elrohir knew that they were in fact the creature's eyes.

The "mushroom man" turned slightly, regarding them all.

"No one move," ordered Elrohir. "Don't say or do anything threatening."

"Exactly how do you threaten a mushroom man?" Argo asked. "Whip out a frying pan?"

The creature looked at them all for another minute or so and then slowly turned around and lumbered back up the passageway it had come.

* * *

"Well?" Aslan asked his team leader. "Do we follow it or no?"

Elrohir hesitated. He hated to make decisions with what he considered insufficient evidence, but there was no helping it. In his mind, any decision at this point had to be made only according to the one overriding factor about their situation.

And that factor was time.

The ranger shook his head. "No. We take the other passage. Let's go."

* * *

"We're still heading upwards," Sitdale noted.

Elrohir nodded. They'd been travelling for several minutes now without incident. A sharp bend in the passageway presented them with another choice of tunnels- neither more enticing than the next. Elrohir merely pointed at one and the group continued on.

"Still a lot of stalagmites and stalactites," Bigfellow observed. "I have a feeling we're getting near."

"Near what?' Aslan, next to the big ranger, couldn't help but ask.

Argo shrugged. "An opportunity?"

* * *

Yet another cavern.

This one seemed almost identical to that which had housed the fungi forest- right down to the number and placement of passageways, except there were no giant mushrooms here.

A few small mosses and toadstools grew on the floor and on niches of the unhewn stone walls. Water dripped from the ceiling at a steady pace, although much slower than it had onto the mushroom forest.

A centipede crawled on the floor near their feet.

Curiously, while there were close to a dozen large and small stone stalagmites reaching up from the floor, there were no stalactites on the ceiling.

They all lay shattered in pieces on the floor.

"That looks recent," Sitdale observed, moving his _light_ around.

"From the last tremor?" Argo guessed.

"Possibly," murmured Elrohir, looking around.

Something did seem different here, but the group leader couldn't put his finger on it.

* * *

"Is there some reason we've stopped, Elrohir?" Aslan asked from behind him.

The ranger started. He had signaled for the party to stop without even realizing it.

"Yes," he said in a voice so low only those adjacent to him could hear it, "but I don't know what it is."

Elrohir was so lost in his concentration that he didn't hear the voice of the two mages conversing two ranks behind him.

"Zantac?"

"Yeah, Ciggy?"

The tall wizard sniffed the air repeatedly.

"Am I going mad, or do I smell bat dung?"

* * *

There was a silence, and then Zantac literally leapt into the air with joy.

"_YES!"_

Ahead of him and to his right, Argo Bigfellow Junior turned around.

"Man, and I thought _I_ was starving."

"_Bats_, Bigfellow!" Cygnus slapped his palm into the big ranger's forehead. "Like the ones in your belfry! They won't stray that far from the-"

"_Exit!"_ Aslan was caught up in the epiphany, as well. "Elrohir, which way?"

The ranger could only shrug. "Everyone spread out. See which one of those two exits the smell is stronger-"

Elrohir stopped in mid-sentence.

About ten feet in front of them was the largest stalagmite in this chamber, a little over six feet high.

Elrohir stared at it for one more second before he realized something.

It was staring back at him.


	165. The Chasm And The Roper's Gift

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"_Not again!" _Elrohir cried out.

Unfortunately, the ranger's worst suspicion was realized. The exclamation had hardly left his lips when a when a thick filament burst out of a tiny hole in the stalagmite and wrapped itself securely around the party leader, pinning his arms to his sides.

Sitdale turned and hollered at the others.

"_Roper!"_

* * *

_So that's what these damn things are called, _Argo Bigfellow thought to himself as he darted forward past the half-elf, skirted around the stalagmite and then lunged at it from the rear, swinging his thigh bone club.

It felt just like striking solid rock, and it had about the same effect.

The monster wheeled around unexpectedly quickly, lifting its body off the cave floor an inch or so to do so and unspooling more filament. The creature's gaping, circular mouth opened and closed and its lone eye glared at the big ranger.

Argo glared back. "What are _you_ looking at?"

* * *

With a yell, Elrohir broke his arms free, snapping the filament around him, and then ran forward and stabbed with his rusty dagger into the roper's stony flesh.

The blade snapped in half.

* * *

Tojo and Lady Cynewine stepped aside as Sir Menn retreated past them and laid Hengist's body down on the cavern floor. "Watch their tentacles," the knight warned them. "They can quickly drain your vitality."

Nesco nodded. "We know. We fought one earlier. It-"

A blur blew by her. Tojo was rushing forward towards the front.

* * *

As he was hurling his ruined weapon away in disgust, Elrohir saw Tojo come up and quickly move into position alongside him. The samurai's eyes studied the roper; looking for weaknesses.

"Be careful!" the ranger warned. "Remember what happened last time- you're the _last_ person we want turning against us right now, Tojo!"

"Most comprimentary, Errorhir-sama," was the samurai's only reply as his fist connected with the roper's body- without effect.

* * *

Unru looked uncharacteristically dour.

"I'm sorry, Talass," the illusionist gestured helplessly to his marching-order partner. "I don't see how even _invisibility_ would help here. I've got nothing of value left to bring to this party."

"But I might."

Cygnus was standing just in front of the pair, but he wasn't looking at them. The tall mage seemed enraptured at the wall of rock he was standing by- or at least the upper reaches of it. He was holding his glow-fungus as high above his head as he could and peering up.

Talass couldn't see what he was looking at. Or for.

"Unru!" Cygnus barked, his eyes still fastened upwards. "Get everyone past the roper and into the far right corridor- there's no way we're going to be able to kill that monster, so I'm going to keep it from following us!"

"With _what?"_ Zantac couldn't help but cry out. "Your _charm_ won't work on that thing!"

"Unru, Talass- get going!" the wizard shot back, whirling now to regard his fellow mage. "Zantac! Bend over!"

A slight pause.

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Bend over!" Cygnus repeated. "I need to climb onto your back to reach it!"

"Reach _what?"_ Zantac cried out again, but Cygnus had already grabbed the shorter wizard's shoulder and was pushing him down, bending Zantac forward at the waist.

Unru looked at Talass, shrugged, then turned to his rear and clasped Thorimund by the shoulders.

"You feel strong enough for a sprint, Thorimund?"

"Um, not really, no."

"Good! Let's go!"

* * *

The chamber rang with shouts, yells, orders and exhortations. Sitdale, Aslan and Arwald came up and assumed flanking positions around the roper from Elrohir, Argo and Tojo. Despite all their best efforts however, none of the six fighters could so much as make a dent in the creature's rocky hide.

* * *

Sir Menn, hearing the shouts for everyone to head towards the far corridor, groaned and again bent down to pick up Hengist's body.

A hand on his shoulder made the knight look up.

"You've done more than enough, Sir Menn," Nesco Cynewine told him quietly. "I'll take him."

* * *

Having attained the far corridor, Talass and Sir Menn turned around and viewed the scene with worry. The sextet of warriors continued to hammer away at the roper, inflicting no damage but certainly keeping the monster's attention away from the rest of them.

"Careful!" Zantac shouted as Lady Cynewine, carrying her burden, eased her way past him in the narrow tunnel. The ranger gave him a sympathetic glance as she passed, but didn't seem to have the strength for a comment.

Zantac's legs were wobbling. Any moment now, he knew his knees were going to give out.

"I take back every single comment I ever made about you being skinny!" the Willip wizard shouted to the floor beneath him. "How'd you get so damned heavy- you been eating rocks on the sly back there?"

"Hold still!" Cygnus snapped down at him. "I can… almost reach it!"

"_Reach what?"_ Zantac screamed, as much in pain now as frustration.

With one last push into Zantac's tortured back, Cygnus launched himself upward.

"_Got it!"_ Zantac heard.

That was all the older mage needed to hear. He slipped sideways, leaving Cygnus to fall the few extra feet to the ground on his own.

"Ow!" Cygnus exclaimed as he touched down, the unexpected shock doubling the magic-user over for a few seconds. "My feet!"

"Tell me about it! Hope you can make a healing potion out of whatever you got," Zantac groaned right back, trying to relax his screaming back muscles as he straightened out. "What was so important that-"

But Cygnus was already limping towards the far right corridor.

"Salvation, my trusty steed!" he called over his shoulder, a faint but undeniable note of optimism in his voice now. "Salvation!"

* * *

With only a glance between them, Elrohir, Argo and Tojo knew what to do.

The two rangers timed their punches between those of Tojo, so the stalagmite's eye was off the samurai for just an instant.

The same instant Yanigasawa's fist slammed right into it.

The roper roared. It sounded like an avalanche was occurring somewhere from deep within the beast, and its echoes flew from it's open maw and filled the chamber.

"That's the way, Tojo!" Argo grinned at the samurai, and then turned his jibes towards their enemy. "What are you going to do now, Stony? You can't grab all of us at once!"

A half-dozen orifices on the creature's body flew open. A filament shot out from each one. They unerringly wrapped themselves around all six of the roper's opponents.

_Or maybe you can,_ Bigfellow conceded to himself as a terrible weakness flooded through his body.

The tentacle around him tightened, drawing the big ranger towards the thing's gaping maw.

* * *

But the next instant, Yanigasawa Tojo, having already burst his own bond, grabbed the filament around Argo and ripped it off. The others were likewise extricating themselves, but it was clear they'd been seriously weakened as well.

"_The corridor! Get back to the corridor!"_

Argo couldn't see Cygnus, but he decided to give the unseen mage the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he'd rendered himself invisible for some cunning plan-

No. There he was, shouting and cajoling Zantac and the others to retreat while the tall mage moved to interpose himself between them and the roper.

"Do it! Just do it!" he shouted, and the others reluctantly obeyed.

* * *

The roper swiveled to face Cygnus.

Yet another filament shot out and wrapped itself around the magic-user.

Argo and Zantac, closest to him, could see the mage's face grimace as the debilitating drain of the roper swept through his frame.

But he managed to keep one arm free.

Zantac caught a glimpse of something white clinging to the fingertips of Cygnus' right hand.

The one he was casting with.

And seconds later, a giant white wall of sticky spider webbing appeared between the far walls of the cavern, entangling the roper and cutting the creature off from them.

Argo and Zantac rushed forward, grabbed Cygnus and pulled him backwards until the filament was torn from the roper's body.

Ignoring the monster's bellows of rage, the group fled down the corridor.

* * *

"I'd forgotten you still had that _web_ in your head," Zantac grunted as the group, slowed by fatigue, now picked their way carefully down the twisting and winding passageway.

"So did I, until I spotted that spider web on the wall near the ceiling," admitted Cygnus. "Just what I needed."

"So often do we get what we need, it seems," Sitdale said quietly.

The others were silent for a few moments. Cygnus had forgotten the half-elf, in addition to being a ranger and a mage, was a cleric as well.

* * *

"How is everyone feeling?" Elrohir asked at length.

The responses the team leader received were not encouraging. Argo, Aslan, Sitdale, Arwald, Cygnus and even Tojo had been affected by whatever method- poison or magic- the roper used to drain the strength from its foes. Only he had somehow managed to resist the effect.

"How long will this take to heal on its own, Talass?" Aslan asked.

The priestess couldn't even feign an optimistic response. "Days. Up to a week, possibly."

Silence settled back in.

* * *

Zantac absently felt the roper's filament that the ranger had tossed to him after ripping it off Cygnus. The strand was moist, perhaps an inch thick, and very much organic- strong but flexible.

"This roper seemed quite different from the last one," the mage mused, his academic curiosity aroused now. These tentacles aren't nearly as rocklike- or as strong- as the one we fought earlier."

"More important, it never tried to turn you and Cygnus into spell-slinging adversaries," Aslan pointed out wryly.

"Yes, I heard you talking about that earlier," Sitdale interjected, frowning. "I've fought ropers twice before in my lifetime, and never encountered anything like that."

"Don't forget," Sir Menn reminded the half-elf, "those ropers were nearly twice the size of that one."

Cygnus stopped. "Really?" he asked, then grimaced. "I suppose that could have been far worse than it was, after all."

"That might have been a young one," Thorimund speculated. "I've never encountered a roper before, but I've also heard they grow to be quite large."

"That might explain why the strands of this one were much easier to break," admitted Elrohir, "but it still doesn't quite match up."

Zantac snapped his fingers. "A new subspecies! Oh, how I wish we had the time to get samples of each one- that'd bring a smile even to 'ol Zelhile's face."

"Feel free to go back," Cygnus muttered. "As for me, I'll be lucky if I can keep going forward for much longer. I kind of feel like my body is made of stone, too."

There were murmurs of commiseration, and then more silence.

"So, how did you know this was the right tunnel to take, Cygnus?" Argo eventually asked. "The smell of guano you seem to love so much is getting stronger."

"I didn't know," Cygnus shrugged. The shape of that cave and the placement of the passageways made this tunnel the only practical choice for us to take if I was going to throw the _web_- unless we wanted to seal ourselves back where we had come from."

"Hey, that reminds me!" Unru suddenly spoke up. "Cygnus, you still had a _fireball_ in your head, didn't you? Material component! Take some of this-"

"I don't have the _fireball_ anymore, Unru," Cygnus said wearily, "and right now I don't think you'd want to trust me with one."

* * *

"Hold up," Elrohir announced, stopping suddenly.

Behind him, the shorter Aslan tried to peer between the two individuals in the front rank. "What is it, Elrohir? Do you see something?"

"No," replied the ranger. "That's the point. There's more empty space in front of us than light."

"Then you'd definitely want to stop, Elrohir," came the voice of Sitdale behind him. "There's a chasm in front of us, and I can't see the other side."

* * *

Five minutes later, the group had ascertained their general situation.

The passageway they had been travelling down opened out into what was the largest cavern they'd yet encountered. It was roughly circular, and Sitdale's keen eyes had estimated it at about sixty feet from one side to the other.

There were bats here. The flying mammals couldn't be seen, but they could be heard nesting in the niches of the roof, which ascended in a dome shape to higher than even the half-elf could determine.

Even the existence of the bats- and the implied hope of a nearby exit- was dampened by the chasm.

The pit stretched out in front of them about twenty feet from the entrance to the chamber- and it went clear from one side of the cave to the other.

Elrohir, kneeling down, held out a glow-fungus over the edge.

He felt a momentary twinge- this little moss had been one of the greatest treasures he'd ever encountered in all his years.

But it had one more important function to perform. He mouthed a silent prayer of thanks, and then opened his fingers and let it fall.

He watched the green light grow smaller and smaller and smaller.

Then it stopped.

Elrohir looked up to meet Argo's eyes.

"How deep, you figure?" Bigfellow asked.

His fellow ranger sighed. "Hundred fifty- maybe two hundred feet."

Argo nodded in agreement and then straightened back up, wincing at the pain that involved. "Over, then- not down."

Bigfellow looked around, apparently deep in thought. Then he strode over to Nesco, who was currently holding the other glow-fungus while staring at Hengist's corpse, which she had propped up against the cavern wall as gently as possible.

Lady Cynewine looked on in bewilderment as Argo held out his hand, palm up, to her. Then she started, and handed him the fungus.

Argo turned and hurled it over the pit.

It landed perhaps ten feet on the other side. There was a small stalagmite, perhaps two feet high, next to it, but no other features were visible. Slowly, the moss began crawling away from the pit.

The dim outline of an exit tunnel became visible in the greenish glow. Every so often, the dark silhouette of a bat flashed by.

* * *

"I'd say that chasm averages about thirty feet, wouldn't you?"

Elrohir tried to regain his concentration- he felt so weak he wanted to drop to the floor and sleep right here and now- but the party leader turned his attention back to Argo Bigfellow Junior.

"Yes," he admitted. "Too far to jump."

"Not with that spell our friend left us," Bigfellow pointed out.

Elrohir was silent for a moment as he thought. "Only for one of us, Argo- and it wouldn't even be a sure thing at that- especially in your weakened state," he finished, glaring at his fellow ranger. "I suppose I could use it to send scout ahead and-"

"Cygnus," Argo suddenly spoke up. "May I have the _light _you've loaned to Sitdale, please? I need to go somewhere with it."

Elrohir scowled. "You're not doing _anything_ Bigfellow, until you explain-"

But Argo had already taken the glowing piece of flint from a bewildered Sitdale. Elrohir had a sudden surge of horror- imagining Bigfellow leaping down into the pit- but the big ranger was now heading back into the corridor they had come from.

There was some murmurs of consternation as their light faded. It was only the group's overwhelming exhaustion that prevented anyone from making a serious attempt to stop Argo. Zantac quickly cast another _light_ cantrip on a nearby rock and stood there, looking as confused as any of them.

Elrohir was now moving directly towards Argo, but his fellow ranger stopped and turned around to face him.

"Elrohir," Bigfellow said quietly, "I'm not going to do anything foolish or dangerous, and I'll only be gone a few minutes. You'll understand as soon as I get back, and I don't want to waste the time, or my breath, explaining if I don't have to."

He turned and left. His _light_ was quickly lost in the winding tunnel.

* * *

A dozen people sat quietly, rested and waited.

Zantac had set his glowing rock down next to a small stalagmite near the edge of the chasm that seemed to be a match for its twin on the far side. The Willip wizard played idly with the roper filament in his hand.

The sound of thousands of bats intruded on everyone's thoughts. While initially a welcoming sound, it had quickly grown to become an irritant.

Aslan looked around.

The paladin was trying- and failing yet again- to think of something inspiring to say when he noticed Tojo, on his knees, bend down and place his ear to the ground.

Then the samurai looked up at him.

"Asran-sama," Tojo announced. "There is storm in rock."

* * *

While it was no secret that Yanigasawa Tojo often had trouble expressing himself in Common, the samurai's words accurately described what everyone heard when they listened as he had done.

A sound like thunder was filtering up to them through the stone. It wasn't the obvious rumbling that preceded a tremor- although Aslan was depressingly aware that another one was just about due- but the sound conveyed a feeling of turbulence such as they had never imagined could exist within solid rock before.

There was even, below the thundering, a faint sound of some kind of liquid.

As if were raining.

Everyone looked at one another, but before the shared thought could be put into words, a white light heralded the return of Argo Bigfellow Junior.

The big ranger strode confidently back into the cavern. In his right hand he still clutched the femur bone club.

In his left was every filament from the roper he had been able to gather from the near side of the _web_. Bigfellow tossed the pile of tentacles onto the floor and gestured to Zantac, who still held one in his hands.

"A gift from the roper," Argo announced, an actual smile on his face now. "Tie all of those together. They should form a rope long enough to bridge that chasm."

His face turned towards the darkness of the pit.

"We can tie this end around this stalagmite. Now all that remains is to decide who is going to receive the _jump_ spell and leap across with the rope."

Argo's smile faded as he looked at his companions.

The silence that ensued, no one wanted to break.


	166. Jump

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

More and more in the recent months, Elrohir had felt compelled to speak up when an uncomfortable situation arose among his friends. He never felt right about it, and telling himself that his position as party leader demanded that he make a possibly unpopular decision did nothing to alleviate his feelings.

Not for the first time in his life, Elrohir wondered where the line of nobility and self-sacrifice ended, and the inability to be a real leader began.

"I'll make the jump," he announced.

The ranger saw a dozen heads turn towards him.

"I'm the only logical choice," he explained. "Many of you have been weakened by the roper."

"I wasn't," Sir Menn declared, rising to his feet. A glint in his eye told Elrohir that the knight was prepared to argue. "I didn't even take part in that battle, Elrohir, and I dare say I'm your equal in strength. You're our leader- risking your life in this fashion would be foolish- not when you have a dashing and handsome alternative ready to take the plunge."

"As it were," Unru added wryly.

Argo Bigfellow Junior cleared his throat while propping his bone club up against the side of the tunnel entrance.

"Since we're apparently permitted in this instance to blow our own horns, I'll throw modesty to the wind and state that I'm the strongest individual here and I really wasn't affected all that much by the stone cone back there. I'd be happy to arm wrestle anyone here to prove it."

"I don't see a convenient table around here, or even a flat rock," Sir Menn responded, looking around. "And in any case, your gallantry belies your unsuitability, _Mister_ Bigfellow. You have a wife waiting for you back home and I'll be damned if I'm going to have to explain to her how her husband chose to throw himself into a pit rather than come home to her."

"I think all of you are missing the point. I'm by far the best choice."

Once again, a dozen heads turned, this time to regard one of the last people they would ever have expected to speak up at this point.

Zantac clambered to his feet.

"The best person to make the jump is the one who has the strength to do it and yet hurts our chances least if they fail," the Willip wizard stated, his face pale but his expression determined. "I have all of one spell left, and I'm certainly no warrior. Even if I fail- and I think we all know that failure in this case means death- the rest of you can backtrack. The _web_ will dissipate in about an hour. Since you know the roper is there, you should be able to dash past it and try one of those other passages we didn't take."

Elrohir didn't even bother glancing over at Talass to check her reaction to that statement.

"We don't have an hour, Zantac," the ranger replied. "I doubt we have even half that time left."

"Besides," Cygnus added, taking a step towards his colleague, "failure doesn't automatically mean death here. Whoever jumps will be holding onto the rope, which will be tied around that stalagmite," the Aardian mage gestured. "The jumper can hang on while the rest of us pull him back up."

Zantac shook his head. "If they miss, whoever it is will swing on that rope and slam into this side of the cliff about thirty feet down. That's going to be one hell of an impact."

Cygnus smiled. "Precisely. That's why someone who is as strong as anyone else here, but yet won't cripple the party if they fail, is the best choice. I also have only one spell left. I'm strong enough to make the jump or to hang onto the rope if I don't." The tall wizard smirked. "By your own criteria, Zantac, I'm the one best suited here to do it."

But Aslan stepped forward, shaking his head.

"You have a son at home who needs you, Cygnus. You are hereby disqualified."

Cygnus whirled on the paladin, his face turning unexpectedly hard.

"Thorin isn't at home, Aslan- he's with the elves of Welkwood! My coming home will make not one bit of difference to his safety; not as long as Nodyath still lives! If we hadn't volunteered to come here in the first place on this pointless quest, _this whole damn discussion would be moot!"_

This set off a whole series of arguments, shouts and claims.

* * *

Standing back by the edge of the pit, Nesco Cynewine watched the confrontation with a terrible sadness.

Lady Cynewine was as eager as anyone present to try and make the jump herself- she was confidant she could do it- but she had doubted Elrohir would even consider the notion.

A terrible thought entered the ranger's mind. Could she just grab the scroll and-

_No,_ Nesco stopped herself. It wouldn't work. Cygnus was the only one who had actually read that scroll at this point. Whoever wound up making the jump, it would have to be Cygnus actually casting the spell on them- she was actually pretty sure she could hear him making that point now, in the midst of all the shouting and yelling.

Nesco turned to look at Yanigasawa Tojo, who was standing near her. The ranger was amazed that the samurai hadn't insisted on being the one to make the attempt. She was even a little surprised- though very glad- that Tojo hadn't gone and done something foolish like attempting to leap over the gorge on his own, without the spell.

His code of _bushido_ was going to drive him to his death. She knew this.

And Lady Cynewine remembered her promise to him.

She found it surprisingly easy to accept the fact that she fully intended to keep it.

But when she looked over at him, he wasn't looking at his bickering companions. He wasn't even looking at her.

Yanigasawa Tojo was staring out over the pit.

Nesco tried to follow his eyes. The glow-fungus, crawling at an excruciatingly slow pace, was perhaps half-way to the far exit by now. Even in its dim green glow, the occasional bat could be seen swooping down and into the tunnel, or emerging from it and flapping its wings furiously, fly almost straight up and out of sight, where its squeaking joined the thousands of its unseen fellows perching upside down from the cavern roof.

Lady Cynewine could feel Tojo's eyes turning to her.

The ranger turned to meet them. She knew Tojo was coming to some kind of decision. His eyes would never come to rest on her face if that wasn't the case- and she wondered what it would be- or how she would react.

But then she saw the samurai's frown and his brow, creased with puzzlement. In all the scenarios she had imagined, she never thought that Tojo would be asking her a question.

But he did.

"Nesco-sama, why do bats not fry over to this side of cave?"

* * *

"_Enough!"_

Elrohir's shout, coupled with a savage sweep of his arm, managed to silence everyone, at least for the moment, and the ranger didn't intend to let it slip away.

"This discussion is over! I am your leader, and I have made my decision. The one criterion that overrides all others is who has the best chance of making that jump. Now I know there are some people here who are at or close to my strength, and if I had definitive proof that someone like Cygnus or Argo was more likely than I am to make this jump, I'd tell them to do it, family be damned. But I don't. We have no means to determine that, so it all boils down to a few people with just about the same, best chance of succeeding."

He took a deep breath. "Since that's the case, I'm going to make the jump. The terrible truth is, if we don't make it over this chasm, and very soon- it's not going to make a difference anymore who our leader is, because we're all going to be very dead."

Elrohir walked over to the rope strung together from the filaments, walked over to the stalagmite, knelt down and began tying one end around it. Without looking away from his work, he announced, "Cygnus, cast the spell on me from the scroll."

When the ranger had finished the knot to his satisfaction and stood, he was scowling, irritated that his command had not yet been carried out. He was about to start swearing when he noticed Cygnus, Zantac, Unru and Thorimund all looking at each other and talking. All four wizards were saying, in effect, the same thing.

"I thought _you_ had them."

* * *

Elrohir was getting angrier by the moment. This was nothing but some childish delaying tactic that-

"Elrohir?"

The group leader whirled around, but it was only Nesco Cynewine. At least _she_ had stayed out of this ridiculous argument.

"Yes, Nesco?" he asked, trying to use this pause to calm himself down.

His fellow ranger gestured behind her to Tojo, who was standing placidly by the side of the gorge. "Tojo has asked why there aren't any bats flying around in this half of the cave. I think that's a valid question that deserves some consideration."

Elrohir gaped at her for several seconds, and then realized she was serious.

Then his anger flooded back.

"Lady Cynewine, I am no expert on bats, but I cannot _possibly_ imagine how that might be relevant right now! We're all perhaps _minutes_ from death, and you're talking about _bats?"_

He threw up his hands in disgust and turned away. "Dammit, Cygnus- aren't you holding the accursed thing in your hand?"

The tall mage shook his head, however. "This is just the _invisibility_ spell, Elrohir. I'd set both scrolls down here earlier, but now I can't find-"

"I've got it."

And for the last time, a dozen heads turned.

"Cygnus," Talass said calmly while displaying the rolled parchment in her hand, "Please come over and cast the spell on me. I'm going to make this jump."

* * *

Elrohir sighed.

"Talass," he began, deliberately avoiding the word _dearest_. "May I remind you that I am the leader here, and-"

"And may I remind _you,"_ his wife cut across him, "that you just now stated the only consideration here was who would be most likely to make the jump successfully. Well," she continued, crossing her arms across her chest. "That person just so happens to be me."

Her husband looked around, seeing the same incredulous faces on other faces that he expected was on his own, but Talass was speaking again even before he turned back to her.

"All you great warriors here in your plate armor," she gestured. "You have great endurance to wear it, truly, but how often do you jump in it- and how far? Different muscles in our bodies are best suited for certain tasks. While I'm sure my dear husband has forgotten this, I've often mentioned to him that amongst my people- the Fruztii- being physically fit is not merely an option- it's a necessity of life. For man and women. For the young and the old. The gods demand it as surely as do the rigors of our existence."

She looked directly at her husband now.

"When I was fifteen or so, I participated in a jumping contest that was part of a great three-day feast and celebration, celebrating a joint Fruztii-Cruski wedding. The younger brother of the Cruski groom, a lad about my age and famed for his athletic prowess, participated, and was of course heavily favored."

Talass allowed a smirk to cross her face.

"I beat him- and everyone else. My jump was near to twenty feet and that was with no spell or prayer to aid me." The cleric gestured, indicated from left to right the area in which they now stood. "Any one of you, right here and now, show me you can jump that far, and I'll relent. We don't have the time for a full-scale contest, so don't do it frivolously. I'll tell you right now, though- you'll lose."

No one seemed to have a response.

Elrohir crossed his own arms over his chest. "Those glory days of yours were some years ago, dearest."

Talass raised an eyebrow at that, but there was a hint of warmness in her ice-blue eyes. "Are you saying I'm _old_, my husband?"

He smiled, knowing his wife had only three years on him. "I'd sooner hurl myself into a dragon's maw than say that. But I'm not yet convinced that none of us could contest you."

In response, Talass touched the outside of her right thigh, drawing everyone's attention to her sleek, if dirty skin, and the lean musculature underneath.

"These legs aren't just for you men to drool over- and I mean _you,_ Unru."

The illusionist blushed but did not look away. He merely flashed the cleric a guilty-boy smile and bowed slightly.

"I've always excelled at running, jumping, climbing, swimming and so forth," Talass continued. "And if any of you still have any doubt, try pushing an eight-pound baby out between _your_ legs!"

Now there were quite a few blushes going around.

"I'm the best qualified to do this, Elrohir," Talas concluded. "And this is just not your wife Talass telling you that..."

She trailed off, meeting her husband's gaze with a fierce determination and perhaps, a sense of triumph.

"These are the words of a Priestess of Truth."

* * *

Elrohir couldn't answer her.

He wanted to. He wanted to find some chink in her argument. He didn't want her to make the jump. Less than anyone else here, he didn't want her to do it. But he couldn't think of a single thing to say that would make sense. She had beaten him with his own logic.

Talass walked slowly over to her husband until she stood only a few feet in front of him. Close enough to see the inevitable in his eyes.

"Dearest," she said softly. "Silence is how you agree."

Elrohir still said nothing. Talass moved closer and took his hand in hers. Now she could see beyond the defeat in her husband's clear blue eyes.

She could see the fear.

"Don't worry, dearest," she told him. "Once I'm across, I'll tie the rope off and you all can cross."

She leaned forward and kissed him on his grizzled cheek.

"This will all be behind us soon," she whispered.

Elrohir couldn't bear looking at his wife anymore. The ranger turned his head away, towards the rest of his companions.

"Cygnus," he said. "Take the scroll and cast the _jump_ spell on Talass."

* * *

"Everyone move aside a little bit," the cleric gestured from her position at the entrance to the passageway. "I don't want to trip over anyone's foot just as I'm about to jump."

Six people moved to the right and six to the left alongside the edge of the pit.

Talass took one last deep breath and closed her eyes.

She clenched the coiled up rope in her right hand. The other end was securely fastened to the stalagmite.

The cleric could feel the power of the incantation coursing through her legs.

She knew she would make this jump.

When she opened her eyes again, Elrohir was looking directly at her.

And for perhaps the first time in their marriage, it was Talass who couldn't tell what Elrohir was thinking.

The priestess began to run.

* * *

She reached the very edge of the chasm and launched herself forward.

Like some invisible force magnified the power of her jump, Talass shot out into space.

It was obvious from the very first instant that she was going to clear the pit.

But half-way across, something happened.

* * *

The cleric's body suddenly jerked spasmodically.

She continued on perhaps a foot more- and then went backwards the same distance _and hung there in midair!_

And all Elrohir could think was that it looked like all the world to him that his wife was caught in some kind of terrible, invisible, spider's web.

* * *

Talass thrashed about.

The end of the rope dropped from her hand.

And then with a jerk, she was pulled upwards about a foot, and then hung there again.

* * *

"_Look!"_ Sitdale cried, pointing outwards.

It took them a moment, but soon they could all see it.

About three feet to Talass' left, their light was glinting off something.

It was almost impossible to see, but every so often there was a suggestion of a _line_ hanging down from above. Drops of what looked like dew on it occasionally caught their illumination.

Talass was entangled in another one of those lines.

* * *

The priestess was hauled up with another jerk. And then again.

She looked up.

And none of the twelve people who had endured so much with Talass had ever seen such a look of terror of her face.

And then she screamed.

And they knew she was looking at Death.

* * *

"_Talass!"_ Aslan screamed, one voice among a dozen

The paladin couldn't do anything. He had no Talent. With his Talent, he could save her half a dozen ways. Without it, he was helpless. He was nothing. But he still had to do something. Elrohir had-

Aslan suddenly looked over. Elrohir, who had been standing next to him, was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

"_OUT OF THE WAY! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"_

Aslan spun around in amazement.

Screaming at the top of his lungs, Elrohir was now charging back towards them from the front of the passage entrance- where his wife had been standing not thirty seconds earlier.

In the ranger's left hand was not only Argo's bone club, but their other glowing piece of flint, as well.

"_Elrohir, what are you doing?"_ Aslan shouted.

But their team leader was already running between their two groups.

Elrohir didn't reply. He didn't hear any of them. He didn't see any of them. He wasn't thinking about them. He was looking only at his wife.

His wife, who was being hauled upwards to her death.

Nesco was the first to realize his intent.

"_ELROHIR!"_ she screamed. _"YOU CAN'T MAKE IT! YOU DON'T HAVE THE SPELL!"_

* * *

He never slowed.

With a scream of his own, Elrohir launched himself off the edge of the pit. All hands that reached out to stop the ranger were too late.

Directly ahead of him, about fifteen feet out, was the other line.

The twin to the one that was hauling his screaming wife forever away from him.

The line that, for whatever reason, apparently meant death for anyone who touched it.

And as Elrohir reached the apex of his leap that was powered only by human desperation, his right hand reached out directly for that line.


	167. Rescue Attempt Part One

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir fell short of his mark.

But before the terrifying thought of failure could penetrate the ranger's mind, his eyes saw that the line trailed down further than he thought, and he was still moving forward even as he began to plummet.

Elrohir's hand grabbed the line less than a foot from its bottom end.

* * *

An agonizing pain flared throughout his right arm and shoulder. As he had expected, the line was a sticky tendril of some kind, but the jerk as the line absorbed his downward momentum felt like it would tear the flesh from his palm, or rip his arm out of his socket.

The tendril jerked spasmodically, and then slowly began to pull Elrohir up.

The ranger raised his head.

* * *

His wife was dimly visible in the glow of Elrohir's _light. _He guessed her to be about twenty-five feet above his current position, which was about ten feet below the lip of the gorge. Talass had stopped screaming. He couldn't be sure at this distance, but it seemed like she had spotted him now.

Elrohir couldn't see to what the ends of these lines were attached to, but he knew the ceiling of this cavern curved upwards- the cave was closer to a semi-sphere than a cube.

He kept trying to focus on what to do, but the same adrenaline that had fueled his initial action made it difficult to formulate any kind of tactics- especially since he had absolutely no idea what he was up against.

But Elrohir was sure of one thing.

Whatever was facing Talass and himself up there, a bone club was not going to be adequate to deal with it.

And worse still, Talass was going to be hauled up to it first.

* * *

"_What can we do?"_ Sir Menn cried out, as much in rage as in impotence.

Their shrieks of horror had turned in to momentary sighs of relief when they saw their team leader grab the line about ten feet below the cliff, but now their absolute inability to aid him in any way came back to them.

Nesco stared in horror as Elrohir was pulled up level with them again. The ranger was hanging onto the strand by his right hand only, and although he understandably seemed to be in great pain from the strain this was causing him, seemed to be twisting his body to avoid it coming into contact with the line.

Lady Cynewine was confused as to why for a moment, and then she realized that Elrohir was trying to keep the rest of his body- particularly his left hand, which still held the club and the glowing flint- free.

_Think, Nesco!_ she demanded of herself. _Elrohir's always coming up with miracles, and now he needs one from us- and so does Talass!_

Searching around desperately for something- _anything_- that might provide her with inspiration, Nesco saw that Tojo was just finishing up pulling the roper-filament rope that Talass had dropped.

The ranger stared at the loop around the rope's end- and an idea finally hit.

"Elrohir!" she yelled. "We'll toss the rope to you!"

She didn't wait for a response, but turned back to Tojo to give him the command.

But Tojo wasn't there anymore.

The samurai had just jogged back to the tunnel entrance.

Exactly where Talass and Elrohir had stood before they made their ill-fated jumps.

"Tojo!" Nesco shouted. "Toss the rope to-"

The samurai cut her off with a shake of his head. Tojo's face bore no hint of its former inscrutability. His violet eyes shone even in their dim light, and an expression of animal ferocity was on the young man's face.

"_Errohir-sama go to rescue Tarass!"_ he shouted back. _"We must cross chasm now!"_

"And how exactly are we supposed to do that without the _jump_ spell?" Sir Menn bellowed at him.

In response, the samurai tensed his body, bending his knees and let any trace of decorum leave him.

His eyes travelled from the knight to Nesco Cynewine.

"_We go wired!"_ Tojo shrieked. _"RIKE THIS!"_

And he charged.

* * *

Nesco screamed.

She knew her scream was just one of ten, but Yanigasawa's battle cry drowned them all out. It made them step out of the samurai's path even without being aware of it.

And for the third time, one of their own hurled themselves out into the void.

* * *

Tojo's timing was only guesswork, but it was all the samurai had.

Just as he reached the apex of his leap, Tojo whirled the rope over his head and let it fly.

The rope flew forward even as the samurai began to fall into the pit.

And the loop settled serenely over the stalagmite on the far side.

* * *

The samurai grunted as the rope abruptly tightened.

It didn't bounce as much as he had expected- and that wasn't a good thing. It seemed that the ligaments comprising the roper's muscular tendril tissues didn't have as much elasticity as he had hoped. Or perhaps they began to deteriorate after death.

Either way, the samurai thought as he moved quickly, hand-over-hand along the sagging rope, it was going to slow them down still further.

Tojo twisted his head around to look at the group.

"_One at a time!"_ the samurai shouted. _"Rope can onry hode one at a time!"_

* * *

_Good work, Tojo!_

Elrohir sighed with relief, if only in his head. Tojo's act had been a typically foolhardy one for the samurai, but Elrohir was hardly in a position to lecture him, or anyone else, about the disadvantages of acting rashly.

At least the others could get across now. Elrohir turned his gaze, and his attention, back upwards.

However, the inescapable fact stayed with him that, even in the miraculous event that he could save Talass and himself from whatever horrors lay waiting above, there was absolutely no way that the two of them would be able to regroup with them on the far side of the chasm.

Elrohir threw that thought away with all others that did not concern Talass.

_If we die, we die together._

* * *

The others watched with baited breath as Tojo clambered onto the far cliff, and then beckoned for the others to cross before turning to retrieve the nearby glow-fungus.

Ten people looked at the rope, and then at each other.

"All right," Aslan said. "Here's the order-"

"Do whatever order you like, Aslan," Zantac suddenly announced. "But I'm going first."

His body trembling worse than he ever imagined it could, the Willip wizard was already kneeling down, preparing to lower himself over the edge.

"Zantac!" the paladin barked. "What do you-"

"I've still got one spell," muttered the mage as he got into position, ignoring anything else Aslan or anyone else might be saying. Only one thing mattered to Zantac.

That awful vision of his dagger stabbing upwards through Talass' chainmail armor.

_I swore I'd make it up to you,_ he reminded himself as his sweaty hands closed around the roper filament, which suddenly felt much too slippery to hang onto.

But as the rope sagged under the magic-user's weight, and he tried to make himself go forward, hand-over-hand just as Tojo had, three facts pushed themselves into Zantac's mind despite his best efforts to ignore them.

The first was that his arms were already burning, and he didn't know if he had the strength to make it all the way across.

The second was that, if he ever got out of this, he'd be sure to have a _feather fall_ spell memorized and ready to cast every day for the rest of his natural life.

And the third thing Zantac realized as he involuntarily stared downwards into the inky blackness below, was that he had just discovered how deathly afraid he was of heights.

* * *

Panic was starting to seep through Elrohir's combat rush.

_I've got to get up there faster!_

The ranger snapped his head around; looking, searching, calculating.

He was about ten feet above the cavern floor now. He stared at the cave wall above the passageway they had entered from.

It was very rough and uneven; typical of the unhewn stone of natural caverns. It sloped slowly towards his position as it rose. It-

Elrohir's eyes narrowed.

An idea.

* * *

_I can't hang on! I'm going to fall!_

Zantac's eyes were tightly closed. His heart was getting ready to burst in his chest. His hands kept threatening to slip. His arms were screaming with pain.

He opened his eyes. He was only a quarter way across, if that. The others were urging him onward- some with pleas, others with threats.

Zantac was suddenly so tired that nothing seemed to matter anymore.

It would be so easy to just let go.

Talass didn't know about his vow. He could take it with him to the bottom of this awful darkness, where his life would be removed from his crushed body. A moment of pain, and it would all be over. He'd never be able to make it across, anyway. He was just endangering everyone else- they couldn't cross while he was hanging here.

A fat, pitiful, fool hanging on.

What did he really have to live for, anyway?

* * *

Elrohir began to sway.

The ranger brought his knees up to his chest and then thrust them out and downwards. He thrust his torso back and forth to the rhythm he was creating with his own body.

Slowly, he began to swing back and forth.

And every swing took him just a little closer to the cavern wall.

* * *

A roaring sound was building all around Zantac now, but he didn't notice it.

The mage was staring through closed eyelids again.

Staring at a vision of pink eyes.

Zantac began moving; faster now. Every time he let go of the rope with one hand, he wiped that palm on his body before clamping it back on the filament.

Those pink eyes were waiting for him.

He opened his eyes again, careful not to look down. He was almost three-quarters of the way across now. He could see Tojo kneeling down by the stalagmite, extending his hand, ready to help Zantac up.

"Anything else?" the wizard screamed to the heavens above as blades of pain shot through his protesting arms and shoulders. _"Could you possibly make this any worse for us?"_

The final tremor arrived.

* * *

Stronger than any before, the nine adventurers on the near side of the chasm were knocked off their feet.

And on the far side, Yanigasawa Tojo, already leaning forward over the pit, toppled into it.

But the samurai's foot wrapped around the back of the small stalagmite at the last second. Tojo was left hanging awkwardly, all of his body except his lower left leg suspended over the abyss.

The rumbling and crashing of stone sounded all around them now.

And Tojo could only hope that one of the nearer sounds he heard wasn't what he feared it might be.

The sound of the stalagmite he was attached to beginning to crack.

* * *

Zantac was bounced up and down now like a small boat in a gale.

The wizard could feel the filament he was clinging to beginning to stretch more and more.

The squeaking of bats above suddenly rose to a crescendo as the flying rodents were suddenly dislodged from their perches.

But even above all that was a deafening _crack._

And when Zantac looked up, he saw a shape silently emerge from the gloom far over his head.

A giant stalactite twice his size, torn free from the roof, was plummeting directly towards him.


	168. Rescue Attempt: Part Two

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Zantac let go of the rope with one hand and desperately twisted his body to the side, trying to avoid the giant projectile, but in the space of a second it filled his entire field of vision and then-

And then with a mighty _whoosh_ whose backdraft threatened to tear his remaining grip from the filament, the stalactite passed by as the filament rope was suddenly yanked about a foot away from the missile's path, pulling the mage with it.

Zantac's gaze followed the giant stone cone as it vanished into the darkness below. A second later, the sound of the stalactite smashing into pieces filtered up from below.

The wizard glanced back towards the other side of the cave.

Nesco Cynewine, sprawled flat on her stomach next to the pit's edge, had leaned over, grasped the rope and jerked it to one side. For just a moment, their eyes met.

_Thank you_, Zantac mouthed to her, and then concentrated on making it the remaining seven or eight feet to the far side.

Yanigasawa Tojo was contorting his body, trying to raise his torso to the point where he could grab the edge of the chasm with one hand, but the still-shifting ground made that impossible.

Zantac had almost reached him when the dark cloud of a thousand bats enveloped him.

* * *

The earthquake wasn't affecting Elrohir or Talass as much as it was the others.

However, they did stop rising.

Elrohir's mind was whirling now, trying to ascertain a likely scenario even as he continued to build up a little bit more momentum with each swing.

His best guess at this point was that there was someone- or more likely several individuals- above who were pulling the two of them upwards. The ranger could just now make out a ledge projecting about twelve feet out from the cave wall at a forty-foot height above the chasm.

That was where he and his wife were heading.

Elrohir doubted whoever standing on it was human- he could see no light source. Perhaps they were the "mushroom folk" that they had seen one of earlier- and they used these tendrils as a type of subterranean fishing line.

As the swarm of bats surrounded Elrohir along with everyone else, he saw one of them collide with the filament- and stick fast to it. This further reinforced his theory.

He wondered if humans like Talass and himself were heavier than the usual prey these unknown creatures usually collected.

And if that was the case, when would they decide these two humans were simply too big- and toss them back?

Elrohir closed his eyes as tried to ignore the bats slamming into him as he swung back and forth.

He wasn't there, yet.

* * *

Zantac was only three feet away from Tojo when through the cloud of bats he saw the samurai's foot begin to slide out from behind the stalagmite.

Tojo was twisting frantically, nearly bent double, but he still couldn't grasp the edge of the chasm. His fingers touched, but the trembling ground made it impossible for him to get a handhold.

And then, _something_ made Zantac flash back to their expedition to Highport. All those long months ago.

He remembered fighting the doppelganger.

And just as Tojo began to fall, Zantac swung his legs forward in an arc, planting his feet into Tojo's chest and pushing the samurai up.

Yanigasawa Tojo instinctively went with the maneuver and rolled up and out onto the cavern floor.

An instant later the samurai had spun around and grabbed one of Zantac's feet with his hands and started pulling.

Zantac held onto the rope, but let the slippery filament just slide through his fingers until suddenly he was in Tojo's arms, both of them gasping for breath on a still-shifting stony surface.

They stared into each other's eyes, breathing hard.

Zantac smiled.

"The kumquat… does not always fall… on the right side of the tree," the wizard panted.

Tojo raised his eyebrows, puzzled.

"Not understand you, Zantac-sama."

"_How does it feel?"_ the wizard shouted.

* * *

"Good work, Lady Cynewine!" Argo yelled through the black haze of bats that had descended upon them. The big ranger was still flat on his back.

Nesco was still trying to regain her feet herself. The tremor was abating, but it wasn't disappearing.

"I had to do something," was all she could manage.

"I don't mean just in saving Zantac, Lady Cynewine- you've given me a brilliant idea!"

"Why does that _not_ comfort me?" Aslan shouted, trying vainly to stand up while beating back the bats all around him.

"I _am_ next in line, aren't I, Aslan?"

"Yes," responded the paladin, who had at least managed to rise up on one knee now. "But what is-"

But Bigfellow was already shouting across the chasm.

"Hey! If you two are finished hugging, we need help- one of you lean over and push the rope down as far as you can!"

* * *

_Got it!_

Elrohir's feet touched the cavern wall- and his toes dug into a small recess, holding him there momentarily.

The wall wasn't climbable in the traditional sense- not with one of Elrohir's hands entangled and the other clutching the bone club and the flint.

But Elrohir had his own idea.

The ranger straightened out his body as much as possible, putting all the weight he could on his feet so he almost "standing" on the wall at a severe angle.

Using his right arm, Elrohir wrapped a length of the tendril over the length that already covered his right hand.

As he had expected, it didn't stick to itself.

He wrapped another length around it.

This shortened the filament a little further, tightening it up.

Elrohir moved one foot upwards to a small projection.

It snapped off from the still-shaking wall.

Elrohir cursed as the ranger tried to hang on by the toes of one foot. His other foot scrambled frantically for a purchase until it found one. The ranger could see the blood already dripping- he'd torn the quick under a toenail- but that didn't matter.

What mattered was making time.

Slowly, wrapping a bit more of the tendril around his hand and cautiously moving his feet upwards, Elrohir began to rappel up the cavern wall.

* * *

The bats thinned out.

Aslan could see that the majority of them were now heading out the exit at the far side of the cave.

That worried him.

But what worried the paladin more was that even as the tremor faded into a low, constant shaking, there was another sound he had heard earlier from within the rock.

The storm.

He could hear it all around them now.

And he had a terrible feeling that he knew what it meant.

From the tunnel behind them, a hot wind began to blow.

"That's not a good sign, is it, Aslan?" Arwald asked from nearby, also looking back towards where they had come.

Aslan frowned.

"If it was any less good, Arwald, I'd be able to _detect_ it."

* * *

Elrohir couldn't go any further.

The ranger looked back. He was perhaps fifteen feet below the ledge now, and the line he was attached was bending at a severe angle over the ledge's edge.

They were being pulled up again, but Talass- a good sixty pounds lighter than her husband- was being yanked up more quickly. Elrohir had closed some of the gap, but he couldn't do anything else.

He was going to have to let go of the wall.

_But I'm not close enough yet!_

The ranger lookedback at his wife again- and calculated. Seeking where in the realm of impossibility lay the slimmest chance of possibility.

_Maybe. Just maybe_.

And with as strong a push as he could manage, Elrohir shoved off from the wall.

* * *

"So what's this great idea of yours, Argo?" Cygnus asked, gaining his feet by holding onto the back cavern wall.

Bigfellow watched the last of the bats fly away.

Then he looked over the pit and saw Zantac pushing the rope down as he had requested.

Then the big ranger turned back to the wizard with a big, pained smile.

"_Just because we're all going to die doesn't mean we can't have some fun while we're at it!"_

And with that, Argo staggered across the floor to the pit's edge and dove head-first overboard.

* * *

Nesco suddenly realized what Bigfellow was doing, but she couldn't help but shriek until she saw Argo's hands grasp the slimy filament in his hands. Then, just as she guessed, Argo's forward momentum from the dive and the angle created by Zantac's pushing the rope downwards did the rest.

In the space of perhaps six seconds, Argo Bigfellow Junior slid all the way across the chasm.

* * *

Elrohir swung towards his wife.

She was still above him, but as the ranger reached the far point of his swing, he swung the bone club above his head and yelled.

"_Talass! Catch it with your foot!"_

The priestess, who had been watching him this whole time, swung her foot towards the club as it came near, but it was no use- she was too entangled to stretch out far enough

Her toes missed the club by several feet.

Elrohir mentally screamed with frustration as he was carried back away from Talass.

He could do nothing but look on as his wife turned her gaze back upwards- and the terror returned to it.

* * *

Zantac's dark expression was in marked contrast to Argo's smile as Bigfellow arrived.

"Argo," the Willip wizard growled as he helped the ranger onto the far bank. "You keep the line pushed down. I've got work to do."

With that, the magic-user rose to his feet, still a little unsteady on the rumbling surface beneath his feet, stepped back a few feet from the edge and peered up and back out over the chasm.

He cursed the gods as Elrohir's desperate attempt to make contact with Talass failed.

The ranger's glowing piece of flint was the only light source up there, and with him swinging as he was, it made it hard for Zantac to see who was on top of the shelf.

Then Elrohir swung back- not as far as he had previously, but close enough for his _light_ to illuminate the ledge.

And what Zantac saw made his breath catch in his throat.

* * *

Talass was only about five feet from the lip of the ledge now. The cleric was struggling even more frantically in her bonds, but she was held fast.

Elrohir came around again. His momentum almost spent, he could do nothing now but wait to be hauled up as well.

His only weapons were several feet of filament now coiled around his right hand, and the femur of some unlucky humanoid.

As unlucky as they might all well be.

Elrohir looked straight up again.

Now he could see something.

And for all the terrible scenarios he had imagined about who might be on top of this ledge, Elrohir now saw that the reality was much, much worse.

* * *

Ten feet above him, Elrohir saw two snouts sticking out over the ledge.

They were a sickly white- similar to the giant crawfish. A long but narrow jaw jutted out just beneath each one.

And each of the lines that held Elrohir and Talass protruded from one of those snouts.

Even before Elrohir consciously noticed the giant pincers that were waving around in anticipation, the ranger's mind flashed back nearly two weeks ago. To another cave, and a conversation he'd been having with Aslan.

* * *

"_Cave fisher," the ranger said._

_On an inch-wide projection on the stone wall in front of them, a small, bone-white insect sat. Six segmented legs jutted from its thorax, seemingly cementing the bug's position on its ledge. The creature's snout reminded Aslan of an anteater- a similarity enforced by the nearly-invisible foot-long filament currently extending from inside its snout and ending stuck to an unfortunate nearby black beetle that had been climbing up the wall._

_As the two men, watched, the filament was swiftly reeled in. One of the fisher's two front lobster-like claws caught the beetle and came together, cutting the smaller bug in two._

* * *

As best as Elrohir could guess from what he was seeing, these creatures had to be at least ten feet in length, if not more.

And there were two of them.

And as Elrohir began to shout and scream from sheer helplessness and despair, he saw his beloved Talass hauled up to the ledge.

One of the pincers immediately grabbed the cleric by her left arm, and then the cave fisher must have retreated, because Elrohir saw his wife pulled out of view.

But as in a time once long ago, he had no trouble at all in hearing her scream.


	169. Rescue Attempt: Part Three

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"_Talass!"_ Elrohir screamed. _"By the gods, NO!"_

* * *

Far below and on the other side of the cavern, Zantac cried out in anguish.

The wizard paid little attention to Sitdale sliding over and Unru just now starting out. Zantac had just sighted his target and been about to cast when it pulled back out of his sight.

Based on the size of these creatures, he didn't think his one lousy spell was going to make all that much of a difference, anyway.

But he was damned if he wasn't going to try.

"_Elrohir!"_ Zantac shouted as loudly as he could. _"Get it back to the edge! I've got to see it, Elrohir- I'VE GOT TO BE ABLE TO SEE IT!"_

* * *

A smell like sour beer suddenly washed over Elrohir.

The ranger ignored it as he tried to lift his legs up and secure a hold on the ledge. His cave fisher was pulling him up- but just a few seconds too slowly.

As Elrohir's head finally lifted over the level of the ledge floor, he could see Talass again.

* * *

The giant insect holding his wife- like the one nearer him- was a horror to behold. Shaped like a colossal beetle, the cave fisher was covered in a hard exoskeleton. Giant compound eyes stared blankly out from either side of a bony protuberance on the top of its head that no doubt held the organic "winch" that held the filament line.

It had eight segmented legs, two of which ended in the giant pincers and the other six which seemed glued to the ledge floor. Elrohir could see a clear liquid oozing from pores in the creature's shell and flowing down the first set of the thing's six anchor legs. Those two legs were no longer attached to the floor, and had made it possible for the fisher to draw back as it pulled Talass closer to her. Now as Elrohir watched, more of the alcohol- based liquid spewed from the horrid thing's mouth, spraying his wife and dissolving the sticky substance coating its filament.

Talass had no chance to escape however, even as the fisher's filament swiftly withdrew into the monster's snout. One pincer had punctured her left arm, and now the other grabbed the cleric firmly around her waist. Talass grabbed at this with her right hand, but it took no notice at all.

Elrohir screamed in frustration. The cave fisher holding him had stopped pulling him up in order to spray the bat on its filament with the alcohol spray while delicately plucking the mammal off with one pincer.

The ranger didn't see the bat disappear into the fisher's mouth. He had to close his eyes as the spray washed over him as well.

And as Elrohir finally hauled his exhausted body over and onto the ledge, he opened his eyes again.

And he wished he hadn't.

* * *

It all happened so quickly.

A few seconds that seemed to take a lifetime.

What Elrohir would have died to prevent, or failing that, to even be spared the sight.

* * *

The cave fisher holding Talass was clearly not used to dealing with such large prey. The priestess had dug in her feet, pulling against the claw trying to lift her up off the ground and towards the thing's mouth. Talass remained firmly where she was, even as she continued to scratch and scrabble at the pincer holding her fast.

In response, the fisher held Talass firmly around the waist with one claw, while the other holding her left arm began to twist.

Elrohir's scream was lost in that of his wife as the worst happened.

There was a horrifying _crack_, and Talass' arm rotated at an unnatural angle. Blood began to spurt from the cleric's shoulder as the flash began to twist and tear and then, in one penultimate, ghastly, blood-drenched moment, Talass' left arm was ripped from its socket and vanished in the cave fisher's mouth.

At that instant, Elrohir regained his footing.

And from that point on, there were no more words.

There were only screams of rage.

* * *

Elrohir launched himself directly at the cave fisher holding him even as the filament holding him began to retract.

Running ahead of the fisher's pincers and right up to its mouth, the ranger began to swirl his right arm around and around the giant insect's jaws and snout.

Uncoiling the filament as he went, Elrohir went faster and faster. Hidden in the depths of the coils, the filament's tip had not yet been hit with the fisher's solvent, and was still sticking to Elrohir's hand.

When he was done, Elrohir yanked as hard as he could and slammed the tip down on the creature's skin.

He shrieked in agony as he saw the flesh rip off his palm, but that didn't matter.

He never stopped screaming for his wife, anyway.

And even though it might well be too late now, the ranger had accomplished his initial task.

He had glued the monster's mouth shut with its own filament.

Elrohir ducked under one snapping pincer and batted the other away with his bone club.

* * *

Talass was not dead yet, or even unconscious, but she was clearly in shock. The priestess' body had gone limp in the fisher's grasp even as blood continued to spurt out from her shoulder socket. Talass' eyes were open, but nothing came out of the cleric's mouth as it opened in a silent scream.

The cave fisher was not strong enough to drag Talass closer with only one claw, but now the other one clamped down over one of Talass' legs.

The giant insect gushed forth more of its fluids from its mouth.

With it came human arm bones, scoured of all but a few scraps of skin.

Slowly, the creature dragged its prey closer.

The pincer holding onto Talass' leg began to twist.

* * *

And at just that instant Elrohir shoved the piece of _light_-imbued flint point-side down into a little recess just behind the thing's giant eye.

And then he rammed his bone club as far as it would go down the cave fisher's throat.

* * *

The creature exploded into spasms, simultaneously trying to escape whatever was half-blinding it and removes the giant bone that was choking it. One claw waved wildly in the air while the other tried to grab hold of the piece of bone still protruding from its mouth.

Elrohir ran over to Talass.

He thought her eyes might have focused on him for a moment, but then they rolled back in her skull.

A split-second glance to his left showed the first cave fisher just now picking off the sticky piece of filament with one of its pincers. The other claw swung at Elrohir, but the ranger was too far out of range.

But as the filament retreated back into the fisher's snout, the ranger could see the creature exuding solvent down its legs.

It was getting ready to move.

A glance to the rear crushed any hope of escape in that direction. There was no way off. This ledge wasn't much bigger than the two giant insects who occupied it. Perhaps five feet of space separated the giant bugs' rear ends from the cavern wall.

An unnerving sound was coming from the stone all around them.

Elrohir grabbed Talass and half-carried, half-dragged her between the two cave fishers to the rear of the ledge.

* * *

Zantac wouldn't let himself cry.

He couldn't afford to let a single instant pass without keeping an eye on what was happening on that ledge.

But oh Lord, he wanted to.

The wizard could still see- partially- the first cave fisher, but Elrohir had vanished out of sight along with Talass. He could still faintly hear his team leader yelling.

Or was he screaming?

Zantac gulped hard and prayed.

He was going to save his last castable spell for the very last moment. Where it might actually make a difference.

But he also knew that that moment might arrive without him realizing it.

Indeed, it might already have passed.

* * *

Cygnus and Sir Menn had already crossed over. Only Aslan, Nesco, Arwald and Thorimund remained behind.

The breeze blew hotter and faster from the tunnel. The shaking of the ground had subsided, but the terrible thunder all around them was getting worse.

"Nesco," Aslan said. "You're next."

She hesitated. "Aslan-"

But the paladin interrupted her with a wan smile.

"Don't worry, Lady Cynewine. Elrohir has proven once again why he is our leader."

The paladin's gaze drifted upwards before settling back on Nesco.

"Whatever happens, I'm not going to disappoint him."

Nesco stared into Aslan's eyes, and try as she might, the ache welled up in her heart again.

In the paladin's crossing order, she knew he had placed himself dead last.

"Be careful, Aslan," she told him.

The paladin kept his face neutral. "I will."

* * *

Elrohir collapsed to his knees in agony, awkwardly pulling Talass down with him. The pain from his right palm and from his foot was finally starting to overwhelm his battle rage.

He looked towards the front of the ledge just in time to see the second cave fisher yank the bone club out of its mouth with a pincer and fling the femur away and over the edge.

Elrohir watched it tumble end-over-end until it fell from sight.

Now the second cave fisher began to dissolve its attachments as well- and with only four legs to go, it would be free to turn and attack before its brethren.

The ranger turned to gaze into the face of his wife again.

And somewhere through the pain and the fear and he blood loss that was draining her life away, Talass recognized him.

She couldn't speak.

But Elrohir knew how to read lips very well. He could see the word.

_Dearest. _

Despite his own injuries, Elrohir pulled his wife closed and hugged her close, burying his face in her hair.

"Don't worry, dearest," he whispered through his tears. "It'll all be over very soon."

* * *

"I am sorry, my old friend. I wanted to bring you back with us. I'd give my own life for that. But it's not meant to be. Rest easy in the Sunlit Glades, my old friend. You… you will be forever in my heart… and the hearts of all those who love you."

With those words and a final cry of anguish, Arwald rolled the body of Hengist over the edge of the chasm and watched it vanish into the darkness below.

* * *

"Talass, you have to heal yourself!"

The cleric's light blue eyes washed over those of her husband again. Recognition flitted in and out of them.

Elrohir cradled his wife's cheek with his left hand.

"Please listen to me, dearest. You have one healing prayer left. You've _got_ to use it on yourself and then try climbing down from this ledge! You said you were an excellent climber, Talass, remember?"

He hugged her again as the tears overcame him again.

"Remember?" he whispered. "Remember?"

* * *

Thorimund, his own egg-shaped face wracked with pain, tears and exhaustion, watched Lady Cynewine slide across the chasm and then wearily turned his emerald green eyes to Aslan.

"I'm sorry, Aslan," the wizard wheezed. "I'm still… too weak. I… I'll never be able to make it. Take… take Arwald and go. I'll… look after Hengist."

"_Like The Hells you will!"_

With a growl, Arwald stomped over to the mage.

"Grab hold around my neck, Thorimund. I'll carry you across."

But Thorimund turned a doubtful face to Aslan.

"The rope… it won't hold two of us."

Aslan stared back at the mage.

"Will it, Aslan?"

The paladin was about to reply when he caught a faint light from the edge of his vision.

Aslan whirled. An orange glow was coming from somewhere back in the passage they had come from.

The hot breeze from the tunnel grew into a roaring wind, like that of a desert sirocco.

And Aslan decided in the blink of an eye without anyone ever noticing.

_I know what to do._

* * *

"It might, if we can get you over faster," the paladin announced, striding over to the stalagmite.

Arwald looked confused. "Aslan, what are you-"

But Aslan suddenly grabbed the loop from around the stalagmite and lifted it as high as he could over his head.

Increasing the angle of the slope.

"_Arwald! Thorimund!"_ he shouted over the wind. _"Go!"_

* * *

Never in his life did Elrohir imagine that the last emotion he might ever feel towards his beloved wife Talass might be anger.

But…

"_Talass!"_ he yelled at the priestess, shaking her roughly now by her right shoulder. "I know you can hear me! I know you can understand me! Heal yourself! Heal! I _order _you, as your team leader- _heal!"_

The cleric, the clear light blue of her irises fading now, looked back over to his face.

And now, here, at the end, Elrohir could finally read his wife perfectly. She didn't even need to mouth the words.

_It's not going to be you._

"_Talass!" _he roared, wishing to all the gods that he could somehow force his wife to heal herself. "If you don't heal yourself and climb down the ledge, we're _both_ going to die here! Barahir needs you! It's the only way! It's the only-"

But then Talass, incredibly, reached out with her left hand and placed one finger on Elrohir's lips.

He stared at her, disbelieving.

And one word came from her own lips, mixed with blood.

"_Jump."_

* * *

Aslan was glad Arwald and Thorimund screamed all the way across the chasm.

The paladin let their screams drown out all his thoughts.

He didn't want to think about them not wanting to make it.

He didn't want anyone else to die.

Not if they didn't have to. Not if there was no purpose to it.

Arwald's slide across was nerve-wracking to see, let alone experience. Despite the higher slope Aslan had provided them, the combined weight of the two individuals caused the filament to sag alarmingly, and it still took them almost ten seconds to make the crossing.

But they made it.

As the others helped Arwald and Thorimund back to their feet, Nesco Cynewine looked with horror at the rope.

It hung down, stretched long. All its elasticity was gone. It wouldn't hold two people anymore.

Nesco looked over the chasm and met Aslan's gaze, and the ranger knew the paladin was already aware of what she was just now realizing.

_It won't even hold one now._

Aslan slowly replaced the loop around the stalagmite.

* * *

Elrohir was out of miracles.

The ranger tried to plead for his wife to heal herself again when the words died in his throat.

He knew she'd never make that climb. Even if Talass still possessed every single healing prayer her faith would allow, she couldn't regrow her arm- and she'd never make that climb without two good arms.

Elrohir tried not to let his wife see the failure in his eyes. He just wanted to hold her in his arms right here, keeping her face away from their approaching death, until it was all over.

He didn't want her to know how he had failed her.

All his heroics counted for nothing at the end.

But now Talass was trying to rise to her feet and instinctively Elrohir aided her, standing up himself and still holding her close.

The priestess was now shivering violently, and with her right hand she grabbed hold of her husband's hair.

"Jump," she repeated, staring hard into his eyes.

Elrohir shook his head emphatically.

"Dearest, even if could make it to the far side, the impact from this height would probably kill us! But we wouldn't make it, anyway! We can't jump that far, Talass!"

In frustration, the ranger tried to shake the truth into her.

"_Don't you understand, Talass? The jump spell has worn off!"_

Talass tried to reply, but the cleric suddenly began retching violently and would have collapsed if her husband had not held upright. As it was, she doubled over. Mixed blood and vomit splattered on the ground.

Unable to speak anymore, Talass let go of Elrohir's hair, grabbed the ranger's left hand and guided it down-

Until it rested on her thigh.

And somehow Elrohir knew.

As he turned to look one more time into the pale, blood-and-bile streaked face of his wife, Elrohir saw the barest hint of that look again. That icy glare Talass always gave him when she thought he was being foolish, or stubborn, or obstinate.

Or maybe, Elrohir realized now, the real underlying reason his wife gave him that look sometimes was when she felt he wasn't living up to his true potential.

But he knew now that that she had never, _never_ stopped loving him.

And he also knew that the _jump_ spell had not- in fact- worn off yet.

* * *

Zantac peered upwards.

Sitdale had cast his own _light_ cantrip now, but Zantac still couldn't see either Elrohir or Talass. He watched one of the cave fishers scrabbling ineffectively, trying to dislodge the piece of flint their team leader had jabbed in or near one of its eyes. There was still no sign of the two humans however, and the Willip wizard could only pray that there was a passage at the rear of that ledge that led back into the caverns, perhaps meeting up with one of the tunnels they had not taken before.

But even as he wished it, he knew it was a foolish hope. A wasted hope.

And then he heard the voice of Argo Bigfellow Junior behind him.

"Listen to me, each and every one of you. Mount Flamenblut is erupting and you all know it. We have to get out of here, because this whole cavern complex is going to collapse very soon. Now, I'm not going to order anyone to leave, but if you choose to stay here, remember who Elrohir and Aslan are sacrificing themselves for."

The ranger hesitated.

"Don't let their deaths be in vain."

_Please,_ Zantac prayed. _Please, Elrohir. Please, Talass. Please, Aslan. Come over- come back to us, because that son-of-a-bitch bastard Bigfellow is right._

The wizard turned and caught Nesco's eye.

"He's right," she said, barely managing the words. "We've run out of time."


	170. Rescue Attempt: Part Four

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"_COME ON!"_

With that scream, Elrohir hauled his wife upright.

"_NOW!"_

* * *

But even as they began to stagger forward, the second cave fisher freed the last of its legs from the ledge.

With unexpected speed, the giant beetle wheeled around so that is was facing them.

It reared back on four legs, giant claws extending out towards them; snapping, grasping.

Elrohir couldn't stop.

He and Talass were pushing each other on with the very last vestiges of strength left in their entire bodies. If either one of them stopped running, they'd never be able to start again.

And so, without a word spoken between them, Elrohir and Talass ran directly at the monster blocking their path.

But just before they reached it, the huge insect suddenly jerked, as if something had struck it from behind.

* * *

Again. And again.

The cave fisher staggered back a step, pincers waving frantically- and the edge of the ledge crumbled under its weight.

And with a horrible squeal, the creature tumbled backwards off the ledge, spinning slowly over and over in the air as it plummeted down into the pit.

* * *

Zantac couldn't even count how many hands were squeezing his shoulders, or how many shouts of congratulations he heard.

Somehow, he could hear Cygnus' quiet voice underneath them all.

"Best damn use of _magic missiles_ I've ever seen."

* * *

Elrohir could feel the muscles in his wife's legs tense up.

They dodged the darting claws of the other cave fisher.

And the two of them leapt out into space.

* * *

There was nothing more they could do now.

Fate had them in its hands.

* * *

It seemed so quiet.

So unreal.

Elrohir could see his friends, his companions, clustered on the far side of the ledge. He couldn't see if there was anyone left on the other side.

He hoped not.

* * *

The two of them sailed through the air, spinning like a well-aimed arrow. Across, and down.

It was amazing; how long it seemed to be taking.

Elrohir couldn't tell if they were going to make it or not. It was going to be very close either way.

And so, holding the woman he loved more than any person in the Three Worlds in his arms, Elrohir looked into her eyes one more time.

The ranger put his life and his soul into two words.

One last command for his beloved.

"Talass," he said softly. "Heal."

* * *

_There is one thing I can do, _Elrohir now realized and without hesitation, he began to do it.

He twisted his body within their aerial embrace.

They spun around as they hurled towards the edge of the chasm. The ranger had a brief glimpse of his friends scattering out of the way.

They were going to make the ledge.

They probably would never survive the impact, of course.

But Elrohir still spun the two of them around.

And now he was on the bottom.

For what it was worth, Elrohir would try to protect the love of his life- one last time.

For one brief and yet timeless moment, he remembered making love to her.

_You're on top, dearest,_ he thought, smiling.

_Just the way you always liked- _


	171. Talass Heals

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"_Talass, heal yourself!"_

Again, that command.

But the voice was not that of her husband.

* * *

Talass couldn't see.

She couldn't even tell if her eyes were open or not.

She could hear. She could hear the voices of her friends, but she couldn't place any of the names to the voices. Sometimes, it seemed like they weren't even speaking to her.

Talass couldn't move. Not an inch.

And she couldn't feel.

It was like she had no body at all.

* * *

"Come on, my good lady- I saw you move. Don't leave us now- who can I annoy if not you and Aslan?"

"Weren't you supposed to be out of here by now, Bigfellow?"

"I'm a known liar, Sir Menn. That's why I'm not the team leader."

"Please, Talass- if you really do have one healing prayer left, _use it!"_

"Dammit, she's not responding- How's Elrohir?"

"I had a pulse, but I can't find it now!"

"Gods, there's so much blood…"

"It's even worse than it looks. They both have severe injuries under the skin. Many broken bones; I just don't know if…

"We're going to lose them both, aren't we?"

"Don't say that! Talass, listen to me- as one cleric to another. The prayers, the powers we carry within ourselves are not just gifts from our gods; they're a responsibility from them, too! You can't die with healing left unused, Talass- and I know Elrohir wanted you to heal yourself. Reach down deep inside and find that faith. Find that power. I- I know you can do this, Talass."

"Why in the Abyss isn't Aslan crossing the abyss?"

"The rope is useless now. It's been stretched out. It's too weak now."

"Then we'll make up the slack ourselves! All of you not working on these two, grab the rope and pull back- stretch it as tight as you can! _Aslan, you stupid, stuffy, repressed shrimp of a paladin, grab that rope!"_

* * *

The voices began to fade.

Talass could see now, but she knew it was only in her mind.

She was seeing Elrohir again for the first time.

She was giving up returning to her homeland for him.

They were laughing together.

They were dancing.

They were making love.

They were admiring their newborn son.

They were destroying the horror that was Kar-Vermin.

They were retiring. Their job was done.

It was time to enjoy life.

And now, they were…

Were…

Where were they?

She could hear Elrohir now in her mind. She could hear him speak.

"_Talass, heal."_

It was what he wanted her to do.

And she was going to do it.

* * *

Feelings and sensations began to return to Talass as she loosened her grip on the sanctuary her mind had taken her.

Pain. Blood. Both were everywhere.

Her left arm seemed to hurt the worst. She couldn't move it, so the cleric rolled over slightly onto her right side.

That triggered a new explosion of voices.

"She's moving- she's alive!"

"Talass, can you hear me? Can you speak?"

"I don't think she's seeing us. Her eyes. They're…

"Elrohir, please wake up. _Please!"_

"Anything?"

"He kind of choked once, and now- nothing. Sitdale, is there anything-"

"I am doing all I can, Lady Cynewine, but without divine healing…"

Healing.

The voices faded again.

* * *

"_Talass, heal."_

* * *

Talass reached out with her right hand.

There were more voices, but she couldn't distinguish them anymore.

Her fingers wrapped around the hair on the back of her husband's head.

She didn't know if the blood she felt was hers or his.

She took a deep breath. She might have cried out from the pain, but she wasn't sure.

Pain didn't matter anymore.

* * *

The Cleric of Forseti and Priestess of Truth twisted her husband's hair in her hand.

She could smell his scent.

She could feel warm sunshine on her cheek; a cool breeze.

She could hear running water.

A waterfall.

And Talass healed.


	172. Wrath Of The Earth Dragon

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Dungeons of the Slave Lords**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir opened his eyes.

* * *

He couldn't believe he could hurt so much and still be alive.

His back was on fire, as if he had been thrown into a smith's forge.

He could feel thunder in the ground beneath him.

His right palm was in agony. One of the toes on his right foot was throbbing so badly, the ranger wished it would just drop off.

A scramble of faces before him slowly resolved themselves into those of his dear friends.

They were all talking; all babbling at once. He couldn't understand them, and their shouting hurt his ears. He made a weak gesture for silence.

The shouting died down, but now the ranger could hear something else.

Sobbing.

* * *

Awareness flooded back to Elrohir, and instinctively the ranger tried to stand up, but he only made it as far as his elbows, before the pain and the restraining hands of his compatriots forced him to abandon the idea of going further, at least for now.

"What… what happened?" he gasped.

Cygnus came and bent down on one knee next to him.

"Zantac killed the cave fisher, Elrohir, and then we saw you and Talass leap off the ledge. I'm guessing she had maybe a minute left on that _jump_ spell, and then she-"

The wizard's voice caught in his throat.

"She healed you."

* * *

_Talass!_

Elrohir turned to his right, but Argo was crouched down between the two of them. The team leader tried to move his head to peer past Bigfellow, but the big ranger kept intercepting him.

"Argo, move out of the way! How is she? Her arm- it was ripped off by the cave fisher! We've got to stop the bleeding! We've got to-"

And then Argo Bigfellow Junior leaned over Elrohir and placed both of his meaty hands on his friend's shoulders.

Those auburn eyes stared directly into his own.

Those auburn eyes, starting to well with tears.

"Elrohir," Argo said quietly, "Talass is gone."

* * *

Elrohir couldn't believe how Bigfellow could make such a mistake.

The ranger was still for a moment, feinted right, and then rolled to the left, enough so that he could reach out and touch Talass' face. It fell towards him.

His wife's eyes were closed. Her face was caked with dried blood. Old and new scars- her broken nose- these were nothing. Surface appearances only. Argo so easily deceived.

Elrohir gently stroked Talass' cheek with his fingertips.

"Hey there, beautiful," he whispered.

She couldn't die. That was impossible.

He had rescued her.

His incredible, foolhardy, heroic and daring rescue attempt had paid off. He had reached her just in time. Tojo had secured the rope across the chasm. They had all crossed safely, and Zantac had slain the cave fisher, and then they-

They had jumped.

"It's time to wake up, dearest," Elrohir whispered. "We've got to get out of here."

He felt a cold wind starting to blow. No one else felt it- it was only inside him.

It raced through his limbs, rendering them useless. Not from pain, for that was receding, but from hopelessness and fatigue.

It swam in his head, blowing and freezing Elrohir's hopes.

And it collected in his heart. Freezing it shut. Closing it down.

Elrohir couldn't pretend any more.

* * *

He felt Cygnus kneeling down beside him.

"It was her. She was the one," the wizard said, his tone thick with grief.

But Elrohir shook his head.

"No. It was me. It was supposed to be me all along, but Talass changed that. She wouldn't accept the decree of her god, so she defied him to heal me."

Cygnus eyed the ranger warily. "You don't know any of that for a fact, Elrohir."

"We will," Elrohir muttered so only the mage could hear him. "If the Justice Bringer refuses to bring her back, we'll know."

* * *

Slowly, with help from Cygnus and Argo, Elrohir stood up.

"Someone," he asked. "Anyone. Please, carry her."

As fast as Cygnus and Argo rushed forward, Arwald beat them both.

"I'll do it, Elrohir," the fighter said as he hoisted the cleric's body into his arms.

"I owe you this."

Their eyes met.

"I'm sorry, Elrohir. One death does not cure another, but I promise you- we will get her back to civilization, and we will get her raised."

The group leader nodded wearily. "Thank you, Arwald. I wish I could have saved Hengist. I wish- I wish there was _something_ I could do."

"There is, Elrohir."

Arwald turned his gaze across the chasm. Elrohir's eyes followed his.

"You can save Aslan, like he saved me and Thorimund."

* * *

Aslan couldn't tell what was going on.

Were both Elrohir and Talass dead?

That grim scenario certainly seemed like a possibility as the paladin watched his friends huddle over the two forms on the ground. He could hear exhortations, pleas, prayers, commands- and the sound of tears.

Aslan had long used up his paladin healing for the day.

His Talent could save them both. He knew this. It couldn't regenerate Talass' arm, but it could certainly save her life. His Talent was full- he could _feel_ it.

But try as he might, Aslan just couldn't access it.

Part of the paladin's soul rejoiced and another part died as he saw Elrohir move- and people stop working to revive Talass.

_She must have healed him,_ he thought. _I know she had one prayer left. One of her most powerful. She sacrificed herself for him._

Aslan looked back at the tunnel entrance, which was glowing more brightly every moment.

_I don't want to die falling into that pit. A useless death. Perhaps I am a coward after all. There will be no nobility in my death, and yet I have nothing left to offer my friends by living._

"Aslan!"

* * *

The paladin whirled back around.

Elrohir, still covered in blood, was standing by the lip of the far edge. Behind him, Argo and the others were stretching the rope taut by pulling it back.

"Aslan, cross!" the ranger shouted.

But the paladin shook his head.

"The rope is too weak, Elrohir. It'll snap."

Elrohir seemed about to shout something else, but then abruptly sighed. He seemed to visibly shrink in size to Aslan. Then he looked to his left, where Arwald was standing, staring at Aslan while holding the dead body of Elrohir's wife.

"Aslan," Elrohir called, his voice cracking. "I- I've lost my wife. I don't know if I can go on. I need my friends, now more than ever. I need the friend I've known longer than any other. I… I need you."

There was more, but Aslan didn't hear it.

The wind behind him suddenly increased in intensity still further, and the orange glow grew still brighter. A sound like a roaring sea grew louder until it filled the paladin's eardrums.

Aslan abandoned thought.

The paladin only _felt._

He felt he was needed.

And as Aslan turned and ran towards the edge of the pit, a torrent of molten lava poured from the tunnel in a horizontal geyser behind him.

* * *

Aslan dove over the side of the pit.

Both of his hands grabbed hold of the slimy filament.

Right behind him, the rope snapped.

* * *

"_PULL!"_ Argo screamed.

Eight people pulled, but the floor buckled again, and they all toppled against each other and down to the ground.

* * *

Aslan saw the far side of the pit hurtling towards him. He was going to strike it at least twenty feet below the lip of the chasm.

As quickly as he could, the paladin wrapped as much of the rope around his forearm as he could.

Right before impact, he raised his legs towards the oncoming wall, bent his knees and closed his eyes.

* * *

As a child, Aslan had often wondered what it might be like to be struck by _Mjolnir_, the mystic hammer of Thor.

Now he was pretty sure he knew.

The paladin thought he could hear bones crack, but he wasn't sure of anything anymore. The impact had knocked all of the wind out of him. The cavern spun.

* * *

The burning in his right arm was the first concrete thing he could concentrate on.

Aslan was being slowly hauled up the side of the chasm by the rope wrapped around his forearm.

But as he watched, the ligaments began to unravel.

Aslan grabbed the rope above his forearm just before that section snapped off from below.

But now the rope was stretching out again; several inches above where his new grip was.

The paladin reached up and grabbed the rope again.

And again.

The rope was stretching under Aslan's weight to the breaking point even as the paladin continued to climb it.

He was only ten feet from safety now, but five feet above him, the rope was stretching thin again.

He wasn't going to make it.

Aslan scrabbled frantically, his eyes locked on that section of rope, but just before he reached it, it stretched too thin and snapped.

And two hands grabbed the paladin under his shoulders.

* * *

With a cry of surprise, Aslan looked up- directly into the violet eyes of Yanigasawa Tojo's upside-down face.

The samurai was hanging down from the side of the cliff- and Argo and Cygnus were hanging onto his feet for dear life.

As they slowly and jerkily began to rise, Aslan whispered, "Thank you, Tojo."

The samurai gave an upside-down shrug. "Used to it by now, Asran-sama."

* * *

Aslan tried to stand as soon as he was hauled up and over the side, but a blinding pain in his right foot made the paladin cry out and stumble. Fortunately, numerous hands helped him stay upright.

The paladin tested his foot again, wincing.

"I think the ankle is broken, or at least sprained," Nesco announced solemnly from where she was kneeling and examining Aslan's foot.

The paladin turned to Elrohir, gritting his teeth and trying to focus only on his friend.

"All right, Elrohir, I'm here, and mostly in one piece. You lead us out of here. Tell me how I can help."

The ranger walked over to the paladin and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Elrohir's blue eyes held a cold emptiness in them.

"Take over if something happens to me, Aslan- physically or otherwise."

The two men stared at each a moment without speaking, and then Elrohir turned to address the others, firing out orders as he pointed at each of them in turn.

"Tojo and Sitdale- you two are in the lead. Cygnus, you help Aslan- second rank. Argo, Thorimund is your charge now- third. Arwald- fourth. Zantac and Unru, fifth. Sir Menn and Nesco, you're next. I have the rear. We need to-"

The rest was drowned out as a stone hurricane hit.

* * *

Rock screamed all around them. The walls bulged outward, and up above, the cavern ceiling began to collapse.

"_MOVE!"_ Elrohir yelled.

They had barely exited the cave when dust and debris obscured everything behind them. Elrohir briefly heard the faint squeal of the remaining cave fisher before a deafening roar of collapsing stone drowned it out.

* * *

It was almost impossible to keep moving. The floor shook and cracked under them; the tunnel walls and the ceiling were shedding rocky debris as they moved past, and the dust all but obscured their magical illumination. Elrohir could hear several cries of pain as stones struck some of his compatriots ahead of him, but he couldn't tell who, or how badly they were hurt. The noise of the earthquake overwhelmed everything else.

Except for Sitdale's voice.

"_There it is! It's the exit, and it's big!"_

* * *

The passageway ended in a hole that led upwards to the surface. A portion of a small tree trunk and several branches had apparently fallen into the hole from the quake, and it made climbing out considerably easier than it might have been otherwise.

Several minutes later, a dozen people stood outside.

Outside.

They had finally, truly, made it.

And now they realized just how dire their situation still was.

* * *

The party stood in the midst of a forest. Beech and pine trees were all around them, but nearly half had either fallen or looked severely damaged. To the south and west the woods were burning. Hot, acrid air was already setting several lungs to coughing.

A huge pall of black smoke rose behind the flames, blocking out half the sky. A continuous low rumble, or perhaps a growl, came from the direction of the smoke.

About three hundred feet to the north the forest ended. A paved road, now seriously buckled, ran east-west just outside the forest perimeter. Indistinct shouting could be heard from this direction, but no one was visible from here. To the east, the forest sloped upwards.

Elrohir was about to tell everyone to head north when an explosion sounded to the southwest.

The entire island trembled. Everyone fell down among the leaves, tangles and toppled trees.

A terrible bellow came from the direction of the volcano. It was so monstrous that everyone clamped their hands over their ears, but the sound threatened to tear into their every minds. Their screams were lost in it.

The Earth Dragon roared.

And the volcano roared back.


	173. Volcano

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir couldn't hear.

The god's roar had temporarily deafened him.

Seeing that his companions were similarly impaired, the ranger motioned them with gestures to the north as soon as they were able to stand. The quaking of the earth quickly subsided again to a low rumble beneath their feet, but did not disappear.

Following from the rear, Elrohir was again gripped with both sympathy at how badly injured his friends were, and amazement- and perhaps even pride- that they were still moving at all.

Tojo and Sitdale were bruised and covered with dirt and dust, but were otherwise relatively healthy. Cygnus, aside from his head wound, also seemed in fair shape as he guided the limping Aslan along. The paladin's right arm and waist bore fresh scars, but he ignored them as he tugged, once again in vain, at the metal band encircling his head.

Argo's right side was trickling blood from a recent wound- possibly from being slammed against a hard stone wall during the quake. The big ranger was concentrating only on Thorimund, who looked very pale but was keeping pace, if only just.

Elrohir had to look away from Arwald, who was carrying Talass over his shoulder now. It hardly seemed a dignified way to treat her, but the ranger reminded himself that Arwald would be able to move faster that way, and that questions of dignity and decorum were no longer of any concern to his wife.

His late wife.

Zantac and Unru also looked in fair shape, though heavily winded. Sir Menn was bleeding from a head wound, courtesy of a falling rock, but was still going as strong as any of them. Nesco, her own head bandage wet with blood and grime, stumbled along beside him, almost every inch of her skin seemingly covered in a grey coating of dust.

Elrohir looked at his hands. Judging by them, he was probably just as dirty. His right palm throbbed an angry red- infected, no doubt- and his back was killing him. He was trying against to keep from sinking into a sea of despair when his hearing began to return.

"Over there!"

His compatriots, understanding the ranger by either word or gesture, nodded and altered their course slightly to the northwest, exiting the forest at the closest possible point to the road. There were small copses of trees on the other side of the road that blocked any further view to the north, but they seemed to thin out towards the west, where the road curved around to the north a hundred yards or so distant. The party followed the road, Elrohir making sure along the way that everyone's hearing had indeed returned. He also had everyone spread out a little bit more.

They had just begun to make the turn in the road when Tojo and Sitdale stopped. The samurai looked back over his shoulder.

"We have company," Tojo announced. "They awready see us."

* * *

Eight armed men stood in the roadway, perhaps forty feet from the party. They looked a motley lot, each covered with some dirt and bruises themselves. All wore leather armor, but only five had the Suderham insignia on their tabards and the distinctive bat-winged helmets. The other three wore cruder apparel, little more than arming doublets and cuirasses. They wore no helms.

Seven carried long swords that they drew upon seeing Elrohir and his party. The other carried a short sword and a shortbow in his hand. The archer was already backing up towards some trees on the far side of the road, an arrow moving from quiver to his free hand.

Elrohir decided these folks didn't look like the sort who would respond to pleas for mercy. He decided to try a show of strength.

The ranger stepped forward, seemingly oblivious to his near-nudity and addressing them as if he were a knight in full plate. "What are you people doing here? Why aren't you evacuating the island? Can't you see what's happening?"

The largest and ugliest of the guardsmen- Elrohir never could figure out why the most brutish always seemed to be the spokesman- did not seem impressed.

"Well, whadda we have here?" he sneered to the closest soldier. "Looks like escaped slaves to me! Could get a bundle for recapturing 'em. Whadda you think?"

"I still think we'll find more from lootin' Drachen Keep," the other responded.

"Yeah, if it ain't gone up in flames already," the first retorted.

"Wow!" yelled one of the thugs, pointing now at Nesco, naked lust in his eyes. "You do what you want with the others- that one is _mine!_

Lady Cynewine narrowed her eyes. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she wasn't going to let any of these scum see her flinch.

"Waid a minute," the first guardsman said, peering again at the party. "They- they ain't slaves! Those are the outsiders what god thrown in the dungeons!"

"Damn!" the second shouted. "You're right! That is them! We'll get a lot more from turnin' their heads over to The Nine then we'll ever find scroungin' around the keep!"

Evil grins in place, the seven swordsmen slowly began to advance.

* * *

Elrohir turned to regard his team.

Running was not an option. They wouldn't get far.

He didn't like the idea of taking on armed and armored foes with their bare hands, but there seemed to be little choice.

"Zantac," Elrohir whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "give me our last shellfish dagger."

"I don't have it anymore," came the swift reply. "I gave it to Cygnus."

The ranger turned to request the makeshift weapon from the tall mage- and then stopped.

"Aslan," Elrohir said quietly, "where in The Nine Hells did Cygnus go?"

The paladin turned to his friend, one eyebrow raised.

"He's gone to do some light reading."

Elrohir sighed. "Well, then, here's the plan…"

* * *

Crouched in a concealing mass of ferns, the archer widened his eyes in surprise as he saw the dozen naked ex-slaves charge his companions.

_Desperate to die, I guess_, he thought. _Well, I'm happy to oblige._

He let fly at one in the lead- a short man; half-elven, possibly.

His target spun around on the ball of his right foot, tilting his body back slightly- and the archer's arrow passed harmlessly by.

The half-elf completed his spin and was moving again before the errant arrow even landed.

The bowman frowned again and notched another arrow.

There was a nearby rustling in the leaves.

The archer whirled about, but saw no one.

"Who's there?" he called out.

"Just an invisible enemy," a voice called out from behind him.

An arm materialized around the archer's neck and pulled him backwards as a great burning pain erupted in his back. The archer could feel sharp edges cutting into him even as his struggles weakened…

* * *

The lead guardsman swung his longsword in a horizontal arc as what he guessed was some kind of Kara-Turan monk ran up to him- and leapt.

His enemy was far too close to attempt such a foolish maneuver- but somehow the monk was already airborne; the guardsman's weapon slicing only the air beneath him.

What might have been a knee slammed into the warrior's face. He couldn't tell- from the force of the impact, it might as well have been a giant-hurled boulder.

He wasn't given the time to recover and find out.

* * *

Elrohir, breathing heavily, looked up from the body of the thug he had slain.

As he had expected- or at least hoped- they had been victorious. All seven lay dead on the ground, slain mostly with their own weapons taken from them after being grappled and overborne. He could see Cygnus strolling nonchalantly out from the trees as well, short sword in hand.

Even better, all his friends had not sustained any serious injuries.

Except one.

Elrohir was only a step behind the others as they all ran up to Aslan.

The paladin was on his knees, his hands clamped over his left side. He was trying and failing not to let it show how much it was hurting. Moving slower than the others due to his ankle, Aslan had been cut him before tackling his enemy to the ground.

With some difficulty, Sitdale pulled Aslan's hands off. "Let me see," the half-elf ordered him, calmly but firmly, and the paladin desisted.

The cleric/wizard/ranger/ranger examined the wound and looked up to the others. "It's not immediately mortal, but we can't just let it go, either. I need some time to tend to this."

"Right now, that's what we have the least of," Elrohir responded grimly. "We've got to get off this island first. Let's take their weapons and armor. We should be able to see the city just a little ways down this road. We'll skirt around it and head towards Scumslum and the docks."

As Aslan rose to his feet, the paladin glared at his team leader.

"Still think I'm useful?" he muttered.

* * *

The dozen tired and bedraggled individuals trudged down the road.

As much as wearing armor again felt natural to Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Sir Menn and Arwald, they were even more aware of their injuries now. The bloody, torn and filthy underclothing the bandits had worn provided no relief from the leather armor chafing against everyone's bruises, scrapes and cuts.

Only one of the brigands had been short enough to provide armor for Sitdale to wear, and the half-elf had gallantly offered it to Lady Cynewine. Nesco briefly considered declining, but she couldn't stand the thought of even more people seeing her wearing nothing but a loincloth, so she accepted gratefully. She felt better when Sitdale claimed the bow and arrows as his own, and no one begrudged them to him.

Nesco was startled when as they walked side-by-side, Tojo suddenly leaned over to whisper into her ear.

"My _daisho_ probabry in Srave Rord's fortress- Drachen Keep," the samurai said. "Once I have seen you safery off this isrand, I wirr go back and find them."

Lady Cynewine looked quickly back up at Tojo before he could turn his eyes away.

"_We_ will go back, Tojo-sama," she reminded him.

* * *

"By the Aesir."

Elrohir could do no more than whisper at the incredible scene before them.

The party stood on the edge of the high plateau that surrounded the town of Suderham on three sides. From here, they had an excellent view of the city.

Or what was left of it.

All four corner guard towers had fallen. The center of the south wall- facing them- had collapsed as well from the earthquake. A number of buildings had crumbled as well, but it was hard to see anything any distance inside the city.

Because of the gas.

A gigantic plume of some kind of yellow smoke- clearly denser than the surrounding air- was pouring down the plateau from a line located perhaps two hundred yards to the party's left. It flowed right through the break in the stone walls and was rapidly spreading throughout the entire city.

And just as the group turned to follow the smoke to its source, the sky grew dark.

Mount Flamenblut had swallowed the sun.

* * *

The volcano rose above the burning forest perhaps a mile to their southwest. The continuous ash cloud pouring out and up from the erupting crater had now blocked out the sun and covered three fourths of the sky, leaving only a twilight's light left to see by.

The plume of yellow gas rose up from the volcano's center as well, only to immediately roll down the mountain's southern flank, heading towards town. Smaller vents from the volcano's flanks also issued smoke rivulets, which quickly joined the main stream.

And then there was the lava.

* * *

Faint wisps of steam to the west of the volcano suggested that the molten rock had reached the lake to that side, but the group's attention was riveted by the solid- if uneven- curtain of lava that was flowing down towards the north and east.

Due west of their current position, Elrohir could see the cave entrance that they had initially entered The Aerie from. The lava had already reached it and was slowly making its way down the hill towards Suderham. A tendril of magma further west had extended even further down, but it was slowing down while moving through the flat croplands west of the city.

Based on how fast the lava seemed to be moving at the moment, Elrohir estimated they had perhaps an hour; maybe a little more- before the entire island was overrun.

But within that hour, the team leader was going to have to perform still one more miracle- somehow find a boat or other method to get them off this island.

The ranger heard a gasp beside him.

And then a blur as a figure bolted past and began running down the slope at full speed.

Directly towards Suderham, and the yellow smoke.

* * *

"_Zantac!"_

The Willip wizard paid no heed to Elrohir's shout. His heart was pounding in his chest as badly as when he had been hanging by a thread over the chasm. His legs were throbbing in protest as he pushed them harder and harder to go faster and faster.

Zantac didn't care. All he cared about right now was speed.

And as he dashed down towards the city walls, the mage found the energy to scream out the one word that was filling his heart with pure, unadulterated panic.

"_BERYL!"_


	174. Ignorance

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Outside Suderham**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Zantac's view bobbed up and down as he charged down the hill. He was close enough to the shattered south wall that he could just make out several figures lying unmoving in the street, their forms clouded by the mist.

He hadn't even reached the yellow smoke plume yet, but his very next breath triggered Zantac's lungs to rebel.

The spasm was enough to trip him up. The mage rolled over and over, ending in a coughing heap at the bottom of the hill. Zantac only made it as far as his knees before his stomach ejected the remnants of the mussels he had eaten earlier.

Even through the hacking and retching, Zantac forced his legs to stand him upright again. Trying to calm his lungs with slow, shallow breaths, the magic-user was deciding which way to go next when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

He whirled around to stare into Unru's brown eyes.

The illusionist seemed to be using Zantac as a pillar to lean on more than in any effort to restrain his fellow mage.

"Thanks for falling," Unru gasped between strained breaths. "I… couldn't have caught up to you… otherwise." Unru's chest heaved, and his face showed the strain of trying not to fall into a fit of coughing and retching. "Just where… do you think you're going?"

"None of your business," Zantac snarled. "Go back to the others." He turned to leave, but Unru tightened his grip.

"Always said… you can be a mage… and still be ignorant." The Yatian wizard glared hard at Zantac while still trying to regain his wind. "Can't you tell by now… this gas is poisonous? Is this whore of yours so stupid… that you really think she'd have stayed?"

Zantac, who had raised his fist to strike Unru when he had called Beryl a whore, stayed his hand as the illusionist's words sank in.

And he remembered what he had told her.

_I want you to be prepared, Beryl, so here's what I want you to do… gather whatever possessions you can together… be prepared to leave at a moment's notice- you'll have to use your own judgment for that."_

"_The Rose _was in the northwest quadrant," Zantac mused, trying to sort through the possibilities. "The gas might not have reached there yet."

Unru shook his head. "If she has half a brain in her head, she wouldn't sit around waiting for poison gas or a collapsing ceiling to kill her. She'd do what probably everyone else has done- head for the docks."

Zantac couldn't ignore the grim conclusion.

"There aren't nearly enough boats to evacuate the entire population of this island, Unru. One out of every thirty, if that."

"And we don't hurry, Zantac, we're not going to be one of the lucky ones."

The two magic-users locked eyes for a moment, and then Zantac peered into the city again.

From what he could tell, the yellow smoke was indeed spreading out within Suderham's walls, but it was primarily moving straight northwards. Along the inside of the walls, it seemed make it might be still safe enough to breathe, at least for a while.

_I have to know,_ Zantac thought. _I have to know before I go to the docks._

He turned and looked back up the hill. The others were starting to descend towards them, but Zantac waved them on towards the west.

"Go on!" he shouted. "We'll meet up with you at the docks!"

* * *

Again, Elrohir looked behind him.

They weren't making the time they needed to.

Arwald was in the rear, weighed down with Talass' body, but Thorimund was doing no better. The mage was trying to keep the pace, but he was still weak from the violet fungi venom, and kept stumbling.

Thorimund suddenly yelped with surprise as a pair of strong arms caught him under his knees and lifted him up into a cradle carry.

"Don't get any ideas," Argo grinned at him. "Remember, I'm a married man."

* * *

The group rounded the rubble that was once Suderham's southwestern guard tower- and stopped short.

A bizarre tableau lay before them.

Perhaps twenty people, men and women stood in front of them. Some were nearly nude, but others wore the fashionable clothes of nobility. The swiftest of glances however, showed that they were not native to these clothes. They were ill-fitting and thrown on haphazardly.

These were former slaves.

Most of these people were standing by a half-dozen sharpened stakes that had been jammed into the ground, pointed side up. Five men lay dead, impaled on these stakes, the wooden spears covered with blood jutting out of their chests.

Three of the former slaves were holding aloft the body of another young man- a slaver or noble, no doubt- who was twisting and screaming piteously for his life as his bearers headed for the lone unoccupied stake that waited him. The small crowd roared with anticipation.

All this Elrohir and his companions saw in a split-second. The ranger roared for them to stop, but it was too late- the last victim was hurled onto the stake even as his killers whipped their heads around.

Nesco cried out and turned her head away as the blood spewed skyward and the man's dying scream split the air.

But now Aslan was moving.

* * *

The paladin charged the mass of ex-slaves, his sword waving in the air around him. Several of the crowd held weapons themselves, but they had no stomach for a melee. They all turned and fled

Aslan stopped, but even as the others joined him, their friend was still screaming after the retreating mob.

"_Is this helping? Will vengeance save you? Is this how you want to die- like those who called themselves your masters? Do your lives mean so little to you that you'd throw them away on hate?"_

The paladin abruptly turned and looked back and up at the erupting form of Mount Flamenblut.

"_Why are you doing this?"_ Aslan screamed at the Earth Dragon. _"What kind of god are you? These are your own people, damn you! THEY'RE YOUR OWN PEOPLE!"_

The volcano paid him no heed.

The paladin buried his face in his hands and wept.

* * *

Nesco stared in despair at Aslan.

He was right, she knew. Almost everyone on The Aerie was going to die from the very god they worshipped. She'd shed no tears for The Nine or their minions, but everyone here wasn't a monster.

They were people, just trying to live. Just trying to survive. Men, women, children…

The enormity of it overwhelmed Nesco. She tried to find deep within herself the will to keep going.

And then she heard the faint voice behind her.

"Bretagne."

* * *

Nesco spun around- and gasped in horror.

His arms and legs moving feebly and blood dribbling from his mouth, Davis stared at Lady Cynewine.

"Lass," the young man moaned. "Whatever yer name be… please help me… please…"

Nesco couldn't help but turn away.

When she looked back, Davis was staring blankly right through her.

She glanced over at the rest of her companions. Occupied with Aslan- who looked shaky but ready to move on- they hadn't noticed Davis.

She fell into step with them as they moved on.

_Indecision is its own solution to many problems, Lady Cynewine_, an inner voice told her.

_Don't you know that by now?_

* * *

As the party headed north now, skirting Suderham's western wall, the sounds of shouting, screaming and fighting from somewhere unseen up ahead began to overpower all others, even that of Mount Flamenblut itself.

To their left, they could see the tongue of lava extruding into the wheat fields. They were outpacing the river of molten rock, but patches of wheat were burning here and there everywhere, set aflame by burning ash that had drifted down.

The fields seemed to be deserted, but suddenly there was a horrifying scream.

It went on and on.

Another joined it.

And Nesco bolted towards them.

* * *

Lady Cynewine didn't know why she was doing this.

Trying to save unknown people from an unknown danger when they were all certain to die anyway was the very definition of futility.

She looked to her right as she ran.

Cygnus, keeping pace with the ranger, gave her a shrug and a smile.

Nesco let the shouts of the others fall behind as she returned the mage's smile.

_Now I know. It's who I am._

* * *

The duo burst out into a burnt crop circle- and stopped.

A man lay unmoving on the ground in the mist of the circle, his body completely ablaze.

A middle-aged woman was standing near him, screaming in both sorrow and fear.

And the reason for the latter was now emerging from the northern edge of the clearing.

* * *

Nesco sucked in her breath- for an instant, the figure looked like a child completely immersed _in molten lava!_

But it wasn't screaming. And it wasn't falling down.

From its smiling mouth came the sound of fire, hot blowing air and other sounds.

Sounds that almost sounded like giggling.

"Cygnus," Nesco whispered. "What _is _that thing?"

"I don't know, Nesco," the tall wizard replied quietly, "but I think it came from the volcano. Portals to the Plane of Fire sometimes open within them."

The woman seemed to notice the pair now.

"Please!" she shrieked, pointing at the figure lying on the ground. "Please save my husband- _I beg you!"_

The lava child, or whatever it was, swung its head towards the woman.

Giggling a fiery giggle again, it began to move towards her.

"Run!" Nesco shouted, but the woman was already running away.

_Leather armor and a cheap sword against some extraplanar horror_, Lady Cynewine thought wryly as she charged forward to intercept the molten monster.

* * *

The ranger leapt forward and to the right of the creature. It swung its hand towards her, but Nesco hit the ground just short of the short humanoid's swing. Rolling past the thing, Nesco's sword shot out and sliced across the creature's molten belly.

The creature's bellow literally sounded like a great bellow fueling a fire.

Burning heat blasted Nesco. It was like entering a bonfire.

She continued the roll and sprang to her feet. One glance showed the woman a better distance away, but now she stopped and looked back.

"Keep running!" Lady Cynewine shouted, putting as much of her mother's voice into it as she could.

The woman turned and ran out of sight.

"Damn it!" yelled Cygnus.

Nesco whirled, but the lava creature was standing halfway between the two of them, and poking at its stomach where Nesco had cut it.

Cygnus was angry.

"I forgot the quartz! _I forgot the damn piece of quartz!_ I gave it to Sitdale to hold!"

"What do you want it for? I don't see any scrolls of spells!" Nesco shouted back.

"There's another spell I have memorized that utilizes it, but I don't- oh, hang it! Stay clear of that thing, Nesco! I'll be right back!"

The mage bolted into the tall wheat to the east, where they had come from, and was quickly lost to sight.

Nesco looked at her right arm. It already sported small burns.

And then she noticed the tip of her sword had been melted away.

The magma man began to move towards her again.

* * *

It was odd, Nesco thought, as kept her distance from the creature, moving in a rough circle so she didn't leave the clearing. The creature maintained a continuous smile on its face, and it wasn't so much running on its short legs as _skipping._

This lava child seemed to be having a grand old time. It seemed to be having fun in the midst of all this madness. It-

_Fun?_

Nesco glanced towards the south.

About twenty feet past the southern edge of the clearing, the ranger could see the head and shoulders of a scarecrow sticking up above the wheat stalks.

Nesco Cynewine bolted for it. The creature followed.

* * *

The ranger positioned herself about ten feet behind and to the east of the scarecrow.

The fiery outsider slowed as it approached the scarecrow, which started to smolder from the creature's proximity.

The thing threw one last glance at Nesco and then gleefully stepped forward, touching the scarecrow almost tenderly.

The wooden frame and all its clothing instantly erupted in flame; a tower of fire spiraling briefly towards the cloudy sky above.

The creature clapped its stubby hands together and giggled again.

* * *

_It IS a child! _Nesco thought, as the ranger slowly made her way back to the clearing. _In mentality, if not in actuality. Cygnus said it came from the Plane of Fire. Our world must be alien to it as the World of Flame would be to us. It probably doesn't even understand that fire hurts us. It just likes to watch things burn- things which don't exist where it comes from._

The ranger looked again at the body lying motionless in the clearing. It only took a glance to see that the man was dead.

_Ignorance again_, Nesco thought as she closed her eyes in grief. _Someone always pays for it._

The sound of Cygnus casting made her open her eyes.

* * *

The Aardian wizard was standing at the edge of the clearing; Sitdale beside him. Both wore satisfied grins on their faces.

Nesco turned towards where the scarecrow had been- but the only thing that could be seen was a hemisphere of absolute whiteness, about ten feet high and wide.

"An ice shell?" she queried, turning back to the two mages.

Cygnus nodded. "That should hold it for at least a few minutes. Of course, that spell used the quartz as a component, not a focus."

Nesco shook her head. "I don't understand the difference."

Sitdale answered for her. "The quartz is gone, Lady Cynewine- that's the important thing. Hope we don't run across any more scrolls."

"Unlikely," Cygnus grunted. "I assume the woman got away." He glanced over to the clearing's center and his mouth tightened. "The man's dead, I presume?"

Nesco nodded, suddenly unable to speak.

Cygnus ran a hand over his face. "Damn," he said softly. "Hope we don't run into his wife again." The mage took a deep breath. "Let's go. The others are waiting for us."

* * *

"Satisfied?" Unru yelled as Zantac burst out of The Rose.

The Willip wizard pulled the wet towel of his mouth just long enough to reply.

"No one in there."

"What a surprise," Unru responded. "Let's get out of here."

* * *

Everyone managed to meet up together at the outskirts of Scumslum, just to the north of Suderham.

It hadn't been easy. The area was in absolute chaos. People were swirling and running about; clawing and fighting to get past each other. Shouts and screams filled the air.

The rattletrap houses were starting to go up in flames, the fire almost leaping from one home to the next adjoining one. Nesco looked around for any sign of what Sitdale had said was called a magman, but she didn't see it. The whole dock area was one big firetrap anyway. A simple spark could wreak as much havoc as an army of fire elementals, given enough time.

Elrohir looked north towards the docks. They couldn't see if there were any boats still in port- there were just too many people.

However, the fact that there seemed to be several full-scale riots breaking out indicated that there just might be.

Then Tojo pointed towards one dock.

"See top of mast, Errorir-sama. Possibry garrery of some kind."

"Good as any," the team leader agreed. "Let's move, people!"

* * *

Nesco, currently holding the rear guard, tried to keep her heart closed as she started to shove her way past the throng.

The ranger threw off grasping, clinging hands and tried to close her ears to the pleas for deliverance and the wails of the populace.

And then somehow, one voice cut threw them all.

"Nesco! Nesco Cynewine!"

The ranger whirled about. A few feet behind her, the crowd suddenly parted as a man dressed in the chainmail and helm of a Slave Lord officer appeared, charging directly at her and yelling.

He was on her in an instant.


	175. A Friend Indeed

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Scumslum**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Nesco's sword was already in motion- melted tip and all- but the fighter pulled back as the ranger's blade swept by inches from where his neck had just been.

"Nesco!" he shouted again, pulling off his gargoyle-winged helm and tossing it aside. "Lady Cynewine, it's me!"

Teal eyes regarded her under long, pale blond hair.

Recognition, shock and amazement flashed through Nesco's mind in an instant.

Unfortunately, all three were still one instant behind Yanigasawa Tojo.

The samurai was suddenly all over the new arrival. Tojo hooked his right leg behind the man's left before he could react, and a second later his back greeted the ground at no small speed.

"Tojo!" Nesco yelled. "Stop!"

The samurai's left foot was already descending towards his victim's face. Aborting the attack at the last second was so difficult that it threw the samurai off-balance and he would have stumbled if Elrohir, just now arriving, had not caught him.

_Thank Zeus,_ thought Nesco with a feeling of relief that made her knees go weak. _Thank Zeus that Tojo won't wield any swords other than his own. He'd have killed him._

The ranger helped the man to his feet, unconcerned with the rest of her companions gaping at her. For his part, the man winced from the pain coursing through his back and stared warily- and not a little fearfully- at Tojo, who returned his gaze with undisguised suspicion.

"Why did you stop Tojo, Nesco?" Elrohir asked sharply, frowning at the stranger. "Who is this man?"

Nesco did not immediately reply to her team leader's query. Instead she peered closer at the man, hoping that she was indeed looking at who she thought she was.

And not another deception.

"Sir Murtano?" she whispered.

* * *

The warrior nodded, an easy smile on his face now.

Now Lady Cynewine did turn to her fellow ranger. "Elrohir, this is-"

"-Sir Selzen Murtano, Knight of The Hart, Officer of the Azure Order and loyal servant of his Pious Majesty King Belvor, at your service!" the knight finished with a bow directed towards the entire party.

"Sir Murtano was the leader of the last expedition- the one which contained my brother, Sir Miles," Nesco explained, her voice dropping lower at the end.

"We were ambushed in Highport," Selzen said, turning his gaze back to Nesco now, his manner serious again. "The other five knights were slain, but I saw Miles disarmed and dragged inside the temple before I managed to flee."

He looked at Nesco helplessly now.

"I am sorry, Lady Cynewine. I hid in the city for a while, but I just wasn't able to sneak into the temple. I have no idea what-"

"Sir Murtano." Nesco laid a hand on the knight's shoulder. "It's all right. My brother is-"

She glanced for a moment over at Aslan.

"-beyond where pain or hurt of any kind can reach him now."

Selzen nodded in understanding, but the Knight of Furyondy kept his gaze focused on the ground beneath him. "I was responsible for him, Lady Cynewine." He spoke so quietly it was hard to hear him over the surrounding din. "All of them."

"You did what you had to do," Nesco said. "No one in Furyondy knew the true extant of what lay in The Pomarj, not even the king himself. My companions are the most powerful individuals I have ever known, but even we have known failure here- and death."

Selzen's teal eyes flickered over to Arwald's burden before coming back to rest on Nesco's face. They seemed to find something there which held them.

"How did you wind up here?" Elrohir asked.

Nesco could hear in her group leader's voice that he was not yet convinced.

_And_, she told herself, _you shouldn't be either. Not yet. Don't disappoint Sir Damoscene's trust in you again._

Sir Murtano looked back over at Elrohir- and then at Aslan, who stood nearby, arms crossed and light blue eyes looking intently at the knight.

A thin smile crossed Selzen's features. "I know that look, Aslan. Do you _detect_ anything untoward in me?"

"No," the paladin admitted without softening his glare, "but I wouldn't from a doppelganger, either."

"We encountered at least two of them in Highport," Elrohir added. "If you are one as well, it would be a simple matter for you to read Nesco's mind and assume a form that she'd want to see."

"To answer your first question, Elrohir," Sir Murtano answered with his own level gaze, "I followed a slaving party to the outskirts of Markessa's stockade. I overheard a slaver talking about Suderham, and followed his party here through the same route you took."

"Alone?" Argo looked dubious as well.

Selzen gave the big ranger a surprisingly good imitation of his own pained smile.

"I was a bit of a street urchin before I joined the Azure Order, Bigfellow. The skills I picked up in my youth served me well during that time, though I must confess I never thought to have such an opportunity to stretch them again."

"Let's get to the point," Elrohir cut back in. "Can you prove you are who you say you are?"

Selzen slowly nodded.

"We've already met," the knight stated while slowly pulling something out of the leather pouch attached to his weapons belt and tossing it to the ranger.

Elrohir looked at the object in his hand.

It was a gold wheatshaff.

* * *

"I've not been idle," he heard Selzen say. "I've been doing what I can to aid you people and our common cause, ever since I arrived here."

Tojo's gaze suddenly leapt from the gold coin in Elrohir's hand to Murtano's face. The samurai snapped his fingers and then pointed at the knight.

"_Beggar!"_ he nearly shouted. "You were beggar we met at front gate!"

"Our friend from the dungeons," Cygnus deduced. "The one who left us those scrolls."

"Let me try one," Zantac said. He regarded the knight with a wry smile. "The true leader behind Yeeton's rebellion?"

Sir Murtano bowed again, a smile on his weathered features once more.

"Guilty on all counts. I've a few cover identities I've created here in the past couple of months, not the least of which being this one." He gestured at his uniform while picking up his helm again. "I'm sorry I haven't been able to do more-"

"You can now," Aslan interrupted. "You can tell us where the Slave Lords are. You said in your note that they were getting ready to leave."

Selzen nodded and turned to point at the top of the galley that had seen earlier.

"That's the _Water Dragon_, The Nine's personal galley. All the surviving Slave Lords are getting ready to leave right now."

Tojo's violet eyes blazed hot. The samurai, still scowling, suddenly leaned into Sir Murtano's face, far closer than he normally would have.

"_My daisho!"_ Tojo snapped at him. "Where are my daisho? At keep?"

Selzen shook his head slowly, a trace of his earlier fear returning to his eyes.

"I don't know what a daisho is," he said eventually, "but the Slave Lords have all of your possessions with them on their ship."

Even more shouts and screams erupted from the crowd around them as without further comment Yanigasawa Tojo plowed his way through them, heading directly for the dock.

"_Tojo!" _yelled Elrohir._ "Dammit!"_

* * *

Nesco stayed as close as she could to Sir Murtano in the rear as the party trailed Tojo. Although the samurai was easy to follow as he wasn't being at all concerned about the people he was knocking aside, a dozen people still moved slower than one.

"You said the _surviving_ Slave Lords?" she yelled at him as they pushed their way through the mob.

Selzen nodded. "Part of Drachen Keep collapsed while we were loading supplies. I heard Ajakstu had been killed, and possibly others as well."

"Well, that's good news!" Sir Menn hollered back from in front of them.

"Yes, but unfortunately there's much more bad news than good." Murtano responded.

Seeing Nesco and Menn's questioning looks, he expounded. "Those few members of the Wizard's and Assassin's guilds who were able to flee The Aerie on their own have already done so, but when the rest learned Lamonsten and Nerelas weren't planning on taking them with them on the _Water Dragon_, they rebelled." Selzen shook his head. "We're heading towards a bloody massacre."

"That is bad," Nesco agreed.

"It gets worse," Sir Murtano continued. "The Slave Lords gave their private army leave to take any and all boats for themselves, by force if need be. Naturally, the town guard- and everyone else- didn't cotton to that idea. No matter what, we're going to have to fight our way through."

Nesco could feel the wound on the back of her head throbbing.

* * *

They broke through unexpectedly early.

The crowd of townspeople went no further than the very edge of this particular dock, which was quite long.

Their first glimpse of their samurai companion showed him halfway down the pier, battling two Slave Lord lieutenants, armed and armored as Sir Murtano was.

Unarmed, Tojo must have seemed like easy prey, but the samurai was dodging and weaving- fighting more defensively than Elrohir would have supposed, given his current state- and landing blow after punishing blow on his opponents.

Elrohir grimaced.

The entire length of the dock was strewn with dead bodies.

And at the end of the dock, someone was untying the last rope holding the large galley to the pier as the last of several leather armor-wearing men climbed aboard a rope ladder.

Elrohir recognized the man at the stern with the rope, and he could no longer begrudge Tojo his anger.

A rage suddenly swelled up in the ranger's breast and erupted from his throat in a scream.

"_MORDRAMMO!"_

* * *

The High Priest glanced up, startled.

The Voice of The Sacred Scaly One was not wearing his dragon helm, and even from here, Elrohir could see the look of astonishment spread across the cleric's face. He yelled something Elrohir couldn't quite make out, but the ranger and his companions continued to charge forward.

Tojo downed one of his adversaries. The other moved to strike from behind, but an arrow suddenly whistled through the air and plunged through the spot between the man's chainmail and the neckguard of his helm. Spouting a thin geyser of blood, the warrior collapsed.

"We've had enough deaths among our own today, thank you," Sitdale announced while pulling another arrow from his quiver.

* * *

They were close enough to hear now.

"John!" Mordrammo yelled out to the figure who was hanging in the rigging, making the final adjustments to the Water Dragon's mainsail. "Full sail! All rowers at full stroke! Lamonsten!" he bellowed at someone standing nearby. "Get us out of here!"

A wizard, who the party might have mistaken for Ajakstu if they had not been told earlier of his death, whirled around to glare at the party.

He wore green and white robes similar to his late peer, but with much shorter sleeves. A full green cloak encircled his body as he moved. His hat was long and pointed, but as it rose above his head it curled in on itself like a snail's shell. The man stroked his long, full beard for a moment before turning back towards the front of the boat and casting.

The ship's sail suddenly billowed out as a strong gust of wind hit it.

Slowly, under oar and sail, the galley pulled away from the dock.

* * *

Tojo might have leapt off the dock had not Aslan grabbed him at the last moment.

"_Tojo, no!"_

The samurai glared with undisguised anger at the paladin, but from the rear Nesco saw Aslan point down at the water.

Whatever Tojo saw apparently convinced him not to jump, but by the time Nesco arrived and looked down, she saw only a copious amount of blood in the water- but no bodies.

Mordrammo grinned and waved at them as his ship headed out into the lake.

Elrohir looked around.

* * *

The lake's surface was choppy from the quake. The water frothed as white capped waves tossed wildly back and forth, colliding with one another.

The far end of the lake, some half a league distant, seemed to tremble slightly as the ranger stared at it.

There were a number of boats already in the water. Most, being heinously overloaded, were making their way slowly and with great difficulty. One had already overturned, and those who had been fortunate enough to clamber onto the underside of its hull were trying to pull other survivors on board.

There were a number of people swimming in the water, but Elrohir didn't hold out hope for most of them. A mile and a half was a tough distance to swim under these conditions.

The worst of the screaming, yelling and fighting were coming from further north- by the three remaining docks, where the few remaining smaller boats were still anchored.

Elrohir looked south.

The yellow smoke was starting to slip over Suderham's north wall.

"Come on, people," Elrohir said, drawing his sword and letting all emotion slip out of his mind.

Even kindness.

"We have to get a ship."


	176. Chaos At The Docks

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Scumslum**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

"Elrohir, wait!"

The ranger turned around, impatient to be off to the other docks- but he stopped when he saw what Sir Murtano was removing from a small leather case strapped to his back.

It looked like a wide leather belt with attached loops, similar to those Elrohir had seen for storing darts, but this one held small glass vials instead.

Seven vials of a milky white liquid.

"I managed to snatch this," the Furyondan knight explained. "I thought you could use them if you ever made it out of the caverns."

"You're sure these are healing potions?" Elrohir asked as he watched his party stare at the vials with longing eyes.

"I'm certain of very little at this point," Selzen responded honestly.

Elrohir wet his lips, deciding whether to test one, when Argo reached over, snatched a vial up, clamped down on the tiny wax stopper with his teeth, spit it out and swallowed the contents with one gulp.

The big ranger belched and regarded them all with his pained smile. "It's been a while since I've done anything stupid and spontaneous."

"Several minutes, at least. Don't know how you managed." Aslan's scowl couldn't hide his concern though as the paladin stared at Bigfellow. "Do you feel anything?"

Argo nodded and spoke the one word they all wanted to hear.

"Better."

* * *

Poor Sir Murtano staggered from the multitude of hands that scrabbled all over the belt he was holding and yanked the enclosed vials out. Still, the knight managed to retrieve another item he had stashed away.

Cygnus slowly took the small, cylindrical ivory case Selzen held out to him.

"I'm grateful indeed, Sir Murtano, for these spell scrolls, if that is what they are, but without a prism of some kind, none of us can utilize them."

The knight looked chagrined. "I'm sorry, Cygnus- I didn't realize that."

"That's all right," Unru spoke up as he unexpectedly took the lead in heading off towards the other docks.

"From what you told us earlier," the illusionist called over his shoulder, "I'm sure we'll be able to find a dead wizard or two around here somewhere."

* * *

It was madness.

A huge melee was swirling around the dock area of Scumslum, but it was impossible to tell who was on whose side.

Or indeed, if there were any sides at all.

Townspeople, guardsmen, former slaves- all merged together in a screaming and screeching mass of humanity, all were fighting over the possession of the last nine fishing boats still in the harbor.

Aslan let out a sharp breath.

The paladin caught glimpses of something else on one of the boats. Several humanoids, but a sickly blue-grey color, nearly naked and dripping wet, clawing and biting at anyone within reach.

"What are they?" a horrified Thorimund whispered into Aslan's ear.

Aslan had never seen them before, but he remembered a conversation he had overheard right here in Scumslum- when had it been? A week ago? More?

A lifetime?

The paladin turned to the mage, his face set in a hard line.

"They're lacedons."

"Lacedons?" Thorimund looked puzzled.

Aslan sighed.

"Sea ghouls."

* * *

The closest dock was set in the shape of a giant "E" with the letter's backbone extending all the way to the shore. It was by the farthest spur that the boat lay on which the lacedons they had seen were battling an assortment of town guards.

The humans were losing. Several dozen Slave Lord guards were standing on the pier, but they seemed more interested in waiting the battle out than in coming to the immediate aid of their fellow mankind.

Two boats were anchored by the closest spur, and it here that the bulk of the officer/town guard battles were occurring. Supporting superior armor and battle experience, the Slave Lord's army was slowly pushing the larger group of Suderham guards back towards the edge of the pier. Occasionally one would fall off with a scream- and a splash that was as often as not abruptly cut off as a blue-grey arm reached up from below to drag the unfortunate warrior underwater.

"Tojo, Nesco, Arwald, Unru and Sir Menn," Elrohir ordered. "Stay here for the moment, but remain out of the battle at all costs. I want to check out the other two docks, and see where we might have the best chance of taking a boat. We'll either come back here or send word for you to join us. Keep alert."

* * *

The middle dock was laid out in a similar fashion, but each of the three spurs held one boat each.

There was not even the semblance of an organized battle here. It was strictly every person for themselves.

"Some warriors and guardsmen, but not as many as the last dock," Elrohir muttered, trying to sum up the tactical situation in his head as quickly as possible, and then turned again to his companions.

"Aslan, Zantac, Thorimund and Sir Murtano," the group leader counted off. "Same orders as I gave the others. Be ready to move- or to fight. The rest of you, let's go."

The named four individuals watched as Elrohir, Argo, Cygnus and Sitdale pushed and shoved their way through the crowd of mostly non-combatants that swarmed over the boardwalk as they made their way towards the westernmost dock.

The paladin turned to Thorimund again. "Are you feeling any better?"

The mage managed a shaky smile. "A little. How is your ankle?"

"Feels pretty solid- it's my left side that hurts now more than anything."

"This is a living nightmare," Sir Murtano said. The knight struggled to control his trembling voice as he gazed at the bloodshed before them. "Never in my most horrific dreams did I think it would all end like this. It's almost as if-"

The knight broke off as the man standing next to him suddenly rushed forward and lunged headlong into the human maelstrom.

"_Zantac!"_ Aslan screamed, but he already knew it was in vain.

* * *

The Willip wizard struck out blindly all around him in an attempt to clear a path.

He was struggling to stay afloat in a sea of surging bodies. No one was attacking the mage directly, but he couldn't make any more headway.

Zantac's pale blue eyes tried to do the impossible- to separate a frenzied mob of nearly a hundred combatants into their individual components.

Including the corpses already lying thick under their feet.

And to make this impossible task even harder, the magic-user still needed to keep track of the one figure that had precipitated his unthinking dash into the heart of the battle in the first place.

Fortunately, her chocolate brown skin made at least that task easier.

Neela clenched a bloody dagger in one hand, and the athletic whore from _The Rose_ seemed as well versed in its use as any other fighter as she slowly sliced and stabbed her way along the edge of the nearest spur towards the nearest fishing boat. The vessel already had two dozen people on it, all attempting so frantically to shove off that their efforts cancelled each other out, and the boat still sat there, its waterline sinking dangerously lower even as more people piled on.

Zantac watched as a Slave Lord lieutenant came at Neela, his sword swinging at her neck level.

The prostitute ducked at the last moment, stepped forward, grabbed the fighter by the waist, spun him around and pushed. The man teetered on the edge of the pier for a moment, and then fell off the edge with a shriek and a splash.

"Swim in that, you bastard!" she shouted down at him.

"Neela!" Zantac yelled.

She didn't hear him. The former slave had already turned her attention back to the fishing boat, about twenty feet away now.

Zantac took a deep breath and stopped fighting. He stopped looking around elsewhere. He stopped everything except gathering the air into his lungs for one last, desperate scream.

"_NEELA!"_

She looked over at him.

"Neela!" Zantac yelled again, feeling his throat start to seize up. "Where's Beryl? Is she-"

An ogre hit Zantac on the back of his head.

At least that was what it felt like. The mage pitched forward from the force of the blow. The mob of people in front of him stopped his fall by nature of its sheer density, but then enough people pulled back so that the wizard slammed onto the rough wooden slats and laid gasping and groaning in pain on his stomach.

Immediately, people started walking on top of him. Zantac was nothing more than a piece of battle terrain to them now.

He tried to cry out, but all the air was driven from his lungs. He thought he heard someone call out his name, but then a boot rammed into the side of his head and all the noises went silent and all the lights went dark.

* * *

The western dock consisted of a long central pier, with four cross-spurs spaced equidistantly along its length. Three fishing boats were anchored by the furthest two spurs.

But the scene here was very different.

"By the Aesir," Elrohir groaned. "I'd thought we were finished with them, at least."

"No suck luck, it appears," Argo agreed.

* * *

About sixty feet down the central pier, just in front of the third cross-spur stood six gnolls, each outfitted with bloodstained leather armor. Each clenched the shaft of a wicked-looking halberd.

In front of them a man clad in black, spiked scale mail paced back and forth.

"Fifty gold!" he shouted at the crowd who had gathered in front of him. "Fifty gold apiece buys you passage on a boat! Don't delay- your time runs short! We leave in five minutes!"

Elrohir looked past him to the three boats. Each contained three armored men who were keeping watch over the number of people that had apparently already paid the boarding fee.

No boat held more than a half-dozen passengers.

Some people in the crowd were trying without success to organize a rush on the gnolls and their leader.

Others were fighting and robbing each other in an attempt to get fifty gold.

In the twenty feet between the shouting man and the crowd's edge were several bodies, but they seemed to be better equipped in terms of armor than most of the corpses the party had seen thus far. Others were clad only in bloody robes.

"I think we've found where the wizards and the assassins fled to." Argo announced in a grim voice.

Sitdale frowned. "How can you be sure?"

Bigfellow pointed at one body lying face-down on the pier, a large and bloody gash in its back.

"That's Nerelas."

* * *

Elrohir shook his head.

"This doesn't look like a good prospect for us."

"On the contrary," Cygnus suddenly spoke up from beside him. "I think it presents a perfect opportunity."

"For what?" Elrohir snapped.

"For this," was the mage's laconic reply.

The team leader started to say something more, but Cygnus was already casting- his lips forming unintelligible syllables and his hands moving deftly in a proscribed pattern.

Nothing seemed to happen, but then the tall mage did the last thing any of the three people standing with him would have expected him to do.

He shouted out over the din of the crowd.

"_Hey, you!"_

Every head turned towards them.

* * *

"What in the name of The Abyss _are you doing?"_ squealed Sitdale.

Cygnus did not respond. He might not even have heard the half-elf. The wizard was pointing over the heads of the crowd.

But not at the man in the black scale mail.

He was pointing at one of the gnolls.

"He's deceiving you!" Cygnus shouted at the gnoll, indicating the assassin with a nod of his head. "He told me earlier that you gnolls are nothing but stupid, filthy animals, and after you'd served your purpose he'd leave the lot of you to burn to cinders!"

For a moment, there was- unbelievably- silence.

The man in the black armor started to speak but it was drowned out by the gnoll's cry of bestial rage. Halberd in battle position, the humanoid charged his erstwhile leader, the other five gnolls right behind him.

Seeing their chance, the mob surged forward, yelling and screaming.

* * *

"Your last spell. _Charm_ of some kind, wasn't it?"

Cygnus looked over at Argo, but his only reply was a curving upward of his mouth.

The big ranger shook his head in admiration. "You _are_ a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, aren't you, Cygnus?"

"When I need to be." The mage's face lost its smile. "Coming from you, Bigfellow, I'll assume that was a compliment."

"Most assuredly."

"It was stupid, that's what it was!" Elrohir shouted, rounding on the wizard. "What purpose did that serve? We'll still never make it through that mob!"

"I have no intention of even trying, Elrohir," Cygnus responded. "I think we're all in agreement that the center dock represents our best chance. You and Argo get back there and send word to Tojo and the others. Sitdale, come with me."

With that, Cygnus began moving forward towards the rear of the battling crowd.

Sitdale looked at Elrohir, shrugged, and followed his fellow mage.

Elrohir was furious. He _hated_ having his leadership usurped, especially for reasons he didn't understand.

"What's the point of this, then?" he yelled at the Aardian mage.

The wizard's reply was almost lost in the tumult of the renewed fighting.

"I'm going shopping for supplies."

Elrohir was about to ask what that asinine statement meant when he saw smoke out of the corner of his eye.

Further west, not one but three magmen were just now entering Scumslum, gleefully setting fire to everything- and everyone- they could reach.

"Come on," Elrohir told Argo. "Let's get back."

* * *

"Tojo!"

The samurai's head jerked around.

Somehow, in the midst of the swirling mass of screaming and crying townspeople on the boardwalk, Tojo saw Aslan, even if the paladin had to literally jump up so as to be visible over the heads of taller people. He saw Aslan gesture to him.

Tojo turned to the others. "We go now."

* * *

Sir Murtano, grumbling and cursing, now sported several bruises of his own as he finally managed to drag the unconscious Zantac back to the others.

"What was _that_ all about?" Selzen snapped at Thorimund, who could only shrug.

"Haven't the faintest."

* * *

Two minutes later, Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Nesco, Tojo, Unru, Thorimund, Arwald, Sir Menn and Sir Murtano were all assembled at the foot of the central pier. At Elrohir's instructions, Sir Murtano carried the still-unconscious Zantac, while Sir Menn held onto Talass.

Cygnus and Sitdale arrived. Without a word, the two wizards tossed two small pouches to Unru and Thorimund.

Spell component pouches.

"There's only one boat left here." The ranger and group leader announced what they all could see anyway.

And now, for the first time since they had emerged onto the surface of The Aerie, Elrohir turned and looked at the dead body of his wife.

Then he looked back at Aslan.

It took him a moment before he could get the words out.

"She's getting back to Chendl, Aslan. I don't care what happens. Talass is getting back to Chendl, and so are all the rest of you."

He drew his sword again.

"Kill anyone who gets in our way."


	177. Suderham Dies

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

Elrohir screamed as loudly as he could as he led the charge.

In part, this was to frighten away as many people as possible, leaving that many fewer people he was going to have to slay in order to secure a boat for himself and his friends.

And in part it was because of all the increasing horrors he had seen and felt that were still pressing down on his soul.

The ranger felt like he had only two options anymore.

Scream, and kill. Or die.

* * *

The remaining fishing boat was a small cog, with one mast and a square sail. Even in his state of heightened battle awareness, the sight was discouraging to Elrohir. The boat, maybe twenty five long and ten feet broad, would barely be big enough for all of them.

Assuming they could even get to it.

The noncombatants had turned away, and a cadre of guardsmen twice their number, waiting their turn for a chance to storm the boat, turned and readied their swords as the ranger and his companions plowed into them.

* * *

Elrohir let himself go in battle.

The ranger ducked under one sword swing, parried a second and thrust his own weapon nearly up to the hilt in the chest of a third guardsman, all in the space of a few seconds.

He felt only the rush of battle. The only sights he saw were weapons and vulnerable body parts.

The only things he heard that mattered were the sounds of feet moving around on the creaky slats of the pier and the clang of blades meeting each other or a shield.

He heard the screams of the wounded too, but he catalogued them only as to whether or not the people uttering them were still an immediate threat.

These people were keeping him away from the boat.

They were keeping him away from his vengeance.

* * *

They'd made the boat now, but the fighting still raged.

Only a half-dozen warriors remained, but they were all Slave Lord officers. They had better armor than Elrohir and his friends. They had good fighting skills, and they had the desperation of dying men.

But they didn't have the rage of their opponents.

Watching one of their own get stabbed in the gut by Aslan and then immediately grabbed by Argo and hurled overboard, one of the men dropped his sword.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Parley!"

* * *

For a moment, the battle actually ceased.

"Look, we're all in the same situation!" the officer continued. "We'll all die if we don't work together! We're all in the same boat here!"

He smiled slightly at his own pun and gestured around him for emphasis.

"We're all literally in the same bo-"

The man gasped as the point of a longsword erupted from his chest, covered in bright red blood.

And as the man fell, Elrohir's companions stared at the ranger standing behind his latest victim.

"That's right," he muttered in a low voice. "And that boat's not big enough for all of us."

* * *

The remaining four warriors backed off the boat and back onto the pier. They then turned and started running for one of the other docks.

Elrohir didn't acknowledge any of his group.

"Tojo," he gestured to the samurai, who alone seemed unperturbed by what they had just seen, "dump him overboard."

* * *

"What-?"

With maddening slowness and the pain of a thousand hangovers, the largest blur in Zantac's vision resolved itself into Cygnus' face.

"Zantac?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

"Please," the Willip wizard mumbled. "Someone cast a _silence_ spell inside my skull."

"Soon enough," the Aardian mage replied while gently lifting Zantac up into a sitting position. "But right now, we need you. The anchor is up, but you're the only one here who knows how to work a sail. We need your nautical know-how to get us out of here."

Zantac groaned and let his forehead rest in his palm for a moment before blearily looking around at his surroundings.

Then he turned back to Cygnus with a frown.

"You mean," he muttered, "none of you can even figure out that you have to untie the boat first?"

Cygnus looked to the stern, and his face turned red.

"Umm," he managed. "We knew that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right first."

The tall mage clambered awkwardly to his feet and headed to the rear.

Zantac watched him go, still trying to shake the cobwebs from his brain.

He turned to see Unru sitting beside him, looking keenly at him.

And then Zantac remembered.

"Beryl!"

Unru grabbed his fellow magic-user by the shoulder.

"Listen, Lord Andrew. Either she's already made her way onto a boat, or she's dead. Either way, there's nothing you can do about it now. Your team leader is a knife's edge away from killing anyone who doesn't do what he wants, so I'd suggest you man the giblets, or whatever it is you have to do to get this hulk moving!"

Zantac stared back at the illusionist.

He didn't want to leave The Aerie.

Not without Beryl.

Not without knowing.

Zantac looked back towards the docks.

The yellow smoke had formed into a wall of opaque vapor now moving into Scumslum. He couldn't even see the walls of Suderham anymore.

But he knew it was time to leave.

He slowly rose to his feet and moved to the stern. Cygnus, having untied the rope that held the boat to the cleat, was moving towards the bow. As he passed Zantac, the taller wizard shoved something into his hands. "Here."

Zantac looked down. In his right hand was a leather spell component pouch.

"Sitdale and I took what we needed from some dead wizards we found."

Zantac turned around. Cygnus had stopped. His friend was facing away from him, but he could see from Cygnus' bowed head and trembling frame that he was grieving.

He looked again at the pouch. Besides an embossed "T" in gold thread was imprinted an arcane symbol for scholar that Zantac knew well.

"Cygnus!" he said suddenly, as the recognition hit him. "Wasn't this Thellent's component pouch?"

Cygnus turned back to look at his fellow mage.

"Yes, Zantac," he said softly. "It was."

He turned around again and walked to the front of the boat.

Zantac closed his eyes again.

_Death. It's everywhere. It's come for all of us. Why do we even resist?_

"Zantac!"

The magic-user opened his eyes.

Elrohir was standing by the mast, glaring at him.

"Get us moving, Zantac," he snarled.

For a moment, the mage thought of telling the ranger to take a flying leap overboard, but then he just nodded.

"All right, Elrohir. I'm going to man the rudder. You'll be in charge of the sail. Just do what I tell you to, and we'll be fine. Now we're already pointing into the wind as much as we can here, so start by hoisting the sail. Pull down on the halyard."

The ranger looked at the sail and all the connecting lines and then back at Zantac.

"What's a halyard?"

Zantac threw up his hands.

"Lord, this'll never work! How ignorant can you be? You live ten leagues away from the largest lake in the world, Elrohir!" Zantac snapped. "Do me a favor- when we get home, learn some useful skills, will you? _There's more to life than swinging a sword or casting spells, damn it!"_

Without meaning to, he ended in a shriek, tears flying from his eyes.

A vision of pink eyes flashed by and then faded from sight.

Everyone on the boat was staring at the two of them.

Elrohir looked again at his wife's body, lying against the side of the starboard railing. He then looked back at Zantac, his expression calm.

"Help us get back there, Zantac," Elrohir replied evenly, not taking his eyes off those of the magic-user, "and I promise you I will."

His voice shook.

"I swear by all the Aesir, I'll do anything you want."

Zantac blinked.

He had never, ever, heard Elrohir plead before.

He nodded and drew a deep breath.

"All right, Elrohir. We'll take it from the top…"

* * *

Everyone held on as best they could as the small boat headed north out into the lake.

Aslan, sitting beside Zantac, looked back.

The screams were fading with distance.

He saw a final few desperate souls leap off the pier as the yellow smoke poured out over the docks.

Portions of the yellow gas cloud glowed orange from within as the lava flows from east and west converged towards Scumslum.

Rumblings still came from Mount Flamenblut. The volcano that had swallowed the sun, and The Aerie of the Slave Lords- and all those who hadn't been able to escape.

The paladin clamped both hands around the metal band encircling his neck and closed his eyes.

He prayed to Lord Odin.

_All-Father, save what Dao Lung would not. Take the worthy souls up into Valhalla._

Aslan received no confirmation.

But then, he hadn't expected to. He knew he wasn't worthy enough.

The screams still echoed in his ears.

They wouldn't stop.

They would never stop.

* * *

"Hey."

The paladin opened his eyes. Leaning down over him was the person who annoyed him more than anyone else on Oerth.

Except perhaps now.

"You okay?" Argo Bigfellow Junior asked, sitting down next to him.

No smile. No jokes. No pretensions.

Aslan rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes as he replied.

"I can still hear them, Argo. I can still hear their screams."

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

"Those aren't the screams of the past, Aslan. They're the screams of the present."

The paladin opened his eyes. "What-"

But the big ranger wasn't looking at him. He had stood up and was turning around in a circle, pointing. "Look."

Aslan looked.

* * *

People were swimming towards their boat.

At least a dozen people in the cold, turbid water who were near enough were expending the last of their energy to reach them.

"_Save us!"_ they screamed. _"Please save us!"_

Aslan and Argo looked at each and leaned down to offer their hands.

"_NO!"_

The two whirled around.

So did everyone else on the boat.

Elrohir was still trembling, but now it was in rage.

"_We take on no one!"_ the ranger yelled. _"And that is a direct order!"_

* * *

There was a stunned silence.

"What are you all gaping at?" Elrohir shouted at his companions. "We can't take all those people on! They'll overload the boat! And even if they don't, we'd never catch up to the _Water Dragon_ laden like that! Do you want the Slave Lords to get away with all our possessions? Do you want them to get away and start this whole operation all over again somewhere else? You know they will!"

He paused only to draw in one breath before screaming.

"_Do you want them to get away after all they've done to us?"_

* * *

Still, no one could speak.

"Tojo!" Elrohir's eyes locked onto the samurai. "They have your swords!"

"Arwald, Thorimund!" he continued. "It's their fault Hengist is dead! They threw us down into those caverns! And they're the ones that killed Wainold, too!"

Everyone looked at each other, and then back at their leader.

Still, no one spoke.

Elrohir looked around at them like they were all mad.

"_What's the matter with you people?_ Don't you understand what the Slave Lords have done? All the sorrows and difficulties we've faced, from that first trip to Highport until now, have all been their fault! The Slave Lords brought this catastrophe down open themselves! Thousands have already died- will saving one dozen make up for letting the source of all this evil escape to flourish again? We can't let them escape! The Slave Lords have to be stopped! The Slave Lords have to be destroyed, once and for all! They-"

"Elrohir!"

Aslan had jumped to his feet with his exclamation.

Argo at his side, the two warriors walked slowly forward until they stood directly in front of their team leader.

He looked at their solemn faces. Elrohir's voice dropped down to its normal volume.

Now, he was pleading once again.

"Aslan, Argo," he said. "We have to catch them. We have to kill them. They killed- they killed…"

The ranger broke off, dipping his head down as he tried to choke off his tears.

Argo and Aslan looked at each other. An unspoken understanding passed between them.

"You tell him," Argo said quietly.

"Elrohir," Aslan placed both his hands on his friend's shoulders, "we have to save these people."

_"WHY?"_ screamed Elrohir. _"THE SLAVE LORDS DIDN'T SAVE THEM! WHY SHOULD WE? WHY? WHY?"_

Aslan stared into the blue eyes of his friend.

He could see the pain there.

He could see the anger.

But most importantly, he could see the loss.

And Aslan, just for one moment, let go of all his own pain and his anger and his guilt.

And when all that was gone, he remembered why he was a paladin.

Aslan smiled a sad smile.

"Because, Elrohir," the paladin said. _"We're not The Slave Lords."_

* * *

Elrohir stared into the paladin's eyes for a long time.

Then he glanced over to Argo.

His fellow ranger nodded. A thin smile played around his lips.

Elrohir's body seemed to visibly shrink as the rage left it.

He clasped Aslan and Argo by their shoulders. His whisper was so soft, they almost missed it.

"Thank you."

The ranger seemed to grow again, but with determination, not anger.

"Get those people aboard!" he shouted.

* * *

"I couldn't catch what you said to Elrohir," Cygnus said to Argo and Aslan as they passed, "but I'm glad it was effective."

"It's just as well that it was," Aslan said, shrugging. "Argo would have disobeyed him anyway, and I'd have been forced to relieve Elrohir of command, and that might have destroyed him."

He looked up at Cygnus and smiled again. "It's always better to make people see the light."

"And that's why prisons are always so dark," added Argo.

* * *

Down near the stern on the starboard side, Bigfellow held out his hand to the man swimming up.

Of all the people coming towards them, he was the only one in armor. It was chain and bore the number "9" of a Slave Lord lieutenant. Argo frowned at the blood coating the armor's front- and then realized with a start that this was the officer that had been stabbed by Aslan and then thrown overboard by Argo himself.

"You _are_ desperate, aren't you?" Argo called out.

The man gratefully grabbed the ranger's hand, but then gasped as Argo yanked him hard against the boat's hull.

When he looked up, Argo was holding a dagger to his throat.

"Do you know who you are?" Bigfellow asked him in an unexpectedly conversational tone.

The officer floundered. "I, uhh- my name is-"

Argo slammed him again against the boat.

"Wrong! Your name is Slimebucket, and if I hear you speak or answer to any other name, I will personally cut off your testicles with this dagger and force-feed them to you over an agonizingly long period of time. Understand?"

The man nodded as frantically as he could while keeping his eyes on Argo's blade.

"When you come on board, take off that armor. Anyone here is more worthy than you to wear it. You will take charge of the other refugees and be responsible for their safety. If even one of them dies, _so do you._ Understand?"

The man nodded wordlessly again.

Argo smiled. "Welcome aboard, Slimebucket."

* * *

"Please, save him!"

On the opposite side of the boat from Argo, Aslan reached out as far as he possibly could.

Making his way towards him was a woman of perhaps thirty, trying to hold onto a young boy, maybe four years old. The child was screaming and thrashing, and the woman, though obviously a strong swimmer to have made it this far, was about to give up.

_If I only had my Talent_!

With a growl, Aslan threw that thought aside. Glancing about for inspiration, he spotted a small harpoon lying on deck.

The paladin snatched it up and thrust the shaft end out.

"_Have him grab on!" _he yelled to the woman.

The woman nodded and held her son forward while trying to tread water with her legs. "Grab the spear! Go on, grab it!"

"Mama!" the boy squealed. "I don't wanna leave you!"

"You won't!" she yelled back! "I'll be right behind you! Please, honey- I can't hang on any longer- grab it! Just grab it!"

Aslan practically had to poke the boy in his stomach, but the child finally latched on.

With all his strength, Aslan lifted the harpoon up and over and set it down on deck. The paladin tried to pull the weapon free, but the boy was holding on too tightly, ignoring everyone's efforts to get him to relinquish it.

Aslan turned back towards the woman and held out his hand.

She was almost there.

Almost.

Almost.

He had her!

"My child!"

"He's safe! We have him!" Aslan told her. "Hang on- I'll pull you up!"

The paladin braced against the side and began to pull the woman aboard.

It was then that he noticed the waterlogged corpse right beneath the woman.

Then the corpse grabbed her foot.

* * *

The woman started to scream, and then her body went rigid. Even her cry of terror was cut off; her expression frozen in sheer horror.

_Lacedon!_

Aslan looked around.

"Someone, help!"

But there was no help to be found. Everyone else was currently involved with helping someone aboard, and the boat was now pitching violently from side to side as well as sinking lower and lower into the water. It was all Zantac and Elrohir could do to keep it upright.

Aslan gritted his teeth and pulled again.

"I won't let it get you!" he told the woman.

Only her eyes could respond.

Aslan heaved and heaved.

Slowly, more and more of the woman came out of the water.

Aslan leaned over the side as he adjusted his grip. Since the woman could not assist him, he grabbed her under one shoulder and pulled.

"Begone!" he shouted at the undead thing below the waves. "I cast you away!"

_Useless. I have no divine focus._

"Let… her… _go!" _he yelled.

Aslan grabbed the woman under her other shoulder. He had better footing now.

"You lose!" the paladin shouted down at his enemy-

-just as he saw the second ghoul emerge from underneath.

It grabbed the woman's other foot.

* * *

Sir Menn had just helped the teenaged boy onto deck when he turned towards Aslan, whom he had heard yell for help earlier.

But all he saw was the paladin, sitting on his butt on the deck.

Staring in horror at his empty hands.

* * *

The crowded fishing boat slowly made its way across the lake.

Behind it, Suderham died.

* * *

There was crying and weeping from the eleven people who had been saved. Slimebucket had done his best to keep them organized and out of the way of the others.

One of them had enough sailing knowledge to relieve Elrohir.

The ranger walked up to join Tojo and Cygnus at the bow.

"Take a look at that, Elrohir," Cygnus said as he approached. "Tell me what you make of it."

* * *

Elrohir looked. The Water Dragon was about three quarters away across the lake. That surprised him. He would have thought it would have reached dock a while ago.

"The ship stopped moving some time ago- I think about when we started picking up survivors," the mage informed him. "I almost think it started to drift."

"Heard sounds," Tojo grunted. "Too far away to be sure, but seemed rike sounds of fighting."

Elrohir stared at his two friends.

"You think there was a battle onboard?"

Cygnus turned and looked his team leader dead in the eye.

"There but for the grace of the gods go ourselves."

Elrohir gazed back at Cygnus, and then soberly nodded, clasping the wizard's shoulder as he done earlier with Aslan and Argo.

"Grace- and as Perlial would say, _the power of love." _The ranger said, smiling.

Cygnus smiled back.

"Ship underway again now," growled Tojo. "Wirr still reach far side before we do."

"But only by a few minutes, I think," Elrohir responded, trying to gauge their respective distances and speed. "We may still be able to catch them and engage in battle before they can escape into those forested hills. We know at least two of The Nine are dead. Hopefully, a few more have perished now, as well."

"We still don't have a chance against them, Elrohir," Cygnus said. "You know that."

Elrohir was about to reply when Tojo unexpectedly spoke up.

"Honor wirr see us through."

Yanigasawa Tojo stood still as a statue. The samurai's violet eyes never left their quarry for a moment.

* * *

"What the-"

Nesco Cynewine, standing at the stern near Zantac, turned to her left.

Sitdale was looking back south. Despite the twilight conditions, he appeared to be squinting.

"What is it?" Nesco asked, as she looked to their rear herself. Only the impenetrable wall of gas and smoke was visible as it slowly expanded over the lake.

The half-elf frowned. He did not turn his head as he replied.

"For a moment- I saw what looked like a puff of white smoke emerge out of that yellow smoke. It looked- like it was coming this way." He shook his head. "But then it was gone."

Nesco thought. "A burst of steam, perhaps? From a lava flow hitting the water?"

Sitdale sighed. "Maybe."

They both were quiet as they gazed out together over the darkening lake.

At some point, Lady Cynewine became aware that her hands had clenched into fists.

* * *

"As soon as we land, we move as fast as we can towards the _Water Dragon_, if they haven't disembarked." Elrohir was giving orders now. "Sir Murtano, you and Slimebucket get the others together and start herding them north. According to Slimebucket, there's an outpost a few days away. Give him back his armor once its feasible. He says the orcs in the hills won't attack the Slave Lord's minions. As for us, once we can recoup and make camp, we'll see if we can't find some way of removing Aslan's collar."

"There's one part of that I don't understand, Elrohir," Sir Menn commented.

The ranger frowned. "What part?"

"The part about _slaying the enemy!"_ the knight exclaimed. "Five of them defeated fourteen of us while we were near full strength, and now they have all our weapons and armor! How are we supposed to defeat them? With these?" he asked rhetorically, waving his stolen longsword around. "We'll be obliterated! It makes far more sense to hide out until we can free Aslan from that thing and then _teleport_ back to Chendl! From there, we can return when we're ready, with as large a force as we need!"

Elrohir looked behind Sir Menn. Arwald, Thorimund and Sir Murtano were nodding their agreement.

The group leader then eyed Unru and Sitdale. "Comments, gentleman?"

Sitdale shrugged, but the illusionist pursed his lips.

"I've always sort of preferred living to dying, Elrohir. I'm funny that way."

The ranger paused. "I see," he said slowly and then turned to his friends.

Tojo stepped forward immediately.

"I cannot reave, Errohir-sama. I retrieve my daisho now, or die."

"And I'm staying with him."

Elrohir, Aslan, Argo, Cygnus and Zantac turned to gape at Lady Nesco Cynewine.

She stepped forward, his eyes fixed on Elrohir.

"I made him a promise."

There was a long silence.

* * *

"Well, that's it then," Argo Bigfellow said, rising to his feet from where he'd been sitting.

"We stay and fight."

Tojo frowned, however. "You not need to do this, Argo-sama."

"You're right, Tojo," Bigfellow replied, nodding sagely. "We don't."

The big ranger shook his head and favored the samurai with his pained smile.

"And just when are you going to learn the difference, my friend, between what we _have_ to do, and what we _want_ to do?"

Argo looked around. He saw the agreement in the eyes of all his friends.

Now it was Sir Menn's turn to smile.

"Ah, well," the knight proclaimed as he looked over at his two companions. "I do believe I said something to Mordrammo earlier about doing what was right, and how it often wasn't feasible."

"And Hengist," Arwald added, looking over at Thorimund for confirmation. "He said it was sometimes damn near impossible."

"But we do it anyway," Elrohir finished with a smile of his own.

Sir Murtano stepped forward and raised his blade high.

"To the death of our enemies!" he cried out.

* * *

"All right then, Elrohir," Unru said as he walked over to their leader. "You're the miracle worker, they say. How in the name of all that's holy are we going to take on and defeat the Slave Lords?"

Elrohir smiled confidently as he turned and watched the _Water Dragon_ make ready for docking.

"I have no goddamned idea."


	178. Assassination

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Aerie, The Pomarj**

The child continued to cry.

Aslan clenched his fists again, trying in vain to shut the noise out. Even moving around the boat to get further away from the cries was difficult, despite the rescued Suderham citizens doing their best to lean against the gunwales and stay out of the way of their saviors.

The paladin looked over his shoulder again. A middle-aged woman was trying to comfort the boy, but he kept asking for his mother.

He kept asking over and over again when she would be coming back for him.

The woman's eyes met Aslan's.

"Explain it to him," the paladin said wearily.

She swallowed hard.

"With what words?"

Aslan stared back for a moment and then shrugged in resignation and turned away again.

* * *

Cygnus watched the three wizards huddling on the deck.

Thorimund, the last to utilize his _read magic_ cantrip, was finishing up the last of the five spells that Sir Murtano had procured for them. Cygnus had ordered the scroll torn up into five pieces- one for each spell.

"Here's how it's going to be," he announced, his voice sounding strangely hollow to his own ears. "Unru, you have the _invisibility_ scroll; Thorimund will have that _burning hands_ he's reading; Zantac, you have the _hold person, _and I'll take the _slow."_

Cygnus turned to see Sitdale behind him. The half-elf, newly outfitted with SlimeBucket's chainmail armor, was re-stringing his bow.

"Sorry, Sitdale," Cygnus told him. "You'll have to rely on your archery skills for this battle."

"Now that I've got components again, I still have a _sleep_ and a few cantrips as well," the half-elf reminded him.

Zantac slowly got to his feet, made his way carefully over to Sitdale and cast a spell, which he finished by pulling out a small turtle shell and touching it to Sitdale's skin.

"_Protection from Arrows,"_ he murmured. "You'll need it. You'll probably be drawing most of their missile fire."

The half-elf smiled. "I always did like to draw."

* * *

"What have you got in your head, Unru, besides smart remarks and a few cantrips?"

The illusionist shrugged at Cygnus' query. "Two images and a _dispel_. That's all I need, really."

The tall wizard turned to Thorimund. "And you?"

Thorimund sighed.

"A _sleep_ and this dagger Argo gave me."

Cygnus eyed Thormord's son.

"You still look too shaky to fight, Thorimund. You should stay out of this."

Thorimund's emerald eyes glared at Cygnus beneath bushy eyebrows.

"I'd rather die during battle than be executed after one."

"I think we can all agree _sleep_ is wasted on any of The Nine, although they do have some lackeys on board. Hit them with that," Zantac offered, before fixing his gaze back on Cygnus. "And what about that _telekinesis_ scroll?"

Cygnus shrugged again. "For now, I'll hang onto it. It's a powerful spell- I've never tried to cast anything like it, but I've got the best chance of doing it out of all of us, if things do get that desperate."

Zantac paused before speaking up.

"Have you ever seen something go wrong when a mage tries to cast from a scroll too advanced for him?" He chuckled grimly. "Zelhile calls it a _mishap_. Trust me; it can be worse than that, Cygnus. A lot worse." His expression lost all levity as he stared at his fellow wizard.

"It can be very ugly."

A whisper of a smile crossed Cygnus' face.

"I've seen you get up in the morning, Zantac. That can get pretty ugly, too."

* * *

From the bow, Elrohir watched as the _Water Dragon_ slowly turned around so that the ship's stern faced the shore. A rope was hurled from the galley to a waiting guardsman on the dock, who wrapped it around one of the cleats.

"They'll be fully docked in about a minute," Argo noted.

Elrohir eyed the tactical situation. The single pier before them had no other boats currently docked, but he didn't dare risk bringing his overloaded fishing vessel alongside on the other side of the pier. They'd be shot to pieces before anyone managed to disembark.

The ranger looked further to the right. The lake was surrounded on all sides by open grassland to a depth of thirty to forty feet before it hit the forest. Moving east from the dock, the lakeshore curved southeastwards, towards them. That was good, but large boulders jutted out of the lake surface near the shore towards where they were heading.

That was bad.

To avoid the rocks, they'd have to bring their boat in almost two hundred feet away from the _Water Dragon_. That would leave their enemies time to react. Too much time.

_Can't be helped, though. It's the best of our terrible choices._

Elrohir turned to the young man manning the sail and pointed towards the spot on the shoreline he wanted.

"Bring us in there!"

The sailor frowned. "There's a sandbar under the water there, sir. We'll run aground before we make shore."

Elrohir considered. "About how far out?"

"Running as low as we are, sir, I doubt we'd get closer than thirty feet."

The group leader took a deep breath. "Do it."

* * *

Nesco wished she had Sundancer.

Even unable to utilize the sword's special power, the weapon seemed to impart a confidence to the ranger that she was now sorely lacking.

She looked around at her teammates.

Aslan did not look tensed for battle. The paladin's body positively slumped from weariness and despair. Nesco had not seen what had happened with the young boy's mother, but she had heard about it. For the first time since she had known him, Aslan truly looked to Nesco as if he did not have the heart to fight.

She caught Bigfellow's eye. The big ranger seemed relaxed enough at first glance, but she noted his increased breathing and the tighter grip with which he clenched his sword. Nesco could tell that Argo had also noticed Aslan's malaise, but he could only shake his head at Lady Cynewine. She could see her fellow ranger's mind.

_You can't help him with this, Lady Cynewine. Only victory or death will cure him._

Having turned over the rudder to one of the Suderham natives, Zantac stood side-by-side with Cygnus. Nesco watched the shorter wizard flash a quick grin to his fellow arcanist. She couldn't tell if the taller mage returned it or not.

Nesco had never seen Cygnus' son Thorin.

She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be a mother.

Trying to shake the thought loose, she looked at their reinforcements. Sir Menn, Sitdale and Unru seemed ready enough. Arwald and Thorimund were standing and talking quietly together. Sir Murtano, standing nearby, caught her eye and smiled.

Tojo was standing by the mast, facing forward. Exactly the opposite of Aslan, the samurai's body was charged with anticipation. Nesco knew Tojo was going to run and leap into the water at the first opportunity. Facing his only opportunity to regain the shreds of honor he had left to him, the Yanigasawa samurai was going to fight as bravely as he ever had before.

_But how reckless will he be?_ Nesco wondered.

* * *

"Everyone ready!" shouted Elrohir.

All the planning, such as it had been, was over.

Physically, his team was as battle-ready as they could ever be under the circumstances.

When the boat ran aground, they were going to get onto dry land as soon as possible and then make a beeline for the _Water Dragon._

The survivors of Suderham, under Slimebucket, were going to swim to shore and then make a mad dash for safety in the opposite direction.

Talass' body would remain onboard their boat.

Her husband knew he would return for her-

-or he would join her.

* * *

Elrohir knew this was the time.

This was the time for his speech.

This was the time for him to inspire his comrades; to steel their hearts for the desperate struggle that lay ahead.

A struggle against odds as overwhelming as any they had faced before.

But the words did not come.

They never seemed to for Elrohir. Not when he needed them.

The ranger saw that everybody was already looking at him.

And his first utterance was not a commanding shout, but almost that of a soft plea.

"Listen- all of you."

* * *

"I'm sorry," the ranger confessed. "I wish I had words of inspiration for you; words to cheer your hearts and lift your spirits, but I don't. All I have is fear and desperation."

He saw his friends looking at him with expressions of dismay on their faces. He knew that even knowing him as they did, they would be expecting something- _anything_ more than this.

So Elrohir said the first words that he could.

They never even passed through his head before they passed through his lips.

He was simply another member of his audience, listening.

"But despite that; despite any doubts we might harbor, despite the tactical situation which stands gravely against us, we're going to triumph here today anyway."

Elrohir looked around and continued, becoming more animated.

"We're going to win, quite simply, because we _have_ to! We're going to win because this is a battle we will not walk away from if we lose! As surely as putting one foot in front of the other propels us forward, we will fight and fight and fight until we are victorious!"

He hesitated, and lowered his voice again.

"We are winners," he finished, simply and quietly. "We always have been. So let's show the Slave Lords who they're really dealing with."

* * *

Elrohir shot one last glance at the _Water Dragon_. Soldiers in leather armor were now climbing down her unfurled rope ladder onto the dock.

And for one second, on the deck near the bow of the galley, he saw a face staring at him.

A face as dark as the blackest night.

Then it was gone.

Elrohir felt Cygnus come up beside him on his right, one hand grasping the rail.

"The svartalf?" the magic-user asked.

Elrohir nodded grimly. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to expect.

He had half-thought that they really didn't exist after all. That they were only a myth.

He looked to his left.

Sitdale stared first back at him, and then over at Cygnus.

"The elven word," he said quietly, "is _drow."_

* * *

"We're about to hit!" the sailor yelled. "Hang on!"

The boat struck the sandbar and slid to a halt.

The sound of timbers creaking and cracking filled the air. Even holding on as best they could, some individuals were thrown forward and tumbled to the shifting deck.

Elrohir screamed wordlessly as he leapt off the bow of the boat.

He had a brief glimpse of seemingly hanging in mid-air, surrounded by his friends similarly suspended.

All flying forward.

To victory or death.

* * *

Water was spraying everywhere.

Elrohir swam forward as far as he could, until his toes felt the bottom.

He pushed himself to his feet and hit the rocky beach. The ranger was across the thin strip in two strides, and then clambered up the three-foot high embankment. His feet pounded into the grass and dug in. Each step forward was almost a leap.

Elrohir ran like he had never run before.

He could sense his companions were right behind him, but he didn't dare turn his head to look.

The ranger's vision bounced up and down as he concentrated on going still faster with every pump of his legs. His heart pounded in his ears. Every beat sounded like the striking of a huge drum implanted in his chest.

He was about a hundred feet- a little more, maybe- from the _Water Dragon_ now.

But the Slave Lords had already begun to disembark.

* * *

Seven guards held a front line abreast, just past the dock. All seven were cocking and aiming light crossbows.

_Damn_, thought Elrohir.

They were all running far too quickly to even attempt to dodge.

But the soldiers didn't fire.

* * *

Another figure stood behind them. He was only intermittently visible as he passed behind his troops, but it clear to Elrohir who he was.

Theg Narlot was not tall- in fact, he was shorter than many of his men. He was the shortest orc, either half or full-blooded, that Elrohir had ever seen. He wore leather armor overlain with a tunic depicting the symbol of Suderham- the slave inside the triangle of chains. He had a longsword in his hands, and was apparently shouting orders at his men, although the ranger couldn't make out the words.

Behind them, at the point where the dock met the grasslands, was another figure.

* * *

Elrohir's first impression was that it was Brother Milerjoi. The man was about the same size as the monk. He was unarmed, and wore similar robes, although these were a bright scarlet in color. Only his belt was grey.

It wasn't Milerjoi, though. Although this man was balding, his remaining hair was black, cut short and bristly. A short strip of it ran partially down, almost reaching his forehead.

He wore a black domino mask on his face.

The man moved his body through several positions that Elrohir had seen Tojo do sometimes before entering battle.

But unlike Brother Milerjoi's calm detachment, this man was scowling at them.

* * *

Still onboard, Scurvy John stood near the stern, readying a heavy crossbow.

At amidships was the so-called Lamonsten the Lazy, studying the approaching mob with the tactical eye of a wizard.

And furthest away, near the bow, stood Mordrammo, the High Priest of The Earth Dragon.

Next to him was Edralve.

* * *

The first drow Elrohir had ever seen was remarkably short- or perhaps she merely seemed that way standing next to Mordrammo. Edralve's head barely cleared the railing on top of the ship's gunwale. The dark elf was wearing an unusual helm of some black metal that covered only the center of her head down to her eyes, with curving, pointed cheekguards. Two horns- vaguely like those of a unicorn- of some unknown beast curved upwards from the helm.

She had long, flowing hair the color of newly fallen snow. Elrohir couldn't see the rest of her.

And just as the ranger was deciding where exactly where he was going to charge, a voice rang out right in front of him.

"_STOP!"_

* * *

Elrohir brought himself up to a halt.

It hadn't been a magical compulsion- at least, not that he was aware of- but perhaps this time it was the Slave Lords who sought parley.

_Perhaps_, he thought, _they've weakened themselves more with their infighting than we dared hope._

In any event, still no missile fire came their way.

The voice had not been familiar, but Elrohir suspected it had come from Lamonsten; the wizard no doubt employing a _ventriloquism_ spell.

The ranger glanced behind him. His friends were all there, but he was surprised to see both Aslan and Tojo in the rear. He had supposed the samurai would be in an unstoppable fury by now, desperate to regain his lost swords and his lost honor. Apparently, he had decided on a more calculated approach towards that end. That fact warmed Elrohir's heart, but the paladin's absence from their front ranks could only mean that Aslan's depression was finally getting the better of him.

And there was no more time for speeches.

At that instant, one of the Slave Lords spoke again, but to everyone's surprise, it wasn't Lamonsten.

It wasn't even Mordrammo.

And the person who was speaking wasn't even addressing them.

"Well, Your Sacredness, you've fixed us all but good, haven't you?"

* * *

Even from over a hundred feet out, the rage in Mordrammo's frame was evident as he turned to the smaller figure next to him.

"Silence, you trollop! We have already agreed we will speak of this later! We show one united face now, or you die where you stand!"

"You agreed, Mordrammo- I said no such thing," the svartalf responded calmly. "The particulars of our situation rest squarely on your shoulders- as does the death of our city."

Mordrammo was speechless.

So were his fellow Slave Lords.

As were Elrohir and his companions.

* * *

"What?" the High Priest finally managed.

"Still willfully blind?" Edralve queried, an edge to her voice sharp as a dagger. "This goes beyond your loathsome attempts to paint me as a traitor, Mordrammo. As part of your so-called master plan, _you_ led the Furyondans here!"

"_I am not responsible for The Earth Dragon's anger at them_!" bellowed the cleric.

"_It's not them he's angry at, you pathetic fool- IT'S YOU!"_

Mordrammo clutched the railing of the ship for support.

"Me?"

"Of course!" Edralve shot back. "You've been so concerned with outmaneuvering me and entrenching yourself as leader of The Nine, you forgot your duties as High Priest, didn't you? The acolytes told me you've been neglecting the ceremonies!"

"They can perform them just as well, as I instructed them to!" Mordrammo retorted.

Edralve laughed, her voice silky. "I think your god disagrees with you, oh High Priest, since they're all now dead, along with everyone else. I'm no High Priestess," she shrugged, fingering something around her neck, "but I would never shunt aside my worship of The Elder Elemental Eye in favor of political games. Face it, Mordrammo- you led our enemies to our doorstep, and now we're all paying the price for your hubris!"

The drow moved backwards as she spoke, out of sight of Elrohir and his friends.

"Now what shall we do?" her voice was heard.

"If you can put your childish fantasies on hold long enough, you piece of trash, I'll show you." Mordrammo snarled at the black elf, and then returned his attention to Elrohir and the others while reaching beside him and lifting his dragon helm over his head.

"_And now, Furyondans,"_ the High Priest boomed, _"witness your-"_

A gasp tore loose from Mordrammo's throat, and his body jerked.

* * *

The dragon helm dropped from the cleric's hands. It bounced off the galley's railing and dropped into the water.

The High Priest didn't seem to notice, however. He was staring, his gaze high, seemingly looking at nothing.

Elrohir saw Lamonsten and John gaping.

Edralve appeared again at Mordrammo's side.

She was smiling now.

Slowly, the leader of the Slave Lords turned his head to look at her.

In the dark elf's right hand was a bloody dagger, which she held out for Mordrammo to see.

The High Priest opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was blood.

* * *

"There's been a referendum, my dear Mordrammo," purred the drow, "and we've decided on a change of leadership."

And with that she clamped her mouth over his in a horrid kiss.

* * *

Elrohir stood in horror. In a far corner of his mind, he knew this would be the perfect time to strike and gain the element of surprise against the Slave Lords.

But his gaze couldn't leave that terrible scene.

Blood dripped between their lips onto the railing.

Finally, Edralve pulled away, swallowing.

The svartalf tenderly cradled the back of Mordrammo's head with her left hand.

For just a moment, a sad smile appeared on that black, blood-smeared face.

"I know you've been dying for my kiss for years."

The smile vanished.

"So die."

She pushed him over the railing.

* * *

As he fell, the High Priest's eyes rolled up in his head.

One last sound came from his throat- but it sounded like a throaty growl.

A mote of light appeared around the cleric's falling body- and then another.

Hundreds of glowing pinpricks swirled around him, spinning faster and faster.

Then he flashed white and disappeared.

There was no splash of water.

_He's not invisible_, thought Elrohir. _He's gone._

* * *

"Now," Edralve said calmly as she addressed the remaining Slave Lords, wiping her blade clean with a handkerchief, "you can attack me as the Furyondans kill you from behind, or we act together and give them the gruesome death they so richly deserve. Which shall it be?"

"Depends," the voice of an unfamiliar woman came from somewhere on deck they couldn't see. "Is it still about to happen?"

In response, the black elf turned to Lamonsten.

The wizard glanced at her, and then turned his attention back towards Elrohir and the others.

He wasn't casting, but a great big smile suddenly appeared on the wizard's face.

Elrohir didn't like that smile.

"Oh, yes," Lamonsten said. "In fact, I'd say just about- _now!"_

"_Look out!"_ Elrohir yelled, not knowing from what or where, but a terrible fear filled the ranger's body even as his eyes whirled about, seeking an unknown threat.

And then he heard the gasp.

From the rear.

Elrohir couldn't help but cry out.

Nor could Argo.

Or Cygnus, or Zantac.

Or Nesco, or Sir Menn, or Sitdale, or Unru, or Arwald, or Thorimund.

* * *

Aslan didn't cry out.

But he and Yanigasawa Tojo locked eyes.

One in horror and one in pain.

One in guilt and one in shame.

Aslan opened his mouth, but no words came out.

It was too late.

Yanigasawa Tojo opened his mouth- but only blood came out.

* * *

Tojo only looked once at the tip of the spear that was protruding from his chest.

The samurai turned his head.

At eye-level, a katana and wakazashi dangled from a hip tantalizingly close to him.

The samurai looked upwards.

* * *

Coal-black eyes stared down at him. Dark brown, greasy hair dangled from above a face covered in blue, warty skin.

The ogre mage towered above Tojo, grinning. In his hands he carried another spear, even larger than the one he had stabbed Tojo with.

The samurai crumpled to the ground and did not move again.

* * *

"Now then," Blackthorn raised his head to smile at Elrohir, "I believe we were discussing the loss of things near and dear to us."

Black steam came from his mouth.

"Say goodbye to life."

* * *

The svartalf shrieked with laughter.

In a pure tactical response, Elrohir glanced back just in time to see the dark elf make a grand sweeping gesture encompassing the ranger and all his friends.

Who, Elrohir realized, might just have their last and fatal mistake.

"_Kill them!"_ Edralve screamed. _"KILL THEM ALL!"_


	179. The Final Battle

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

The soldiers fired.

_Amateurs_, Elrohir thought.

* * *

The ranger's body was in motion even as the assessment flashed through Elrohir's mind. As the team leader hit the ground in a forward roll he could hear the bolts pass harmlessly overhead. All seven men had fired at him- the lead figure and closest target, ignoring the unarmored mages behind him. Further, they had all fired at once, rather than staggering their fire, and had all released their bolts at the same height.

Elrohir wasn't planning on giving them time to reload, but that was the arcanists' job.

He had a date with an elf to attend to.

* * *

The shoreline curved in towards the dock however, and the crossbowmen were still in a line leading from the shore inward. That meant that the soldier closest to the water was directly in Elrohir's path.

That warrior was still reloading his crossbow when he looked up and saw the Furyondan who had been forty feet away just a few seconds earlier charging directly at him.

There was no time to draw his sword. All the soldier could do was plant his feet and stand his ground.

He wasn't going to let this man just-

* * *

Elrohir grunted as he pushed off the fallen warrior's face with his leather boot. Not giving the man he'd overrun a second thought, the ranger altered his trajectory slightly to the left and ran onto the dock.

He was gladdened when he saw the svartalf leap off the railing of the _Water Dragon._ Edralve's feet made only intermittent contact with the ship's rope ladder and she landed gracefully on her feet, a rapier already drawn, her red eyes upon him and her still-bloodstained lips curved in a sly smile.

The drow was wearing what looked like elven chain, except it was black in color. It contoured to her body in a way Elrohir had rarely seen. The chain featured a red spider design on the abdomen, with the top two legs curving up over the elf's breasts. It covered less of her legs than high elf armor normally did- barely past the thigh.

The overall effect was enticing, arousing, and- yet to Elrohir- horrifying as well.

It was a perversion of all the elven concepts of beauty he had been raised with as a child.

Yet it was still somehow beautiful.

And her eyes.

Even as Elrohir approached them, his body filled with hatred and his mind fighting to hold onto that same anger, they sought him out.

They were filled with knowledge.

"My Hidden lover comes at last," Edralve called out in elven, her rapier making small circles in the air as the weapon faced him.

"I've been waiting for you, _dearest!"_

The emphasis she put on the last word punched through Elrohir's stomach like the dagger still in its sheath at Edralve's waist.

She knew what he had lost.

* * *

Even as the sprinting Argo Bigfellow Junior approached the hole in the soldiers' line made by his group leader, the big ranger could hear the profanity from onboard the ship.

Cursing a blue streak, Scurvy John was fumbling with his heavy crossbow, the weapon apparently having jammed. The pirate tossed out his bolt, rammed a new one in, aimed at his approaching foe and fired.

Right into the _fog cloud._

* * *

Argo hadn't known exactly when Unru was going to use that spell, but he knew the illusionist had it memorized. Even if he hadn't told Elrohir about it, Bigfellow had heard Unru talking about it during their wizard conference in the abandoned warehouse, all those long days ago.

The shouts and cries of the soldiers filled his hearing.

Appearing right between the line of crossbowmen and the startled Theg Narlot, the patch of fog had spread with breathtaking speed until it covered all the warriors and their leader. Argo plunged right into the cloud without hesitating, hoping it didn't cover more than the twenty foot radius he was guessing at.

It didn't, although the ranger felt his feet almost slip off the edge of the shore as he ran through the fog. He compensated by using the still-prone soldier as a temporary carpet.

Argo emerged from the _fog cloud_ onto the deck. Unru had placed his spell just right, covering an area from dock to forest but not encompassing either.

Bigfellow saw Elrohir racing towards Edralve, but his mind was on his own quarry.

Scurvy John wasn't going to get away this time.

Argo pulled up short at the rope line that attached the galley's stern to the dock. He was already starting to climb up it when he heard the sound of a crossbow being reloaded.

* * *

There was too much happening all at once.

Aslan's eyes had barely registered the horror of what had happened to Tojo when cries from the front made the paladin glance that way.

Unru had moved laterally to the right- towards the forest- before he had cast his spell, so as not to get in the way of his companions, but now the paladin could see the man in scarlet robes emerge from the forest, where he had evidently skirted the _fog cloud._

The monk- if he was one- was moving towards the illusionist. Fast. Insanely fast.

Unru was starting to back up, but he didn't have half this man's speed.

* * *

Aslan didn't even remember bolting, but he did lock eyes with Nesco as he passed, so he must have. The paladin ran as he had never run before, blowing past Unru and coming to a halt right before the man in scarlet, who likewise stopped.

"You might as well flee, paladin," he announced, a snarl on his lips. "It's the only thing you seem to be good at."

Aslan ignored the jibe as he readied his sword into position. "If petty insults are your only weapon, you're sadly outmatched."

"I need no weapon to defeat you," came the swift reply. "Prepare to fall at the hands of Brother Kerin of the Scarlet Brotherhood. Your blood shall avenge that of my master."

The paladin had no interest in either this man's name or where he had came from. "What makes you think any of that matters to me?"

The monk seemed to relax as, paradoxically, his body settled into a fighting stance. "I always make it a point to let my victims know the name of their killer."

Aslan snorted. "Another case of ego over brains."

"Perhaps." Brother Kerin was no longer smiling. "But I cannot be rendered helpless and useless as easily as you have been."

The paladin's mind was just registering the meaning of that last statement when Kerin's fist bypassed his defenses and struck him in the face.

Aslan's world seemed to explode.

* * *

"_Dammit, Unru!"_ yelled Cygnus. "I was just about to target the orc! Let me know before you pull stunts like that!"

"I'm a man of the moment," the illusionist replied without taking his eyes off the scene in front of him. "Whatever you're planning, make it quick. There's a breeze blowing- that cloud won't last long."

"Look out, skinny," Zantac ordered as he cut past Cygnus, sidestepping right as Unru had done, although not as far. "Let the Sandman through." The Willip wizard looked over at Sitdale and Thorimund. "I'll start from the forest edge. You two work your way inwards. Overlapping fields."

"Got it," Sitdale acknowledged.

From within the fog cloud, the cries of the soldiers began to lessen as some of them began to fall asleep to the new sound of soft _thuds_ as they tumbled to the grass.

* * *

Cygnus frowned as the last of his arcanist peers finished casting their _sleep_ spells.

"They're tougher than we hoped," he said. "We got maybe half, if that."

And here comes Narlot," added Zantac pointing at the figure slowly emerging from the center of the fog.

"I'll handle it," Sir Menn announced, and began heading forward to intercept him.

Cygnus turned his attention back towards the _Water Dragon._

Lamonsten's gaze was locked squarely on him.

_What now?_ Cygnus wondered. _My options are limited. Hold to counterspell when he makes his move, or try to immobilize him now with the telekinesis? And what's the range on that, anyway? Can I hit him from here or not?_

Slowly, against his better judgment, Cygnus began to move forward. He was perhaps seventy feet as the crow flies from the Slave Lord wizard when Lamonsten spoke.

* * *

"So, the mighty Cygnus wishes to engage in a wizard's duel, does he?"

"Not really," the Aardian mage responded honestly. "I'd much prefer it if your heart happened to give out about now."

"There's a spell that can do just that," said Lamonsten. "Pity you don't know it."

Cygnus paused.

"And do you?" He asked, hoping he was keeping the trembling out of his voice.

Lamonsten smiled. "For one who can pierce the boundaries between reality and illusion, all things are possible."

He glared hard at Cygnus, the smile gone.

"Frump was merely the apprentice. Prepare to meet the master."

He began casting.

Cygnus was too far away to identify the spell, but something suddenly flashed through his mind. The name _Frump_ had conjured an image.

A spell the old man, for whatever reason, hadn't cast against them.

But it was in his spellbook.

And suddenly Cygnus was incanting as well, hurling his d_ispel_ against the unknown and unseen power that was coming his way; trying to counterspell it.

Trying as if his life depended on it.

* * *

"What's that?" Sitdale asked, pointing.

Zantac and Thorimund followed the half-elf's outstretched finger. In front of Cygnus, a vague, smoky shape was coalescing. It had almost no visible form at all- like the haunt from the slavers' stockade, but even more insubstantial than that.

But whatever it was, it was moving directly towards Cygnus.

It was the party's illusionist who first cried out.

"_By the gods, it's a phantasmal killer! Run, Cygnus, RUN!"_

But Cygnus did not hear any of them.

He could only stare at the approaching figure, which- only to him- was slowly but surely growing more distinctive. He could do nothing but despair in the knowledge that his counterspell had failed.

And he could feel nothing but the terror that was growing inside him every second, rooting him to the spot.

And Cygnus could hear nothing but the sound of his own heart, beating louder and louder and faster and faster.

As if any moment, it might burst.

* * *

For months now, Nesco Cynewine knew that this moment would come.

But she had never imagined that when it did, she would not even glance at the body of a man whom in such a short time she had come to love as one of her dearest friends.

She was a ranger. A fighter, a warrior of the Azure Order. And there was work to do first.

And that meant killing- or being killed.

_Stay inside his reach!_

That one thought screamed all throughout Nesco's brain as she launched herself at Blackthorn.

The ogre mage had apparently anticipated that however, for the giant spear was already in motion to intercept the movement

But not Nesco's movement.

It wasn't until she heard Arwald cry out that the ranger realized that the fighter had also moved in to attack Blackthorn, although he had been taking a more roundabout route towards the ogre mage's rear, apparently attempting to flank the monster with Lady Cynewine.

It wasn't a mortal wound- Arwald had partially dodged at the last moment- but blood still flowed freely from his left shoulder, and the agony he was in was all too obvious. His sword's swing, off-angle, merely bounced off the beast's thick, warty hide.

But Nesco's didn't.

Blackthorn roared in pain as the ranger's blade cut into his right thigh. The ogre mage moved left, away from his attackers so as to bring his weapon into play again, but they both swung at him as he retreated. Arwald missed again, but Nesco did not.

Even as the wound to his leg began to heal, the creature which Tojo had called an _oni _stared in apparent wonderment at the new slash that had been opened down the length of his right arm.

Then he looked down at Nesco- and smiled.

"Hard to believe you would throw away the gift of resurrection so quickly, Lady Cynewine," he rumbled. "Rest assured, this time I will make sure that you stay dead."

"Is that all you ogres know how to say?" shot back Nesco as she prepared to move in again.

But suddenly the tip of Blackthorn's spear penetrated into her right side. It was immediately pulled back again, and the pain was so overwhelming that Nesco didn't even register the small, backwards-facing barbs that adorned the spear's point.

And then, before she could recover or react, Blackthorn's weapon slammed into and through Nesco's leather breastplate.

Exactly where it had before.

Twin roars filled Nesco's ears.

Blackthorn's roar of triumph and the roar of her own blood.


	180. The Slave Lords Strike Back

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Elrohir charged, screaming in rage.

Her smile still fixed, Edralve stepped neatly aside at the last moment. Her rapier flew faster than the ranger's longsword, and the dark elf's blade punctured Elrohir's leather armor on his left shoulder.

The pain wiped out everything else from the team leader's mind. In an instant, Elrohir realized how he had been baited, but the pain from the wound still slowed his reaction time. By the time Elrohir could settle into his battle routine, the svartalf already had the offensive. And she continued to press it.

Her fighting style was essentially elven. Light, fluid. Elrohir knew it readily. He had spent his early years as a warrior learning it, only to later adopt a more power-based, human-taught sword style. When the ranger was fresh, it proved unbeatable to nearly every opponent who had ever come up against it.

But Elrohir's sword work was predicated on his wearing his plate mail. Large bulky armor that could absorb the blows that his massive attacks sometimes left him open to.

He wasn't wearing plate now.

And the only thing fresh about Elrohir was the blood that he was losing.

* * *

The drow was toying with him.

The black elf kept up her parries and thrusts with an intensity that prevented Elrohir from mounting a counterattack, but she was not risking a battle-ending lunge. Not yet.

And she taunted him.

"After all these years, the legendary Elrohir finally meets his match," Edralve sang out to him in the Common tongue.

The realization that the svartalf had obviously been scrying on him- probably through Ajakstu- for much longer than he had realized was another sting to the ranger, but he willed himself not to focus on that. Edralve wasn't going to kill him with words.

But she still taunted him.

"What's wrong, Elrohir? Don't you have a miracle up your sleeve? You always do, they say. Some brilliant stroke of tactical genius that changes night into day, sorrow into rejoicing and defeat into victory!"

She feinted a thrust, too fast to dodge, and Elrohir desperately parried the arc of her swing only at the last instant.

"That's all you ever really had going for you, you know," the dark elf purred, her rapier never slowing. "A weak, petulant, so-called _leader_, blessed only with some odd ability to reach into a well and draw out a solution to your troubles at will."

Edralve came in again, her blade describing a pattern of cuts and slices through the air that alternated attacks and parries to attacks that Elrohir was only thinking of attempting. The ranger stepped in closer for a moment to avoid them.

For an instant, they were face-to-face, staring into each other's eyes.

"This is the day your well runs dry," Edralve said, her ebony face suddenly devoid of all attention.

She kept her eyes fixed on his, but Elrohir caught her body language and jumped backwards just ahead of the dagger now clasped in the drow's left hand.

The dagger that was coated with a black liquid that was undoubtedly poison.

Elrohir had avoided the dagger but his backwards leap had put him back in the rapier's reach. He moved to parry, but only succeeding in having his cheek slit instead of his neck.

The ranger began to retreat, his earlier rage now lost in an ocean of pain.

Edralve however, stayed with him.

"What's the matter, dearest?' she cooed. "Don't you want to dance with me anymore?"

Another lunge, barely avoided.

"Now that Mordrammo's out of the group portrait, perhaps you could be Feetla's replacement, and serve at my side?"

The rapier came in low. Elrohir kicked forward, trying to disarm her, but the blade was pulled back along his leg, its tip ripping the leather as it did so.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful, Elrohir? No more worrying about having to be a winner all the time. No concerns except how to fulfill my every desire. From the rumors I've heard, I think you'd be… up to the task. What do you say?"

Edralve suddenly stepped back. It allowed both combatants to draw breath, but Elrohir knew he was in much worse shape.

The dark elf's face suddenly grew thoughtful in the same way that Argo's often did, as if a deep thought had just occurred to her.

"Wait a moment," Edralve said.

She looked at Elrohir with the wide-eyed innocence of a child.

"You're not _married_ or anything, are you?"

Giggling, the drow lunged in for the kill.

* * *

Argo pushed out away from the hull.

The _whoosh_ of the crossbow bolt flying by a hairs-breadth from his face was surprisingly loud. The big ranger almost lost his grip on the tow line, but he held on and continued to climb with his hands even as his feet kept the rope swinging back and forth in a pendulum arc.

Bigfellow was a fast climber, but he had not quite reached the rail when he saw why Scurvy John had not fired at him with his crossbow again.

The pirate stood upon the sterncastle directly above Argo. He was grinning.

And the gleaming cutlass he held in his upraised hand made no explanation for his smile necessary.

* * *

The sword came down upon the railing, slicing the tow rope neatly through.

An instant after Argo had leapt for the railing while at the top of the rope's arc.

Bigfellow made it- even managing to draw his longsword in his right hand- but John quickly moved over to stand by Argo's new position. Again the cutlass rose- and this time the ranger's left hand was the target.

Argo threw his sword at him.

It was a move born of sheer desperation. The weapon wasn't balanced for throwing at all, but even so it came right as Scurvy's face, and the pirate instinctively threw up his own sword arm to block and stepped back as Argos' stolen weapon bounced off and clattered to the deck.

When John moved forward to attack again, Argo was just jumping down on deck.

The cutlass couldn't be avoided.

Argo knew it. Scurvy had those first precious few seconds on him, and Bigfellow no longer had a weapon to parry with. All the big ranger could do was twist his body and hope the wound would not be a fatal one.

It might have been one.

Bigfellow was trying to move backwards as the cutlass sped towards his abdomen, but he had his back to the railing, so he could only slide back and try to contort his torso.

The blade still penetrated his armor and sank in.

Argo's stomach felt like it was on fire.

He locked his auburn eyes upon his enemy's coal-black ones.

The Slave Lord roared in triumph.

But when Scurvy John pulled his weapon back, Argo came forward with it.

* * *

The pirate's eyes widened in astonishment.

"_Huh?"_

In Instant One, it all made sense. The accursed Bigfellow, by keeping John's cutlass in him even as he stepped forward, had moved closer.

And in Instant Two, Argo Bigfellow's uppercut smashed into his chin.

* * *

Argo screamed again as Scurvy's cutlass was jerked out as the pirate stumbled backwards.

And tripped; first over Argo's sword and then down the stairs that led up to the sterncastle.

John fell hard, his back slamming onto the main deck, but his right arm still came up with the cutlass to ward off any attacks Bigfellow might make to take advantage of the situation.

But Argo did not attack the prone pirate.

He made no move to retrieve his sword.

He said not a word to him.

Instead, Argo Bigfellow Junior turned his back to him.

* * *

Of course, it made sense. Everything Argo did eventually could be seen to make sense, although Aslan always insisted hard liquor was an indispensable aid towards that end.

The big ranger had seen the large chest that sat upon the deck of the sterncastle as soon as his face had cleared the railing. He had also noted that it had been tipped onto its side and the lid thrown open.

All their equipment was there.

* * *

He knew he only had a few seconds.

Pieces of armor and clothing went flying as the ranger burrowed through the pile like a badger. Here and there the glint of a ring beckoned to him, but Argo was interested in only one object.

_Damn it, it's too big to be lost in here! Where in Tartarus is it?_

"Looking for this, Pigfellow?"

A sphere of dim red light enveloped Argo from behind.

Argo spun around and stared up from his crouch.

_I should have known_, the ranger mused sadly as he slowly rose to his feet.

It all made sense.

He'd also seen from boarding that, unlike their last encounter, Scurvy John was now wearing two hilted swords from his belt. The thought hadn't bothered Bigfellow, because the swords were too big for the pirate to fight with one in each hand.

But although John- who had remounted he stairs- was holding only one sword aloft now, it wasn't his cutlass.

"I think Alabin will be pleased by the irony, don't you?" the pirate continued. "His brother's murderer avenged by his own weapon?

"Sorry, Bigfellow," came the mournful voice of Harve. "Looks like I've got a new master now."

A bellow erupted from Scurvy's lips as he charged.

Argo saw the tip of his own sword heading right for his heart.

* * *

A miniature sun erupted inside Aslan's head.

Bright light blinded his eyes, a roaring filled his ears- and the pain enveloped his whole body, cascading from his forehead down and turning off all his muscles.

The paladin felt the blood trickling down his face as he stumbled backwards. It was even worse than being struck by Tojo during that terrible incident in the stockade.

He was stunned. Unable to act coherently.

Aslan couldn't see Brother Kerin anymore- but he could feel him.

A fist, or an elbow, or something- rocketed into his cheek, spinning the paladin around. An instant later the heel of Kerin's bare foot slammed into the small of his back.

As Aslan stumbled forward, he could feel the pain beginning to overwhelm him.

Everyplace the monk had struck him felt- broken.

And the sword wound in his left side- even his ankle- was flaring up again.

He had to do something.

He couldn't just stumble around while this Slave Lord literally beat the life out of him.

Aslan tried to let his faith do with his body what his mind couldn't.

* * *

The paladin dug in his right foot into the grass as hard as he could and pivoted, spinning around. Aslan's sword came slicing right-to-left in a wide arc.

Brother Kerin yelped and jumped back. The wound was trivial- little more than a slight gash along the chest, judging by the miniscule amount of blood that seeped through the rip in the monk's scarlet robes.

But it was enough to halt Kerin's relentless assault. He took the opportunity to gain breath while mocking the paladin again.

"Is that the best you have, Aslan? Why not use your Talent against me? Oh, that's right!" Kerin chided, slapping his head to his forehead in mock realization. _"You don't have it anymore!"_

Then he was on the attack again.

The monk seemed to be everywhere at once. Aslan's sword deflected one attack, but two more would strike home at seemingly the same instant.

Kerin didn't even stop his verbal assaults. Every blow came accompanied by a fresh accusation.

A fist to his face.

"You've made yourself reliant on only one thing, Aslan!"

An elbow jabbed into his neck.

"You've doomed not only yourself, but your friends as well!"

A head butt.

"You brought them here, never telling them how weak you really were!"

A spinning roundhouse kick to his chest.

"_How useless!"_

Aslan stumbled back again, as weak in spirit as he was in body.

The paladin's legs gave out, and he landed on his back in the grass.

Blood, pain and sweat all obscured Aslan's vision. All he could see of the monk was a scarlet blur, bisected by the thin grey line of his belt.

Aslan couldn't fight anymore. He could barely move.

He knew Brother Kerin was right.

Desperate not to let down his friends, he'd tried to convince himself that Elrohir's words of encouragement were true. That he really had something to offer them other than his Talent.

But he didn't.

And as Brother Kerin moved closer to finish him off, Aslan could almost feel the beginnings of something pleasant.

An acceptance.

Brother Kerin wasn't just his opponent. He was a divine executioner, sent by Lord Odin to punish Aslan for the sin of his pride. Since the age of twelve, he'd been so intent on developing his Talent-

-that he'd forgot to develop himself.

Aslan waited for the final blow to fall.

* * *

Horror began to take shape.

Cygnus was as unable to look away from the visage in front of him as he had been when Iuz himself had appeared at the Brass Dragon on that terrible day.

It was not lost on the wizard that on that day, someone had died.

* * *

The swirling mists were now definitely coalescing into a humanoid shape as it moved slowly towards him. Cygnus didn't know what the final result was going to be.

But he knew he wouldn't be able to stand the sight of it.

The Aardian mage tried to focus on something else.

On _anything_ else.

Thorin. The thought of his son gave Cygnus momentary strength, but it quickly evaporated when he thought of his son as an orphan.

He couldn't do that to him. It would be a betrayal to both Thorin and Hyzenthlay. To the promises he had made to both of them.

Cygnus had to fight.

He had to _resist!_

The _phantasmal killer_ was going to be a human. Cygnus could see that, although the features had not resolved themselves that.

It was only about ten feet away now, advancing resolutely.

And Cygnus let his mind go.

* * *

_Not real. Not real. Not real._

And while he kept up that inner mantra, the magic-user's mind searched through as many images as he could find, looking for something that would help his subconscious mind believe it as well.

Because that was the part which controlled his breathing. And his heart.

* * *

A sharp pain shot through Cygnus' chest, breaking his concentration.

The image. It was. It was…

And just as Cygnus was about to scream, of all things the smug, smiling face of Argo Bigfellow Junior filled his mind's eye.

And he instinctively knew why.

And Cygnus did scream, but it was not the death shriek of a man frightened to death.

It was a roar of conviction. Of belief.

Or rather, of disbelief.

"_Illusionist, let the sham be exposed!"_

The _phantasmal killer_ vanished.

* * *

Cygnus and Lamonsten eyed each other.

Then the tall wizard stretched out his hand and beckoned to his fellow mage.

"Come on then, illusionist," Cygnus sneered. "Let's see what else you've got."

Lamonsten frowned, but his eyes narrowed.

"I have enough."

* * *

Zantac looked around.

Things seemed to be going as usual.

Which meant they were in desperate trouble.

Cygnus seemed to have shaken off the killer, but every fighter they had was engaged in melee combat- and from Elrohir to Sir Menn, they all seemed to be losing.

Zantac began to move back towards the shore, trying to gauge the battlefield from different vantage points. Trying to decide what to do.

He saw Sitdale coming towards him_._

"I've still got your protection, Zantac," the half-elf said as he drew alongside. "I'll try to draw the soldiers' fire if they come out of the _fog cloud."_

Zantac nodded, but couldn't think of anything else to say at the moment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Unru pull out his spell scroll, incant and vanish from sight.

The Willip wizard couldn't help but feel a little bit envious of Unru's more secure position, but that vanished when he saw Lamonsten's eyes dart over.

He sighed and beckoned Thorimund over to them.

"Thorimund, _detect,"_ he ordered his fellow wizard when he came up. "I think Lamonsten can still see Unru. If your friend tries one of his impulsive moves," he finished up by looking back at Sitdale, "he may wind up paying for it with his life."

The half-elf was about to reply when his eyes went wide with alarm.

He was looking over Zantac's shoulder.

Zantac spun around- just in time for his left shoulder to receive the sword strike that had been intended for his back.

The Willip wizard cried out in agony and backed away, almost stumbling in the process.

The woman who followed him was tall- perhaps six feet soaking wet, as she currently was. She was very thin for her height, and her lanky frame showed against her skin that wasn't covered by her leather armor. A mass of bedraggled brown hair adorned with seaweed covered half her face, but one piercing brown eye bore into him. A longsword currently dripping with Zantac's blood was clenched in her right hand. The woman wore thin brown gloves that curiously were bone-dry, unlike the rest of her.

The Slave Lord looked back over the lake that she had just climbed up out of and then hollered out to her companions.

"_Be careful- they're coming!"_

That done, she turned her attention back to Zantac.

"Let me guess," muttered the mage. "Slippery Ketta, right?"

The woman smiled a mirthless smile.

"Let me guess," she replied. "Inconsequential Dead Man, right?"

Without even a tensing of her legs to warn Zantac, she suddenly leapt straight at him.

* * *

The pain was overwhelming.

As much as the wound itself, it threatened to shut down the mind as well as the body.

It was pain that could not possibly be endured. It was pain that bespoke of approaching death.

But if there was one person present on this entire battlefield who knew what death felt like, it was Nesco Cynewine.

And this wasn't it.

Not just yet.

* * *

Just as Blackthorn began to lift his spear upwards, Lady Cynewine grabbed the shaft with her left and took a step backwards. The wound wasn't as deep as the mortal one she had received back at the stockade.

With a manic expression of glee on his horrid face, Blackthorn lifted- but all of a sudden his human prey wasn't attached to it anymore. The sudden lessening of weight caused the ogre mage's weapon to fly up quicker than he intended, and distract him momentarily.

Then Blackthorn was distracted again- by Nesco's sword plunging through his chainmail shirt and up into his gut.

Even as he roared with pain, the ogre mage knew that Nesco had shifted her position, and that she and Arwald were now flanking him. The oni felt the fighter's sword slam into his back, but it left little more than a scratch.

Blackthorn began to pull back again to be able to use his sword again. This time, he shifted to a more defensive position, and his two opponents were unable were unable to score an effective blow against him.

* * *

Nesco threw everything out of her mind except tactical considerations.

_We have to keep hitting him. He'll heal all we've done to him otherwise!_

But the ogre mage was fighting smarter now. His spear spun around him with amazing spear. Nesco caught the flat of the weapon's head across her cheek, hard enough to knock a tooth loose.

Growling in an almost animal anger, Nesco spit blood out of her mouth and concentrated where to aim her next strike.

It was then her attention went back to the swords Blackthorn wore on his hip.

At first she thought they were Tojo's daisho, but the scabbards of these weapons bore a different design than those of her samurai friend. It took a moment for her mind to call up the memory.

_Icar! These are Icar's samurai swords! But- why doesn't he use them? They'd be of much more use to him in this fight than that long spear! And if he doesn't know how to wield them, why wear them in the first place?_

She wasn't sure why she did it.

Nesco's head seemed to turn of its own volition.

* * *

It was only a quick glance, but it was enough to show him lying about thirty feet away now.

Yanigasawa Tojo lay where he had fallen, Blackthorn's second spear still embedded in his chest.

The samurai's body had not moved, but his head had apparently turned as well.

He was looking straight at Nesco.

* * *

Tojo's lips were moving, but there was not the slightest chance in The Nine Hells of Nesco being to hear him at this distance, and in this clamor.

But somehow Nesco knew it had something to do with that very same daisho she had just noticed.

And as Arwald screamed again from Blackthorn's spear plunging into his chest, Nesco also knew that she either had to get over to Tojo- tactically a near-impossibility, or figure out this puzzle on her own.

Her battle- indeed, the entire battle- might very well depend on it.


	181. The Battle Continues

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

At the last possible instant, Elrohir dodged the lunge of the drow's rapier, but he'd had to hurl himself to the side so violently that he overbalanced and fell over.

Instantly the ranger tucked into a ball and continued rolling. He felt a _woosh_ overhead that told him Edralve had just missed him again.

Elrohir gained his feet and whirled around to face his opponent, but she had already closed in on him again. She was too close to use her longsword, but her left hand clutched, not her dagger, but the object which lay at the end of the chain around the dark elf's neck.

It looked like a black triangle made of iron, with an upside-down "Y" symbol in yellow anchored to the triangle's sides. It was clearly an unholy symbol of some kind, but Elrohir didn't recognize it. The svartalf thrust it upwards towards him.

Elrohir couldn't seem to move or act. He knew it all took place in a split-second, but the party leader was used to acting during battle even during so short a timeframe.

But now, everything just seemed to be overwhelming him.

And then Edralve spoke again.

"Fall," she _commanded _simply, her voice husky, her red eyes boring into Elrohir's, her lips curving upward again in her predatory smile.

Elrohir could feel a sudden compulsion rising within him.

And then he acted on it.

The ranger's left hand shot out to the side of Edralve's head and grabbed one of the horns of the svartalf's helm.

"Next time," he growled, "say _please."_

And with that he yanked the helm clean off the drow's head while simultaneously slamming his forehead down to smash against hers.

* * *

Argo never even knew Sir Menn's shield had gotten into his hands, but the big ranger brought it up just in time to catch Harve's blow.

The shield rang and was knocked out of Bigfellow's hand- he hadn't had time to secure it- but it gave Argo just enough time to duck low and move.

And by the time Scurvy John was ready to swing again, Argo had retrieved the sword he had thrown at the pirate earlier. He parried, but John kept up a furious barrage of blows, forcing the big ranger backward. Argo almost stumbled as he backed down the steps from the forecastle to the main deck, but managed to keep his footing. That was all the big ranger could do at this point, though. Scurvy's attacks with Harve seemed to form a near-glowing curtain of red light, and it was all Argo could do to fight defensively- and keep alive, if only for the moment.

"Why didn't you ever fight that well for _me?_" Bigfellow grunted as their swords clashed again, a poor but workable pained grin in place.

Harve might have replied, but if so the sword's voice was lost in Scurvy's bellows. The pirate's sallow face was positively radiant now with savage glee.

"Where are your famous witty quips now, Pigfellow?" he shouted as he continued to push the ranger back. "I'm sure you've prepared some erudite dying curse to haunt me with! Better use it now- if you wait, you may not get the… chance!"

Argo had faltered momentarily as a spasm of pain from his still bleeding gut hit him and John had swung with his last word. Bigfellow's late parry had been just enough to partially turn Harve's blade, but the impact had still sent the ranger stumbling backwards- now bleeding from his right temple as well- to trip on the handle of one of the _Water Dragon's _closed hatch doors and land on his back on the deck.

With a wordless roar, Scurvy dropped to his knees right on Argo's chest. The pirate held Harve our horizontally as he came down.

The blade's edge was right in line with Argo's neck.

The ranger brought up his own sword at the last instant, but John's weight pushed both weapons down now. Argo had his blade with the flat towards him, but it was being pushed so hard into the flesh of his neck that the edges were starting to draw blood.

Scurvy John was lost in ecstasy.

But Argo still managed to speak, although in little more than a croak.

"You know… what your problem is, John?"

"_No! Perhaps you will tell me before I kill you!"_

"Your problem," Bigfellow ground out, "is… that you're too emotional."

Scurvy laughed. "This, coming from _you?"_

Argo couldn't nod with his head, so the big ranger did so with his eyes, even as he exerted all his legendary strength in an attempt to throw John off of him. The pirate held firm, however.

"Time… and a place for everything… spend too much time thinking about vengeance… and you miss your real opportunities… what you thought you wanted… leads only to the grave… or worse."

He locked his auburn eyes with his opponent's dark ones.

"That's… what happened to your last master, John… could have had it all, but he couldn't resist passing up… an opportunity to attack us… even when he wasn't prepared… only got him a one-way journey… to Hell. You'll only get… the same."

Argo didn't know what the effect of these words might have on John. In truth, the ranger had no plan at this point. Every second was merely stalling for time, trying to delay the inevitable.

But he knew that he never expected the calm, almost casual smile that played across John's blackened lips now.

Nor the slight lessening in the pressure on his neck. Bigfellow was still pinned flat, but Scurvy was no longer trying to decapitate him.

"One way, Bigfellow?" John asked, surprising Argo with the softness of his voice as much as hearing the pirate address him by his actual name. "Are you sure?"

There were very few times in Argo's life when he felt a fear of something worse than dying. He'd seen death since childhood, but this terrible emotion bypassed that completely as it poured into his chest.

He felt like a wineglass being filled with poison.

"I might be going to Hell," John suddenly admitted, a rare pensive look on his face, his eyes wandering off into the distance.

But then those black eyes shot down again at Argo, and the gloating in John's voice- a gloating which somehow seemed to be coming from a source outside the pirate's own stores of courage- kept the ranger pinned down more effectively than a whole crew of Scurvys might have down.

John thrust his face to within inches of Argo's.

"But Hell is _coming_ for you," he hissed.

The pirate straightened back up suddenly. Argo tensed to make one last effort to throw him off, but the pirate suddenly made a move with Harve that Bigfellow didn't anticipate, and the big ranger could only watch with a fresh cry of pain as his sword went flying out of his hand again.

Scurvy's left hand clamped down hard on Argo's neck. His right hand raised Harve to strike.

* * *

Seeing Aslan writhing on the grass in pain, Brother Kerin slowed down as he approached his fallen adversary. The monk used the time to regain his breath.

For his part, Aslan was in utter turmoil.

While a part of the paladin's mind still welcomed his imminent death, another part stubbornly- and selfishly- refused to give in, looking both at his approaching executioner and all around at the battle for some tactical edge he might have overlooked.

Aslan saw no edge. What he did see, however, were his friends. Fighting, losing and very possibly, soon to die just as surely as he was.

He tried to examine Brother Kerin again, but the paladin's numerous wounds seemed to have sapped his ability to concentrate. To his immense irritation, all Aslan could do was to stare stupidly at Kerin's worn and grimy grey belt and think, _they really don't match his robes._

_In fact, I'd swear that was the same belt Brother Milerjoi was wearing. He had grey robes, so it matched._

_Milerjoi probably died during the quake. But why would Kerin take only his belt?_

The Scarlet Brotherhood monk had stoppedright by Aslan's feet, looking down at him with a cold smile.

_A symbol? A badge of office, or of station? I thought monks didn't care about such things._

Brother Kerin was moving again.

_And why am I even wondering about such a stupid thing? I'm about to die, and my last thoughts are of clothing?_

Kerin bent down over him.

_Clothing…_

With one hand, the monk grabbed Aslan's head and pushed it back, exposing his neck. The monk's right hand clenched into a fist with the knuckles pointing right at the paladin's throat, the middle knuckle extended slightly.

He seemed to be studying Aslan.

And while he was doing that Aslan dropped his sword, reached out and grabbed hold of Kerin's belt and yanked sharply.

With a satisfying _rip_, the fabric tore and the grimy piece of linen came off in the paladin's hand.

Kerin screamed soundlessly, his eyes opened wide on the torn piece of cloth in Aslan's hands. He seemed to be in shock.

Aslan took the opportunity to force himself to smile through his pain even as he took each end of the belt in one hand.

"Never rely too much on one thing, Kerin."

And with that, Aslan looped the belt around the monk's neck and twisted.

* * *

Cygnus looked desperately around.

Elrohir was still battling Edralve on the pier. On board the _Water Dragon,_ Scurvy John had forced Argo down from the forecastle, so Cygnus couldn't see them any more from his current angle. But it sure sounded like John was getting the better of things.

Zantac was frantically backing away from the woman who'd just emerged from the lake. Brother Kerin had Aslan down. Theg Narlot was pounding hard on Sir Menn. Blackthorn was clearly winning his combat against Nesco and Arwald. Unru was no where to be seen, and Cygnus knew that neither Sitdale nor Thorimund were in a condition to make a huge difference.

When Cygnus turned his attention back the older wizard leaning almost casually over the railing of the Water Dragon and staring almost bemusedly at him, the tall mage made up his mind. Lamonsten could not be permitted to go to the aid of his fellow Slave Lords. Cygnus was going to fight this fellow magic-user to the very end.

No matter how soon that might be.

Conscious again that he was still wearing only a loincloth, Cygnus pulled one of the two scrolls that he had placed under the cloth immediately after gaining dry land. They were still probably soaked beyond usefulness, but he had no other options left.

Cygnus unrolled the scroll with the spell of _slow_, and cast it towards Lamonsten, his eyes darting towards his foe as soon as he had finished, searching for the tell-tale signs of an afflicted target.

There were none.

At first, the Aardian mage thought the scroll had indeed been ruined by the water. But then he realized that Lamonsten had simply counterspelled it. From a distance of almost seventy feet, he had realized what spell Cygnus was using, and dispersed it with all the effort of brushing a fly away.

And now Lamonsten began to cast again.

* * *

Zantac wasn't so much backing away as trying to run backwards.

Despite her leather armor, the tall woman pursued him easily. Her longsword, already dripping with Zantac's blood, moved into position for a killing blow.

The Willip wizard stopped suddenly, whipped out the scroll Cygnus had given him and read it.

Slippery Ketta's sword came down, cleaving the parchment roll neatly in half.

But it was two barren scraps of paper that floated down to the grass, devoid of all writing.

Zantac had gotten the spell off in the nick of time.

And Slippery Ketta was caught, _held_ where she stood; leaning forward, her sword arm still outstretched.

Sitdale and Thorimund, who had been near Zantac, wasted no time when they saw that Zantac's foe had been immobilized. Sitdale ran off to help Sir Menn while Thorimund hobbled off towards the fog cloud. As the latter mage reached it, three of the warriors emerged, coughing and staggering. With a jet of flame from his scroll, Thorimund dropped two of them instantly, but the third- the one whom Elrohir had trampled earlier, swung at the mage. It wasn't a solid hit, but in Thorimund's weakened condition, it was enough. The son of Thormord dropped to the ground.

_I've got to help him!_

Zantac quickly looked back at Ketta. The woman's face was frozen in her last triumphant look, but her eyes could still move. Not surprisingly, there was no sense of triumph in them anymore.

Feeling like he was in a dream, Zantac stepped up to Slippery Ketta and pulled the dagger out of the hilt attached to one of her boots. The wizard looked at the weapon in his hands.

_I know what I have to do. There's no time to lose. She might break the spell at any moment._

Trying to will his hand not to tremble, he placed the point against the soft skin of her neck.

Her eyes watched him.

Zantac closed his.

_I know what I have to do_.

* * *

Arwald was down.

Nesco couldn't tell at a glance if the wound was mortal or not- the fighter was still conscious- but it was plain that the man was no longer able to fight.

Blackthorn didn't seem inclined to leave the matter to chance. He stepped directly over his felled foe and raised his spear high.

An instant later, the ogre mage roared with fury as Nesco stabbed him again with her sword, this time in his right thigh. Blackthorn swung his spear around, but the ranger was too close. Blackthorn started to back away to get into attack position again…

…when Nesco abruptly turned and ran.

Blackthorn was so startled his reflexive jab at her fleeing back mixed. He hadn't expected this. Not that it really mattered. The oni watched with growing bemusement as he realized where his prey was heading.

_Pathetic._

He set off after her.

* * *

"Tojo."

The Yanigasawa samurai now lay on his stomach, watching with seeming disinterest his fleeing life's blood stain the grass in front of him. He had somehow pulled Blackthorn's other spear out from behind and seemed to be calmly awaiting oblivion.

But his head raised as he heard his name.

Nesco Cynewine, breathing hard, was bending down beside him.

* * *

The ranger's eyes were filled with tears- some from pain, she was sure, but most from shame.

Tojo was going to die, and so was she, and so were all her friends, and all because she was too stupid to figure things out on her own. And now here she was, begging a man who was too weak even to move to make it all right again, even though she knew that nothing was ever going to be all right again.

Seeming to draw all his remaining strength from his wrecked body to his violet eyes, Yanigasawa responded to Nesco's one-word choked plea by calmly fixing his eyes directly on hers without any hesitation.

Then the samurai's mouth opened again. Some more blood trickled out.

But so did four words.

"Nesco-sama," said Tojo in a harsh whisper, _"Oni wa sato."_

Nesco blinked.

"What?"

"Oni wa sato," Tojo repeated.

Panic coursed through Nesco. She couldn't believe this. He _knew_ she didn't understand Nipponese!

"Please, Tojo," she yelled as Blackthorn approached. "I don't understand what that means. We're out of time. Please, _speak my language!"_

The ranger finished in a near-shriek, but Tojo's hand quickly but gently closed upon her wrist.

They gazed into each other's eyes for that last second as a dark shadow looming over Lady Cynewine informed her that she was out of time.

"No, Nesco-sama," Tojo whispered as his voice left him. "You must speak mine."


	182. Elrohir Versus Edralve

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Edralve was no longer toying with Elrohir.

Unfortunately, that wasn't a good thing.

After staggering back briefly in pain, the dark elf was now ignoring the bruise even now beginning to mar the flawless black complexion of her forehead. The svartalf's white hair whipped wildly around her face as Edralve launched into an all-out assault that was leading the ranger to wonder if he wouldn't have been better off if he hadn't just succumbed to the drow's spell.

Elrohir was on his last legs. While he was still managed to avoid being skewered, again and again the tip of Edralve's rapier opened a new gash in his beaten leather armor and found new skin to puncture or tear. For his part, the ranger could hardly manage an attack with his own sword, and none of them struck home. Elrohir was renowned for being able to time and time again dredge up just one more burst of energy, just one more action, but now all those reserves were gone.

Worse, even if he had still possessed the will to keep on fighting, there was no longer anything he could do. The dark elf was in far better shape than she was, and her fighting skills seemed equal to his own. Fresh, clad in his plate and armed with Gokasillion, the ranger wouldn't have hesitated to plunge into battle with the svartalf. In as poor shape as he had in even before this final battle had started however, he now sincerely regretted letting the drow taunt him into his reckless charge.

Elrohir was suddenly regretting a lot of things.

Their mission to Suderham had been a failure. The Slave Lords would surely rebuild their power base somewhere else. He was- had been- the leader of this group; not only his dearest friends, but those of other allies, who had committed their cohorts to their cause. All their lives were about to be thrown away because of Elrohir's failure to triumph when they needed him the most.

And his wife was dead, and would remain so forever.

And his son would never see him again.

Edralve apparently read the despair on the ranger's face. Her rage slowed, although she kept up her attacks.

"The one thing you've never learned, Elrohir," the drow seethed as her face lit up with victory, "is how to lose."

She paused, gathering her breath, although her rapier was still poised to repel the counterattack that never came.

Elrohir was backing away now as fast as he could, even though he knew he could never escape the svartalf. It was all he could do just to remain upright.

Edralve took another deep breath and readied herself for what she knew would be the last attack she'd need.

"But you're about to learn, dearest Elrohir," she purred. "Your teacher has arrived, and her name…"

Her eyes flashed an even deeper red.

"…_is death!"_ she shrieked, and charged.

* * *

Elrohir saw it coming. He knew this was it. This was the end. His body, screaming in protest from the myriad wounds and his copious blood loss, was telling him so.

He couldn't even begin to think of any last maneuver to attempt, no matter how foolhardy or desperate. The idea of dying heroically, as he always thought he would, gave him no comfort now.

In the time-lengthened seconds that seemed to be preceding his demise. Elrohir's mind seemed to detach itself from his body. He stared at the approaching drow without really seeing her.

But he could hear her. Her voice, her taunts, flooded his mind. And the voices of others, friends and foes, all seemed to commingle and envelop him in a flood of sound.

_Don't you have a miracle up your sleeve, Elrohir?_

_How are we supposed to defeat them, Elrohir?_

_There's more to life than swinging a sword or casting spells, Elrohir!_

_You lead us out of here, Elrohir._

_This will all be behind us soon, Elrohir._

_Tell me, Elrohir, when does one of your own die?_

_I ready to stand and fight by your side, Errohir-sama._

_Well, Elrohir, are you up to leading us out of here, or do you want me to assume command?_

_For all that you've accomplished, you're such a blind, pitiful fool, Elrohir. You had no chance from the start._

_You're not nearly as powerful as you make yourselves out to be, Elrohir._

_Don't let it consume you, Elrohir_.

_Be careful- they're coming!_

And the strangest thing of all was that it was that last voice, coming from a woman whom he didn't even know the name of, that somehow shocked Elrohir back to reality.

To find himself a second away from death at the end of Edralve's rapier.

Elrohir casually threw away his sword.

* * *

The drow was distracted for no more than half of the remaining second.

But the ranger moved in only half of that half.

* * *

Elrohir suddenly launched himself forward, a charge of only a few feet, directly into Edralve's own charge.

He bypassed and slipped inside the range of the svartalf's rapier.

And then felt a burning pain as Edralve rammed her dagger up to the hilt in his stomach.

* * *

Both combatants had stopped moving. Elrohir had loosely wrapped his arms around Edralve, as if to embrace the dark elf. Edralve's right hand, still clutching her rapier, moved to encircle Elrohir's waist. The left one had let go of the dagger, as there wasn't enough room to hold onto it anymore between them. The hilt remained buried in the ranger's gut, moving up and down with his deep breathing.

Their faces only a foot apart, they gazed into each other's eyes.

"Sleep now, dearest," Edralve whispered in elven, her face gone soft with both victory and malevolence. "The lesson in losing is over. Sleep well, and sleep forever."

And the pain from the dagger had indeed already faded. With each breath he took, Elrohir could feel a cold, tingling numbness spreading out from his middle. His legs grew weaker still, his arms felt heavy, and his neck was having trouble holding up his head. The cold was increasing, and only the hot breath from Edralve's mouth, only inches away now, felt warm. Delightfully warm.

Elrohir knew the dagger had been coated in poison. He knew he was dead. There was no surprise, and even no guilt or shame anymore. At last he could sleep.

_No more responsibilities_, he thought to himself as consciousness begin to slip away from him.

Edralve's lips closed in on his.

A blaze of warmth and passion, and feelings that in another lifetime- the one he was leaving now- Elrohir would have been ashamed of- surged through him as he closed his eyes in an ecstatic response. The fire within held the cold and the numbness at bay. It was all temporary, he knew. Just a few extra seconds of life, but as deaths go, it wasn't all that bad.

_No more responsibilities_, his mind repeated dully to himself, one thought repeating over and over until no thoughts were left.

Elrohir's eyes snapped open.

_Oh, yes, _he remembered_. There is just one more thing to do_.

* * *

Edralve's eyes snapped open.

The drow pulled her lips from Elrohir's as she felt her feet leave the ground.

The ranger had wrapped her in a bear hug.

His unsteady, faltering feet took one step. Then another.

Edralve struggled, but her raw strength was far less than Elrohir's, even in his current state. The human had somehow pinned her arms against her body.

She hadn't noticed it in the ecstasy of her kiss.

The steps were coming faster now. They swayed dangerously, close to falling, but Elrohir was now approaching a jog.

And then he turned and made directly for the edge of the pier.

Elrohir felt Edralve's grip on him tighten compulsively.

The dark elf felt the muscles in the human's legs tense up.

And the two of them leapt out into space.

* * *

It seemed so quiet.

So unreal.

The two of them sailed through the air

It was amazing; how long it seemed to be taking.

The drow looked around in panic as they sailed out over the open water.

"_What are you doing?"_ she shrieked at Elrohir.

The warmth was almost gone now. Elrohir knew it was time to go.

And so, holding the woman he hated more than any person in the Three Worlds in his arms, Elrohir looked into her eyes.

The ranger managed both a smile and the one word.

"Winning."

* * *

And then it happened.

An invisible hand, as if from a god, seemed to suddenly grab Elrohir and hold him fast in midair.

The ranger's hand shot out, fingers grasping and then closing, but Edralve was torn from his grasp and hurled onwards and then downwards.

From below eyelids now starting to irretrievably close from fatigue, Elrohir watched the dark elf seem to grow smaller and smaller until she hit the water flat on her back, excavating a momentary circle of water around her in a mighty splash.

Either the water wasn't very deep, or Edralve was a good swimmer, because she quickly reappeared. The svartalf's white hair was plastered to her head, but she shook it angrily away, glared in fury at Elrohir and pointed at him.

There was a sudden eruption beside her.

* * *

A horrid humanoid creature with blue-black skin stretched tight over its bones emerged from the lake and grabbed the drow, attempting to sink its fangs into her neck.

Edralve pushed the lacedon back with one hand while running it through with her rapier. The creature fell back into the water, pulling the dark elf's sword out of her grip as it did so.

More sea ghouls rose from the depths by her. At least three or four, but dark shapes below the lake's surface may have been more.

Edralve's hand grabbed her unholy symbol to rebuke the undead monsters-

-but it wasn't there.

The drow's face shot back towards Elrohir, still hanging limply in the air above her.

He was still smiling.

_It's done,_ he thought with an inner calmness.

The ranger's fingers opened as the desire to sleep consumed him, and the symbol with its chain that he had snatched from Edralve fell into the water.

Edralve gaped in horror as she saw it and began flailing away with her fists at the nearest lacedon she could reach in an insane rage.

Which in retrospect was probably her final undoing. The sea ghouls had been watching to see the svartalf stiffen up from the first touch of their kind. Not aware that elves were immune to paralysis, they instead all attacked en mass now.

Edralve had time for one final scream of anger before she was yanked underwater by the lacedons.

And there, the sea ghouls tore her apart.

Elrohir did not see or hear it. He saw and heard nothing anymore.


	183. A Promise To Thorin

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

_Chit-chit-chit…_

An odd and yet somehow familiar chittering sound suddenly filled the air around Argo and Scurvy John.

And Harve went berserk.

The longsword, already starting its final descent towards Bigfellow's chest, abruptly swerved upwards- or rather, it forced John's arm carrying it upwards, actually pulling the pirate to his feet. The blade then began making Scurvy's arm twist from side to side while John struggled to bring it back under control.

And Harve screamed. One word, over and over again.

"_RUSTER! RUSTER! RUSTER!"_

Scurvy John glanced from side to side but saw nothing. His coal-black eyes narrowed as he exerted his strength, trying to hold the sword in place.

"There's no rust monster, you stupid piece of scrap!" John bellowed. "Can't you tell it's some kind of-"

The clenched right fist of Argo Bigfellow Junior slammed right into Scurvy's midsection at that point, cutting the pirate off and doubling him over. The big ranger followed with an uppercut to the pirate's chin, sending John spiraling off in a wild stagger.

Argo spared a second to glance around. About halfway down the main deck by the starboard railing, the wizard Lamonsten was casting a spell. Argo saw five streaks of light erupt from the mage's fingertips and travel downwards, out of the ranger's sight.

There was a cry of pain, and the chittering noise stopped. Lamonsten glanced over and frowned at Bigfellow, but then the ranger heard Scurvy yell, "Don't worry! I've got him!"

John had regained control of Harve and was coming back at Argo now. Bigfellow began to retreat towards the forecastle. Scurvy reached him first however, and Argo was forced to once again start furiously parrying for his life. The big ranger backed halfway up the stairs and stopped there. The height advantage this gave him over Scurvy was slim, but Argo needed every possible advantage he could muster, no matter how slim.

Bigfellow felt like he was going to drop at every moment. His right side burned, and his right cheek was still dripping blood. Mixed sweat and blood was running down his forehead but it was his stomach that hurt worst of all. With every breath it seemed to constrict into an agony of spasms, and the world seemed to be trembling and wavering before his tired eyes.

"It's over, Pigfellow!" Scurvy John yelled. "You're mortally wounded, and I'm still fresh as a daisy!"

"Take a good whiff and say that again!" Argo snarled back, but deep down he knew the pirate was right. He couldn't hold out. He needed more of an advantage than just height. He needed… he needed…

The ranger backed further up the stairs, then turned and ran down towards the bow of the ship.

When John made the forecastle, he saw Argo on his knees, his back towards him, rummaging once again through the pile containing his belongings and those of his friends. His sword lay on the deck beside him.

With a wordless roar, Scurvy covered the distance between them in only a few steps. He swung down-

-and Argo swung up with Gokasillion to block.

The swords clashed with a resounding clang, their intermingled radiances forming a pinkish light that surrounded both combatants.

"Worthy!"

The one word rang through the air between them as Gokasillion pronounced itself apparently satisfied with Bigfellow as its wielder.

John didn't seem concerned about this new development. "Think a different sword is going to save you, Pigfellow?" he cackled as he continued to attack. "You _are_ desperate!"

Argo said nothing. He knew Scurvy's statement, in and of itself, was true. Gokasillion by itself certainly wasn't going to enable Bigfellow to triumph over his foe.

But he hadn't gone back for Elrohir's blade to use it on John.

Bigfellow again began to back up under Scurvy's fusillade of blows. The big ranger made no attempt to attack, only to defend. He knew his back was against the bow railing now. There was no further room to retreat.

No room horizontally, that is.

Argo Bigfellow Junior was observant by nature. He always had been; it had been a prerequisite when growing up in a swamp constantly surrounded by dangerous terrain and hostile forces beyond. Especially in a combat situation, the ranger always liked to be aware of his options, even if they were as slim as a piece of standing rigging.

Now he attacked.

Argo came forward and inside. He turned Gokasillion sidewise as he did so, parrying John's lunge and rammed his right shoulder with every bit of strength he had left against the pirate's upper chest.

Scurvy John staggered back several feet. By the time he regained his bearings, he saw Argo clambering up onto the railing, sheathing Gokasillion in his scabbard.

"Jumping, Pigfellow?" John screamed. "Who's the coward now?"

Argo faced him. "I'm not going down, John. I'm going up."

And with that Bigfellow grabbed the rigging line that attached the top of the _Water Dragon's_ mast to a spur on the bow and began hauling himself up it.

Scurvy was on him in an instant. Harve slashed down, Argo tried to jerk his left leg out of the way, but his former sword's blade cut a ragged gash through the pitiful protection of the leather greaves. Argo couldn't help but cry out in pain as he felt the flesh of his leg tear open.

Somehow- he didn't know how- Bigfellow continued to climb, though. Hand-over-hand, one move at a time. _Steady does it_, he told himself, closing his eyes so as to concentrate on nothing else but the movements of his hands and arms that moved him slowly up the rope.

Bigfellow was a good climber, and he wasn't wearing his plate, but this was still one of the most difficult ascents he had ever attempted. His wounds, especially the fresh one in his leg, made every movement torture. The line had been coated in tar to protect it from the elements, and although the tar had long dried, it still made holding onto the rope even harder. And the final element that made this climb was such an ordeal was that he was climbing upward at a very steep angle; at least thirty degrees, he'd estimated.

Argo felt the line vibrate, and not in time to his own movements. He opened his eyes.

Scurvy John was climbing up the rope after him.

* * *

There was an expression of such rage on the pirate's face that he looked like a wild animal. Unlike Argo, Scurvy had wrapped his legs around the line and was shimmying up it with one hand, while the other clutched his rapier. He was moving up much faster than Bigfellow, and would in fact be on him in a matter of moments.

The big ranger looked around. He was perhaps thirty-five feet above the main deck, and only a few feet away from the Water Dragon's mast. Argo knew he didn't have the strength to try and transfer himself to the mast.

But he had never intended to.

_Clever._

Argo smiled at the voice inside his mind. Gokasillion had discerned his thoughts.

_You can do it with one swing?_

_That is why you chose me, Argo of Oerth._

* * *

Scurvy thought Bigfellow was smiling at him, and a scream of primal rage erupted from his throat as he prepared to run Argo through with his rapier. Now Bigfellow drew Gokasillion and hung onto the line with one hand. Just as John clambered within striking distance, he spoke.

"You didn't learn, John. Even when I told you, you didn't listen. You could've picked me off from below with your crossbow, but I knew you wouldn't. You had to give in to rage, just like you've always done with me."

"I'M GOING TO SEE YOU DIE!" screamed Scurvy, spittle flying from his lips as he attacked.

"Not from here," Argo said quietly.

And a split-second before John's rapier reached him, Argo swung Gokasillion- not to block, but directly at the rigging line between the two of them, and with one clean sweep, the magical blade cut it neatly in two.

Scurvy John screamed all the way down, but Argo wasn't listening. As his end of the line swung down towards the mast, the ranger let go- and grabbed the nearby mainsail with both hands, dropping the longsword. The cloth ripped as Argo held on, but it slowed his fall enough. The impact with the deck in fact wouldn't have hurt him at all if he hadn't landed on his left leg.

Pain blossomed inside Bigfellow's brain like a gigantic flower opening up inside his head, filling his vision with a yellow haze. He couldn't move- he was sure his leg was broken. His hands flailed around- and the right one closed upon the hilt of a sword.

And then, unexpectedly, a powerful feeling flooded into Argo's mind. There were no words with it, but it quenched the worst fires of his injuries. The wounds remained, but the big ranger found it easier to place his concentration elsewhere.

"I can see why Elrohir holds you in such high esteem," Argo mumbled under his breath as he gazed at the sword in his hand. "Thanks, Gok."

The sword trembled slightly, and Bigfellow could have sworn if the blade had possessed a face, it would be cocking an eyebrow at him.

_Frivolous, Bigfellow. Worthy, but frivolous,_ said the voice in his mind.

Gokasillion in hand, Argo began to crawl towards Scurvy John.

* * *

The pirate was sprawled about fifteen feet away. He was clearly still alive, as he was writhing about and moaning in pain, but it was just as obvious that he'd broken at least one leg in the fall, if not both. When he saw Bigfellow approaching, he sat up and looked around wildly for his cutlass, but it was lying too far away.

John made to draw Harve, but Argo was on him. With his one good leg, Bigfellow hurled himself upon Scurvy, and the two toppled over prone on the deck again. Only this time, it was Argo who was on top, holding his sword to John's neck.

The big ranger could now see the fear in the pirate's eyes.

"Argo," croaked John, abandoning his futile struggles, "don't slay me. You've got the scruples I don't- I admit that- but I'm no threat to you now. Do you really want it to end- like this?"

Bigfellow's mouth was a thin line at he stared at his beaten foe.

"You know what, John?" he asked after a long silence. "You're right. I don't really want to end it like this. A guess a part of me really did enjoy fighting you all those times. You deserve nothing but death, John- not because of me, but because of all those innocents you've slain over the years, and I'd have no qualms about killing you for your atrocities."

Argo took a deep breath, and looked up at the sky, still hidden with grey, violently roiling clouds of dust.

"But I'm not an executioner by nature, and that might stay my hand despite all that. I'd hate the idea that even for that one second, I might become what you are- a ruthless killer of prisoners."

Then his auburn eyes flashed back down at the pirate, and an expression of pure hatred such as Scurvy John- or anyone else- had almost never seen reside there- swelled the big ranger's features.

"But I made a promise."

And with that, Argo cut down and across with Gokasillion, slitting Scurvy John's throat all the way through.

* * *

It seemed to Argo as if he had sat there silently a long time. He had dropped the sword again, and just sat there, feeling the pirate's blood that had gushed up and into his face slowly slide through his rough stubble and drip into his lap.

He watched the drops fall.

"You had it coming, John," he whispered.

A shadow suddenly entered Argo's vision from the corner of his eye.

_The wizard! I forgot about him!_

Bigfellow grabbed Gokasillion's hilt and tried to stand, but all his injuries flared up again, and he toppled over Scurvy John's still-warm corpse, gasping for breath. Even Gokasillion's power to calm his mind couldn't help him now.

He was too hurt. He was too tired. And now he was going to be executed alongside the body of the man he had just slain.

But then the shadow came into clearer view. It wasn't Lamonsten. Whatever it was, it was flying; soaring about five feet off the deck. It was arcing in a circle, coming from the stern and now heading towards the starboard side of the ship.

And as the object came flying by, nearly passing directly over Bigfellow, he gave a cry of amazement- and horror- as he saw what it really was.


	184. Cygnus The Manipulator

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

_I've got nothing!_

Cygnus' hand reflexively reached for the remaining scroll stuck in his loincloth, even knowing that it contained nothing that could possibly save him against whatever incantation Lamonsten was about to hurl at him.

Lamonsten continued to cast, but his movements suddenly seemed much faster to Cygnus.

_He's hasted himself! _

Scarcely had the thought crossed the Aardian mage's mind when he saw five _magic missiles_ leave Lamonsten's hand.

But they were not aimed at him.

Cygnus watched as the streaks of white light shot almost straight downwards and slightly to Lamonsten's left, where they abruptly vanished a few feet above the pier.

A cry of pain issued from seemingly empty air. It was followed by a dull thud.

_Unru!_ Cygnus realized. _Lamonsten's detected him!_

He balled his fists in frustration. Cygnus did not have one single spell left in his head- not even a cantrip. He had no weapons- only the scroll now clutched tightly in his hand. The scroll containing a spell that Cygnus technically did not have the training to cast.

_I've got no choice,_ he thought. _I've got to try and grab him with the telekinesis, and pray I can hold it until someone else can finish him off_.

As he began to unfurl the parchment, Cygnus caught a glimpse of Argo climbing up a rigging line with Scurvy John in pursuit.

When he glanced back at Lamonsten, he saw that the Slave Lord wizard was casting again, and this time Cygnus was very definitely his target.

There was suddenly a loud hissing to his right.

* * *

Cygnus whirled. Crouched only a few feet away was one of the giant weasels that Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco had battled back in Highport. Cygnus had seen a blanket in Icar's quarters that had been made from the hide of one of these creatures, and had dearly hoped he'd never have to face a live one.

The dire rodent's tan, triangular head swung towards Cygnus as it sniffed the air. The creature's beady black eyes focused on him and the creature hissed again menacingly.

The creature's back legs tensed. It was getting ready to spring, and Cygnus knew it would knock him right into the lake if it hit him.

Time seemed to slow down for the Aardian mage. He felt the same peculiar sensation that he had back in the Hall of Pillars, while battling Wimpell Frump.

_Real or not?_

He couldn't tell. The dire weasel certainly looked and sounded real enough. Just because Lamonsten was an illusionist didn't mean he couldn't conjure up a creature like this. It'd be the perfect trick, in fact.

Cygnus didn't use summoning spells. Part Hew had never taught him any, and he'd never bothered to learn any later on. Watching other wizards demonstrate them in magical performances, they had seemed ungainly to cast. The arm movements were slow and cumbersome, and the small bag and candle needed were just more foci that could be lost or-

_Foci?_

He never even had time to make a conscious decision as the weasel attacked. That portion of Cygnus' brain that possessed the ability to detect and manipulate the arcane energies known as mana had somehow done it for him.

Cygnus dismissed the creature as unreal a split-second before its claws reached him. The weasel's image seemed to peel up and away before evaporating into the empty air.

It was only after the fact, as his conscious mind caught up with his unconscious one, that Cygnus realized that Lamonsten had not been holding or a bag or candle in his hand when he had cast his latest spell.

The position of his fingers however, had been just right to be holding a small piece of woolen fleece.

* * *

"Save your illusions, Lazy!" Cygnus shouted at his foe. "I'm onto them!"

He began to read from the scroll. The magic-user kept all his attention on what he was doing. He knew Lamonsten would surely cast another spell as quickly as he could, and even if it was another illusion there was no guarantee that Cygnus would be able to disbelieve it again.

His fingers were trembling so badly that the scroll shook in his hands, making it even harder for Cygnus to concentrate on the magical symbols inscribed on it. But he managed it and as he finished, still unsure of whether it would work correctly- or at all- Cygnus looked up at Lamonsten to fix the target in his mind for the discharge.

But Cygnus couldn't help noticing other things in his peripheral vision as he did so.

He could no longer see either Argo or Scurvy John.

But he did see his team leader.

Locked in what looked like an embrace with the dark elf Edralve, Elrohir staggered towards the edge of the pier and leapt off.

In an instant, Cygnus realized what had happened. His friend would never do such a thing unless- unless he was mortally wounded and determined to take his enemy down with him.

That same instant had not yet passed when Cygnus knew what he had to do.

* * *

He was not prepared for the pain.

In one second, Cygnus' heart had leapt in his chest as he watched Elrohir stop dead in the air, successfully caught in his telekinetic grip. But in the next, before the mage's eyes could follow the progress of the drow still hurtling down and away towards the lake's surface, his entire left arm, already extended out in the casting, suddenly felt like it was on fire.

Cygnus gasped. It felt like a giant was trying to press his arm down. It felt like he was literally holding Elrohir up only by his own mortal strength.

Something had indeed gone wrong with the scroll reading. Cygnus knew enough to know the spell wasn't supposed to affect him this way.

And as his arm involuntarily began to drop, he saw Elrohir's form begin to drop as well.

_No! _

Exerting all his strength, both mentally and physically, Cygnus held onto the ranger.

He now saw that Elrohir was no longer moving.

_By the All-Father, no!_

There wasn't time for tears. Contracting his arm very slightly, Cygnus began to slowly move Elrohir back towards the dock. He could use all of the spell's energy up in one burst and hurl his friend onto dry land, but in the unlikely event the ranger was still alive, the landing would surely kill him. Even know, Cygnus could see the blood dripping from the ranger's stomach.

Then he remembered Lamonsten.

The illusionist, a broad smile on his face, was casting again.

* * *

_What a pitiful excuse for a wizard_, Lamonsten thought as he began uttering the magic words and evoking the needed gestures to tap the power arcane once more.

If the arrogant fool thought he was immune to all illusions, then Lamonsten would simply mix in just enough reality into his next one to make the point moot.

He could feel the energy flowing through him- energy that Lamonsten was tapping from the place where all shadows lay- energy that was infusing and mixing with both illusion and evocation.

The idiot Cygnus was still standing still, concentrating on his telekinesis. Lamonsten had spared only the briefest of glances at Elrohir's still form, and at Edralve screaming in the water as she was attacked by lacedons. Neither mattered to him.

A tiny, glowing orange sphere- no larger than a pea- materialized in the air in front of the illusionist. Lamonsten could just make out the miniscule shadows swirling in and around it.

_Disbelieve this_, he thought with a sadistic laugh as he hurled the _shadow fireball_ towards his target with a mental nudge.

He saw Cygnus lock eyes with him as Lamonsten's fiery sphere hurled towards him.

Then Cygnus made an odd gesture with his left arm. He curved it inwards swung it to his right in kind of a circular motion.

And in the next instant he was engulfed in the explosion of the _shadow fireball._

* * *

Lamonsten began to laugh as he watched the Furyondan mage crumple to the grass, his skin blistered and burned.

But the laugh died in his throat as he saw the shadow out of the corner of his eye.

He whirled around just in time to see a large object come out of its circular arc and hurl directly at him.

It was a body.

It was the body of the ranger Elrohir.

Lamonsten shrieked and tried to dodge, but the figure slammed into him. Lamonsten felt the railing of the Water Dragon splinter and give way beneath him as the impact pushed him over the edge of the deck and out into space.

_Ajakstu was always warning me to keep a feather fall in mind at all times_, was Lamonsten's last thought before his head struck the wooden dock.

_I should have listen-_


	185. What Can You Do With Faith?

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Despite taking a terrific beating, Aslan was still hanging on.

Brother Kerin had still not managed to dislodge the paladin's stranglehold on his neck using the remains of his belt, but the monk had somehow managed to rise to his feet, taking Aslan along with him. The two continued to grapple, both straining to their utmost.

But in a flash, Kerin's right elbow smashed into Aslan's left cheek. A second later, Kerin had swung his right forearm upwards, and the back of his clenched fist impacted into Aslan's forehead. The paladin staggered back a few feet, relinquishing his grip on the cloth, which his opponent tossed aside.

"Fool!" Brother Kerin snarled, his voice still hoarse and his neck still sporting an ugly, purplish band. "Even without my _monk's belt_, I'm still more than a match for _you!"_

Then he leapt.

Even though he still seemed impossibly close to Aslan to attempt a kick, the monk's right leg extended straight out, while his left leg seemed to propel his body almost vertically into the air.

But the paladin had seen a certain samurai employ the exact same maneuver before.

Aslan ducked low and dodged to the side. Despite missing, Kerin managed to land nimbly on his feet, but by that time Aslan was facing him again, his sword once again in hand.

"_You're still nothing without your Talent!"_ Brother Kerin screamed and attacked again, his fists a flurry of motion.

Aslan had little time for anything than a slow retreat, parrying the monk's constant stream of blows- and the occasional kick- almost constantly.

Every one which slipped through his defenses and landed felt to the paladin like he had run full-tilt into an iron wall.

Aslan knew he could not win. He was operating on his last vestiges of physical endurance, and although he might have been able to defeat the unenhanced Brother Kerin in melee combat while he was fresh, he had no chance of doing so now. He had been struck so many times and in so many places, the paladin felt like he was immersed in a sea of pain, and that he might dissolve any moment into disconnected pieces of agony before death mercifully released him.

And the worst part was that Brother Kerin was right. The monk was merely speaking aloud what Aslan's own dejected mind had been telling him over and over ever since he had awoken in the caverns underneath The Aerie an impossibly long time ago.

He _was_ nothing without his Talent.

Aslan was continuing to parry and retreat, but he wasn't even planning a counterattack. His mind, refusing to cooperate, continued to reprimand him.

_You can't save your friends. You can't even save yourself._

Aslan leaned backwards as Brother Kerin's hand slashed by his face like a knife.

_Even if any of them survive, what will they think of you_?

The paladin, trying to appease the voice in his head, swung at Brother Kerin, but the monk nimbly sidestepped the attack and darted in close. Before Aslan could react, Kerin had grabbed him in a headlock and was trying to hook his leg behind Aslan's to trip him.

Aslan stopped trying to loosen Kerin's grip on his neck and jabbed upwards with his right hand, index finger extended. He couldn't see where to aim, but he thought if he still possessed even a shred of genuine faith left, then his hand would be guided as all his actions, in and out of combat, had been- once upon a time.

He heard the monk cry out in pain as the paladin's fingers jabbed him in the eye. Aslan wriggled free and moved to circle around Brother Kerin. The monk glared at him with one angry eye while massaging the other with his hand.

_What can you do with faith?_

The question Aslan asked himself was in his own voice, but the words had belonged to someone else. Not any of his close friends, but his mentor, Svorlin.

* * *

Despite being together nearly every day for almost two years, the young Goliath had not become close friends with the elder paladin. Not from a lack of desire on Goliath's part, but Svorlin seemed to keep everyone at a bit of a distance- even the women he would take from time to time to satisfy his desires. Svorlin was not a cruel man- indeed, he had shown a respect for life Goliath had never seen in any individual beside his mother- but his handsome face rarely showed a happier expression than a grunt of approval and a thin, fleeting smile.

The only exception was when he prayed.

Goliath had never felt more inadequate than when the two knelt side-by-side in daily prayer. Whether in a great Asgardian temple or in the depths of a Rekamifokian forest, the young paladin's apprentice could feel the waves of piety emanating from his mentor. Svorlin. The older man's eyes were closed, and a beatific smile seemed to erase many of the age lines that criss-crossed the old paladin's face.

And Goliath, who due to the gift of his Talent felt he had even more reason to give thanks to the gods than Svorlin did, still struggled to match the generosity which his mentor offered his very soul daily to the Aesir.

And once, when they had been ambushed by hobgoblins shortly after breaking morning camp, Svorlin had astounded Goliath by what he had been able to do to the ogre the hobbies had used as their shock trooper.

_Faith versus evil, young Goliath_, Svorlin had said afterwards, wiping the blood off his blade. _'Tis no contest._

* * *

Brother Kerin was advancing on him again.

"You know I'm right, Aslan," the monk said, his face now lit by a cold smile as he settled into his fighting stance again. "You know you have nothing left."

Aslan didn't feel stronger.

His wounds did not heal.

But if he was going to die, he no longer welcomed the prospect.

He didn't feel empty anymore.

The paladin's hand tightened on the hilt of his longsword.

"I have one thing left, Kerin," Aslan said softly, as much to himself as to the monk of the Scarlet Brotherhood. "I have faith."

"That won't save you!" Brother Kerin shouted. The monk launched himself to the attack, his robes a crimson blur from his incredible speed. _"You know I'm right!" _he shrieked with triumph as his incoming fist slipped past the paladin's attempt to parry, aimed right between his eyes.

Aslan caught Kerin's fist in his left hand and stopped it cold.

The monk's eyes widened in surprise. He tried to yank it back, but the paladin held it firm.

"_Not right,"_ Aslan whispered. _"Smite."_

Neither of the two men were really sure what happened next.

* * *

Somehow, Brother Kerin had wrested his hand free and stepped back.

And somehow, Aslan's sword, which hadn't even been in attack position, was sweeping around in a wide arc. It didn't strike where Brother Kerin was-

-but it did strike the position where the monk had dodged to.

Aslan would swear he'd seen the briefest possible flash of light.

Brother Kerin was lifted off his feet and hurled backwards through the air.

* * *

Aslan blinked, both pain and the adrenalin rush of battle pouring back to him in an instant.

Kerin was picking himself off the ground, staring with disbelief at the blood which was seeping through the wound in his side. He glanced up at Aslan. The two men locked gazes.

And then Brother Kerin of the Scarlet Brotherhood turned and ran off into the forest.

Fatigue instantly replaced the paladin's depleted adrenalin. Aslan swayed on the spot, but he remained upright and looked around.

There was still so much more to do.


	186. Zantac The Killer

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Her blood was warm and sticky.

Zantac made several attempts to rub Slippery Ketta's blood off his face as he staggered away, only now opening his eyes.

He did not look back.

It all still seemed so unreal. Unable to bear Ketta's eyes upon him any longer, Zantac had kept his eyes closed as he had pressed his dagger against the Slave Lord's soft, unprotected throat. He had felt the tip of his dagger pressing against her skin.

And then a hot blast of fluid had sprayed itself all over the mage's face, forcing him to press his eyes even more tightly closed against it. Zantac knew that he had plunged the blade in but, even though it had occurred only seconds ago, the act already seemed like a faint and distant memory. _Held_ as she was, there had been no sound from Ketta- only a dull thump as her body had crumpled to the grass.

It seemed like her blood had somehow seeped inside Zantac as well. The wizard's brain felt numbed, as if it were coated with something that prevented it from functioning normally. There were yells and screams going on all around him, yet even with his eyes now open, nothing he was seeing seemed to register.

For one, he didn't know where all the animals had come from.

Cygnus, still clutching his scroll of _telekinesis_, was backed up to the very edge of the lake, facing a gigantic weasel, easily ten feet in length. Just as Zantac was trying to comprehend what he was seeing, the beast sprang at Cygnus- but then vanished in a manner that Zantac's spellcraft instantly recognized as that of an illusion.

Cygnus turned to his left, towards the _Water Dragon_, and shouted something, but Zantac didn't catch it. He was now staring about fifteen feet past Cygnus and slightly further inland, where the knot of Slave Lord mercenaries were.

They were covered. Not in blood, but in bats.

* * *

A brown, furry cloud seemed to envelop the guardsmen, causing them to shriek and swing their swords wildly through the air while trying to fend off the flying mammals with their free hands. Judging from the way in which several of the bats had attached themselves to the men, Zantac guessed that they were vampire bats.

Again the mage struggled to comprehend. It didn't make sense. Bats were nocturnal creatures. It was true that the sky, now almost completely covered by clouds of volcanic ash, was now as dark as twilight, but surely a volcanic eruption less than two miles away would have driven all the animals in the vicinity far away. Hadn't all the bats in the cave fisher cavern taken wing at the tremors which had preceded the awakening of Mount Flamenblut?

Unless…

But before Zantac's befuddled brain could arrive at a conclusion, there was a roar and an explosion near him. Again, it was only that part of his mind that contained an instinctive knowledge of magic that had recognized the detonation of a _fireball_ and caused Zantac to hurl himself off to the side and to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

A roar and a wave of heat passed over him, but Zantac knew he had been outside the _fireball's_ blast radius. He was uninjured, if one did not count the searing pain in his left shoulder where Slippery Ketta had stabbed him, and Zantac was very definitely counting that, especially as the impact with the grass had caused the pain to flare up even worse.

Intermixing swears and cries of suppressed agony, the Willip wizard laboriously clambered back to his feet- and then gasped.

Smoke still rising from his body, Cygnus lay on a patch of smoldering grass. He was not moving.

Zantac began to run towards his friend, but then another movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He looked up at the Water Dragon just in time to see someone crash into Lamonsten the Lazy, sending the Slave Lord wizard crashing through the ship's railing and onto the dock, where he also lay motionless in a crumpled heap.

The sight of one of their enemies down- or at least temporarily incapacitated- raised Zantac's spirits, but then he saw the figure the figure that had collided into Lamonsten, and his heart sank again.

It was Elrohir. Their team leader, blood dripping from his body, lay dangling over the edge of the _Water Dragon's_ deck.

Zantac went cold. How had that happened? The last he had seen, the ranger was battling the svartalf, Edralve, on the pier. A quick glance around revealed no sign of the black elf, although there was a slowly subsiding bubbling on the surface of the lake nearby, along with what might have been bloodstains floating on the water.

Then Zantac realized that Elrohir was starting to slide forward. He cried out and began to rush forward, even though he knew full well he would not be in time, when suddenly a pair of arms grabbed Elrohir around the waist from behind and clumsily hauled him back onto the deck and out of sight.

The mage tried, yet again, to think.

_Argo?_

Possibly. Zantac knew the big ranger had climbed onto the _Water Dragon_ to engage Scurvy John. He could neither see nor hear any sign of the pirate. Had both Elrohir and Argo managed to triumph over the opponents? But if so, at what cost? Zantac had no idea if Elrohir was dead or merely unconscious, but at this point Argo could do as much- or as little- for him as Zantac could. He would be better served by-

"_Cygnus!"_

The name was torn from Zantac's lips as he wheeled around, already cursing himself for his thickheadedness in forgetting his fellow arcanist. His friend.

But there was an armored figure already leaning over the fallen mage, his hand on his throat.

Zantac cried out in an attempt to distract his new opponent while clutching his bloodstained dagger tightly and getting ready to attack when the man looked up at him.

With a shock, Zantac realized it was Aslan.

The paladin looked a mess. While not as covered with blood as most of them seemed to be right now, it looked as if every inch of Aslan's body that was not covered by his leather armor was covered with angry-looking red, blue or purplish bruises. He looked as if he had engaged in a fisticuffs match with an ogre.

Zantac also belatedly realized that what Aslan was doing was checking Cygnus for a pulse.

The Willip wizard sank to his knees beside them, grateful for the fact that he hadn't had to take more a few steps. His legs had given out from shock. Aslan's eyes looked somehow brighter than usual, and Zantac realized that the paladin was no doubt trying once again to utilize his Talent to heal, as if by sheer grit and determination he could overcome the cursed metal band encircling his neck.

Zantac opened his mouth, but no words came out- but then Cygnus stirred.

The tall mage didn't look quite as bad as when Zantac had first seen his horribly burned head and face emerge from the trapdoor in Markessa's stockade, but it was still a terrible sight. Most of Cygnus' short brown hair was gone and burns covered his skin- perhaps even more than last time, since Cygnus had been wearing only a loincloth this time, which had now been completely burned away.

Zantac couldn't help but close his eyes again to shut out the sight. He felt the tears burning behind his closed lids. He had known that this final battle was likely to result in the death of them all, but now that it was actually happening, he-

Zantac felt something gently brush his arm. He opened his eyes to see Cygnus already staring into them.

"I want…" the Aardian wizard croaked, his voice barely audible. "I want…"

"Yes, Cygnus?" Zantac asked, bending down closer, his own voice trembling. "What do you want?"

Aslan had grasped one of Cygnus' hands in his own and was holding it now. Cygnus' eyes flickered over to the paladin before returning his gaze to meet that of his fellow magic-user.

And then, incredibly, Cygnus gave a feeble smile.

"I want," the tall wizard repeated, "Argo's ring."

* * *

Now Zantac knew why Aslan's eyes had appeared so bright. He knew his own tears- tears of both of grief and joy- must be visible.

"_Resist Fire,"_ Zantac told him, his own voice sounding nearly as strained to his own ears as Cygnus's. "It's a simple first-tier abjuration. Even a lunkhead like you must know that one."

Cygnus smiled again. He tried to sit up, but a spasm of pain shot through his body, his face contorted, and he sank back down again.

"I'll do what I can for him, Zantac." Aslan's voice was now low and measured. "I'll get some water from the lake for his burns, but you've got to finish off Lamonsten." The paladin's eyes now met Zantac's. "I'm in no shape to do it."

Distracted as he had been by Cygnus, it was only then that Zantac could see that every moment Aslan made was causing his body more pain. That monk must have inflicted a terrible beating upon him.

He turned his head around. Lamonsten was starting to stir.

"Zantac," Cygnus half-whispered. "He's _hasted_ himself."

"I don't have a single spell left!" Zantac shouted without really meaning to. "I already used my scroll!"

Cygnus' arm came slowly up. His hand brushed against Zantac's cheek.

"You can kill without magic, Zantac."

The Willip wizard stared down at his friend and then over at Aslan. The same look resided in those light blue eyes that was in the brown ones of Zantac's fellow mage.

Without another word, Zantac rose to his feet and headed towards the _Water Dragon._

* * *

There was nothing to impede him. The mercenaries had run off into the woods, still trailed by a number of bats. Unru's _fog cloud_ had dispersed to the point where it was no longer an impediment to vision, and Cygnus caught a glimpse of Sir Menn and Sitdale still flanking Theg Narlot as their melee continued. Swords were flashing everywhere, but Zantac could not tell at a glance who was winning and he did not have time for a closer look.

By the time Zantac had gained the edge of the pier, Lamonsten had already raised himself up on his elbows. His snail shell's hat had fallen off, and blood was dripping down from his head, onto his face and staining his white beard, but the illusionist ignored this as he stared at the approaching wizard.

And then he was casting, his right arm moving with unnatural speed even as Zantac advanced.

Suddenly, a towering column of ominous shadows appeared, encircling Lamonsten, hiding him from view. Zantac rushed at the cylindrical wall- and then stopped.

A sharp stab of fear had suddenly shot through him. He felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach. Plunging headfirst into those shadows, as he had been about to do, suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

Zantac bit his lip. He knew this was no mere _fog cloud_, although what it might be he had no idea. He knew of no such spell. The smoke-like shadows formed a half-cylinder with a radius of about fifteen feet, with Lamonsten no doubt at the center. The sides of the cloud touched the hull of the _Water Dragon_, so there was no way to bypass it. The cloud seemed to rise up at least twenty feet, so even if Zantac had boarded the ship, he still couldn't drop down on Lamonsten without passing through the shadows.

He never remembered thinking, or debating, or even feeling anything but fear, but as everything turned grey in front of him, Zantac realized that he must have entered the cloud.

* * *

One step and he was awash in terror.

The shadows couldn't be more than a few feet thick, but it might as well been miles. The wisplike smoke seemed to tear at Zantac, trying to stop him not only physically but mentally as well. The mage could hear his heart pounding wildly in his chest. A cold sweat broke out on his face, mingling with the drying blood still caked to it.

Another step.

Zantac's knees began to wobble. He wanted to scream, to flee- anything that would get him out of here. He tried to focus on some positive thought to help him combat the feeling on dread that was now threatening to strangle him, but none came.

Then Zantac felt keenly the dagger which he still clutched, white-knuckled, in his hand, and though the thought which pierced his brain was by no means a happy one, it was still at complete odds with the fear swirling all around him.

It was the knowledge that he had killed, and had to kill again. Would kill again.

Another step and he was clear.

* * *

Lamonsten had regained his feet, and was steadying himself against the hull of the Water Dragon. His face was full of rage as he glared at his foe.

But he didn't shout. Instead, he incanted again.

Zantac, all fear having departed the instant he had left that wall of gloom, rushed towards Lamonsten, but the illusionist was still too quick. Zantac had a brief glimpse of red, blue and yellow sand flying out of Lamonsten's right hand before a vivid cone of lights composed of those same colors struck him.

Anger pouring into Zantac's breast more and more with each passing instant, the Willip wizard came right through the _color spray_ as if it didn't exist and charged the Slave Lord mage, his dagger poised to strike. He saw Lamonsten's eyes widen in fear.

The illusionist began to cast yet again, but this time, _hasted_ or not, he wasn't quick enough.

Zantac slammed his dagger into Lamonsten's chest so hard and so deep he thought he must surely have pinned him to the ship's hull beyond.

Blood oozed from the illusionist but Zantac didn't notice it. The rage he was feeling, far from abating with his successful attack on Lamonsten, was in fact increasing.

Lamonsten gasped, and then gurgled, a thin trickle of blood coming from between his lips. His right hand dipped beneath his robes and came out holding a dagger of his own.

Zantac left his own dagger embedded in the Slave Lord's chest, grabbed Lamonsten's hand in both of his and twisted until he was able to wrench the weapon from his hand.

And as Zantac stabbed Lamonsten again and again with his own weapon, he suddenly knew why he was so very angry.

* * *

Zantac was a wizard. He had always wanted to be a wizard. The knowledge, the brotherhood of his fellow mages; men and women bonded by the secret language of arcana that no other people could ever hope to understand. The feeling of discovery- no, of _delight_- that he experienced every time his mind wrapped itself around some new discovery after days or even weeks of hard toil and studying. This was what made him happy.

It wasn't using that power to kill people. It had never been. Zantac had never killed a person in his life until he had accompanied Cygnus and his friends down to Highport. He hadn't been naive. He knew it would happen. Indeed, he knew that many arcane spells had been researched for just that purpose in mind. But at least it was still magic. He had still been a wizard, not a murderer.

But no longer.

Now Zantac was a killer, plain and simple. There was no magic involved as he plunged the dagger again and again into Lamonsten's flesh. He knew he was screaming at his foe even as the illusionist's body began to slide down against the _Water Dragon's_ hull, his eyes growing glassy and unfocused.

Zantac slumped down beside the body of his enemy. An enemy, and yet a fellow wizard.

Slowly, Zantac's rage gave way to sorrow, and his eyes gave way to tears. He felt, and he _knew_, that nothing would ever be the same again.

The roar jerked him back to reality.

Zantac hadn't even noticed the cylinder of shadows had vanished as he staggered to his feet. Before even looking, he knew that it had come from down where the party had first engaged the Slave Lords.

It had been the roar of the ogre mage, Blackthorn.

And it had sounded like a roar of triumph.


	187. Oni Wa Sato

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

_Darkness_ spilled forth from Blackthorn.

Nesco gasped as the very air around the ogre mage went cold and faint. She could feel as much as see everything around her growing dimmer and dimmer.

Like a candle about to die.

But the ranger of the Azure Order didn't wait for it.

Even as the indistinct shape that was the giant oni swung its great spear, now a shaft of near-blackness, down towards Yanigasawa Tojo's supine form, Nesco swung her sword horizontally in an intercept arc. The two weapons met, and the spear's trajectory was altered just enough so that the end slammed into the bloody grass just inches from the samurai's head.

Nesco, still crouched down by Tojo, stared up at the giant's head, where two ragged circles of blackness marked the place where Blackthorn's eyes were gazing back down at her. She could hear the ogre mage's ragged breathing- as heavy as her own- and still just make out wisps of steam coming the oni's open mouth.

And then Nesco Cynewine took as deep a breath as she possibly could and shouted out at him with all of her might.

"_Oni wa sato!"_

* * *

For a moment, there was no speech from anyone. Nesco's pounding heart eclipsed even her own continued heavy breathing until she thought her eardrums must break from the noise. From beyond, somewhere beyond the darkness that spread out from the monster twenty feet in all directions, there were shouts. There were screams.

The two stared at each other. Ogre and human.

And then Blackthorn threw back his head and roared with laughter.

* * *

"What is this?" the creature shouted, his torso actually trembling on his trunk like legs from his merriment. _"Oni begone? _You would scare me off by shouting at me, Lady Cynewine, as if I were a blight upon your harvest or a curse upon your village?"

Blackthorn choked up, momentarily unable to continue. The ogre mage's free hand clutched his stomach to keep from literally doubling over in laughter.

Beneath him, Nesco just stared at him.

Nesco felt disappointment. She had hoped against hope that those three words might constitute some kind of powerful Nipponese charm.

Nesco felt embarrassment. She had indeed been reduced to shouting at her foe because she could not hurt him otherwise.

And worse of all, Nesco Cynewine felt betrayed. She had given Tojo those few precious seconds to explain himself- explain the mystery; this riddle that inexplicably seemed to hold to her the secret of their very survival. A way to drive off, or even kill, the ogre mage warrior that called himself Blackthorn.

But he had given her nothing. Nothing she could understand.

_You must speak mine._

She glanced back at Tojo, but the samurai still lay on his back, as mortally wounded as he had been before. His eyes were closed, and his head hung limply to one side. His skin that was not covered in dark blood was so ghastly white that it almost seemed to emit a faint glow, even within Blackthorn's _darkness. _His breathing was ragged, shallow and fading. The spear which had impaled him lay beside him, the wooden shaft and metal point both drenched in dark blood.

Blackthorn's voice snapped Nesco back to her horrible reality.

"And now Lady Cynewine," the oni announced as he spun his greatspear in a circle, rapidly passing it from one hand to the other, "if you are quite finished relying on childish rituals…"

The large spear came flying down and forward.

"_Say goodbye to hope!"_

* * *

Nesco jumped up to her feet and backwards at the same time, so that the attacking greatspear slammed into the earth in front of her.

The ranger backed off. She swung her sword occasionally, but it was difficult enough darting within the ogre mage's massive reach and Blackthorn's magical _darkness _was making him hard enough to even see, let alone to strike a telling blow.

She was able to see however, that the wounds she had inflicted earlier on the oni; on his right thigh, his right arm, his stomach.

They were no longer bothering him.

* * *

He was forcing her backwards now. Away from any possible protection her friends might be able to offer her.

Even if any of them were still alive.

They passed close by Arwald, where the fighter still lay on the ground, blood still seeping from his chest. He wasn't dead- yet. Nesco could see him slowly writhing on the grass, knees bent inward in an almost fetal position, trying to staunch the wound with hands barely weak enough to still move.

Nesco desperately hoped Arwald would at least survive until the end of the battle, when she or someone else might stabilize him. Then she realized that even that hope was dependent on her side prevailing in the battle.

And that didn't look like it was going to happen.

Again and again she leapt out of the way of Blackthorn's spear. Again and again her attempts at a counterattack were thwarted by the difficulty of ducking under the ogre mage's weapon and landing a telling blow. Further and further he forced her back. It was too dark; she was too tired; she was hurting too badly to continue; she knew that at any moment-

Nesco looked up. The _darkness_ had gone, and it was evident by the shocked look on Blackthorn's face that it had not been of his doing.

The oni swiveled his head, staring about.

"Well, well," he rumbled. "One of your mages apparently still survives, Lady Cynewine, even if he chooses to hide himself."

Blackthorn seemed to peer for another moment, not back towards the _Water Dragon_, but towards the forest, some fifty feet away from this point. Then he turned his massive head back towards Nesco, but his eyes did not light upon her. The creature instead stared over her head, back towards the area where their boat had run aground near the shore.

"And who is this who approaches, Lady Cynewine? Armed and armored- no mage, surely. Apparently, you have no shortage of suicidal companions."

Nesco turned to look. Her head had only completed half the turn before she realized her mistake.

The shaft of Blackthorn's spear passed from the very periphery of the ranger's vision to inches from her eyes in less than an instant. She was not able to block or parry in time. Only an instinctive jerking of her head back and to the right saved her. As it was, the spear's point drew a long gash alongside Nesco's left cheek.

Her face seemed to explode in agony, and setting her lungs to scream merely re-triggered the pain in her chest from the ogre mage's earlier attack. Nesco could not stand the pain. She staggered backwards and bent double, her sword dropping from her hand.

The ranger took a few steps in a clumsy, sideways fashion to her right. Bright lights exploded intermittently in front of her face, and what little she could still make out of the outside world through the lights and the blood and the hurt spun around in a terrible, dizzying arc.

Nesco tripped and went down.

This was it. She knew it was over. Knew Blackthorn was still with her, no doubt readying his death stroke. She, a member of the famed Azure Order of Furyondy, had fallen for a beginner's trick, a simple diversion. There was no one approaching. No unseen savior.

She, Nesco Cynewine, had been not only beaten, but outsmarted by an ogre.

And that ogre would taunt her until the last moment of her life.

"Poor Lady Cynewine," Blackthorn crooned, the oni's deep voice surprisingly smooth as the creature bent over Nesco.

"Don't berate yourself so," she heard him say. "You had no chance of defeating me, even had you all been healthy and fully equipped. It is true there was one individual who might have triumphed over me, but sadly, that one is no longer among us."

Blackthorn broke into a chuckle, which quickly became a deep belly laugh.

Nesco looked up. Through the blood and the twilight she could just make out the large mass above her. She tried again to stand, but her muscles no longer wanted to listen to her mind.

The ogre mage continued to laugh, but he was now once again bringing his spear into attack position.

"And do you know what is the greatest irony of all, Lady Cynewine?" Blackthorn jeered. "You simply _must_ know before you die, for it is so wonderful as to be simply delicious!"

The great head came closer. Tears of pain welled from Nesco's eyes. She was still trying to stand, but could only make it to her knees. Her body was going to split open from the agony. She was going to die from the pain before Blackthorn even struck her again. The world was starting to spin again.

"The most beautiful thing of all," Blackthorn continued, "is that the one person who ever had a chance of slaying me has been dead for months, but I never killed him!"

The ogre mage's free hand shot out to point somewhere behind him.

"_HE DID!"_

* * *

The oni's roaring laughter filled Nesco's ears. She couldn't hear anything else, couldn't see anything clearly. Blackthorn's outstretched arm was only a blurry line as it pointed towards a dark shape lying motionless on the ground some forty feet or so away.

Was it Arwald? No, he was only about half that far off, and slightly to the left. It was…

It was Tojo.

Something clicked in Nesco Cynewine's brain.

And then something else. And then again, and again. Like one stone triggering an avalanche, thoughts, concepts and ideas poured into Nesco's mind so fast she couldn't examine them. It was almost like when she had been born again.

_Tojo. Samurai. Weapons. Daisho. Oni wa sato. Speak my language. Stockade. Honor. Aslan. Fly. Spying. Hearing. Markessa. Not trusting Blackthorn. For samurai only. Die with honor. Tojo bending down. Listening. Listening. Icar..._

And Nesco Cynewine finally, finally, got it.

But then the death stroke came down.

* * *

Nesco screamed and fell back onto the grass. She was dead. Too late, she had been too late.

But the spear never reached her.

With a cracking sound, the wooden shaft of the greatspear bent around in a circle even as the weapon descended towards Nesco.

Nesco stopped screaming. Blackthorn stopped his mingled laughs and roars of triumph.

Both of them stared at the ogre mage's weapon.

It wasn't cracked or splintered in any way. The spear had stopped warping and now looked as if it had simply been fashioned that way, curving around with its metal shaft pointing almost straight back at Blackthorn.

The oni whipped his head around to stare back at the forest.

"You!" he bellowed! "I see you!"

* * *

Nesco couldn't see anyone, but then she heard footsteps- the footfalls of someone running. The sound came not from the forest, but from behind her. Blackthorn turned back just as a dark blur sped right by Nesco and with a yell launched itself directly at the ogre mage, forcing it back.

It was several seconds before Nesco could regain her knees. Still gritting her teeth against the searing pain, the ranger finally managed to peek between her eyelids that wanted so desperately to close from the agony of the wounds still threatening to overwhelm her.

His shouts as loud as those of the much larger Blackthorn, Sir Selzen Murtano, Knight of the Azure Order, was attacking the ogre mage with his sword as fast and as hard as he possibly could, with little regard for any kind of defense. The oni tried to counterattack, but his greatspear was useless now and with a roar of frustration he threw it away.

Selzen continued to slowly force Blackthorn back. His sword stabbed again and again into the ogre mage's chain shirt. Some of his thrusts, slashes and lunges drew blood, but Nesco knew it wouldn't be enough- not against the oni's ability to regenerate. She could see Blackthorn angle his retreat slightly, and she knew he was heading back towards where Arwald- and more importantly, his sword- still lay on the ground.

Her legs shaking so badly she couldn't believe she'd last more than a minute on them, Nesco regained her footing, although she still swayed dangerously. What she had to do seemed impossible. In fact, it probably was. She'd never be able to accomplish it.

But Lady Cynewine found that she had already taken one step forward.

She decided that she might as well take a few more.

* * *

For the first time since this battle had begun, Blackthorn was angry.

He wasn't afraid, though. There was no reason for fear. What he had told the Cynewine woman was quite true. He had no reason to dread these pitiful humans, all wounded to death or close. His ability to heal his wounds would protect him long enough for him to finish them off.

Blackthorn no longer had cause for any real concern. He had not now for months, and doubted he ever would again.

The ogre mage had little idea how the rest of the battle was going, but that did not overly concern him. If the surviving Slave Lords had thrashed their opponents soundly, which he considered the most likely possibility, then Blackthorn would in all likelihood stay with them, at least for a while. He was sure to be promoted back to a high position after this was all over and the Nine had reestablished themselves somewhere else- at Highport, most likely.

But for now, Blackthorn would be here to take full advantage of the post-battle situation. He would demand the choicest magic items and treasure from the chest containing the possessions of the Furyondans, and no one would be in any shape to refuse him.

Of course, if the Slave Lords had been so weakened by their victory over these pathetic do-gooders that Blackthorn no longer deemed them worthy employers, why then- he might wind up with a very large pile of corpses to sift through indeed before he set off on his own.

There might even be time for a quick meal first.

And if the Furyondans somehow managed to triumph? Even that unlikely scenario was no cause for alarm. While Blackthorn would not be able to assume his gaseous form until tomorrow, he could still fly and become _invisible_ at will. He could not be caught. Not without powerful magic that he knew no one here currently possessed.

He saw Arwald's sword by his foot now. He snatched it up even as his opponent's sword took the opportunity of his lowered posture to jab itself into his right shoulder.

Blackthorn roared with pain and then turned back to face his attacker. While this sword was smaller than idea for his current size, Blackthorn was skilled at fighting in his _polymorphed_ form as well as his own, so he had no trouble wielding the weapon. Now armed on a par with his foe, the oni eyed him as he attempted to regain the initiative.

It was then that he noticed the "9" symbol on the front of the man's chainmail. He'd seen this man before, although he couldn't remember his name.

"Traitor!" Blackthorn bellowed.

The man forced a grim smile. "Can't trust anyone these days," he muttered before resuming the attack.

Their swords clashed. Blackthorn shifted to a defensive posture. He could already feel his wounds closing up, and once they had, he would launch into a counterattack that would slay this annoying human once and for all.

To Blackthorn's curiosity however, his opponent did not attempt to keep inflicting injury and instead sidled around to Blackthorn's right, forcing the oni to turn to the right as well in order to keep him in front. The ogre mage could have maneuvered himself to the left, but he saw no reason to. In fact, Blackthorn had now turned completely around and was now facing back towards the _Water Dragon_ and the battle raging on and near the ship.

He actually found this a tactically better situation. There was no one behind him now except Lady Cynewine.

And she had already proven herself to be of no consequence at all.

Blackthorn went on the offensive. Now it was his weapon that penetrated chain links- once, and then again. The Slave Lord lieutenant began to give ground, and Blackthorn kept up, using his superior size to best advantage now, attacking his quarry while still keeping the human out of his attacking range.

There was a sudden scrabbling by Blackthorn's left hip.

Catching just a glimpse of the top of Lady Cynewine's head out of the corner of his eye, the ogre mage swung his left hand, now clutched into a fist, directly at it. At the same instant, the human fighter lunged forward, but Blackthorn had been prepared for exactly that. He knew Nesco was simply making a feeble attempt to distract him.

An attempt that had not worked.

The oni felt a satisfying _crack, _and knew that he had broken Nesco's nose. He felt rather than saw the human female fall away from his side even as the ogre mage's sword parried the male's attack. Concentrating all his attention on the fighter now, Blackthorn attacked again and again. More and more of the oni's slashes drew blood.

Then Blackthorn feinted to the left, and the human fell for it. As fast as he could, the ogre mage sliced his sword through the air, curving underneath and coming back from his opponent's left side. His sword dug deeply into the man's sword arm.

The man cried out in pain and dropped his weapon. He staggered back, but Blackthorn was already on him, his own sword- made of metal- coming down in an arc that the oni knew no spell could disrupt.

He had won.

He had won!

He roared in triumph.

"_ONI WA SATO!"_

And then the worst pain Blackthorn had ever experienced in his entire life erupted in his side.

* * *

Wide-eyed, the ogre mage spun around and gaped.

What he saw was impossible.

It couldn't be true. Not the Cynewine woman. It couldn't have been her. She couldn't have, _she couldn't have-_

"It can't be," Blackthorn whispered, The oni's eyes traveled down to his left side, but his mind still refused to accept what they were telling him.

What he saw was a bloody wound. A wound that Blackthorn knew instinctively would not heal.

But it was what he did _not_ see that confirmed that this nightmare was real.

"It can't be," the ogre mage repeated, but his head turned again- involuntarily, it seemed, to look over at the still supine form of the Yanigasawa samurai, now only about ten feet away from his current position.

By the time his black eyes locked with the samurai's violet ones, they were already on him.

"It be," Tojo said simply. "It be."

* * *

Fear swelled up in the oni's breast. Within seconds, it had exploded into a white-hot terror.

He turned away from Nesco Cynewine, who was now charging at him.

Even as the unfamiliar feeling of panic surged through him, Blackthorn tried to clamp down on it. He would flee. That was certain. She still couldn't catch him. No one could catch him.

Blackthorn turned _invisible_ and leapt into the air.

There was a loud _bang_ and a rippling in the air came up from behind Blackthorn and overtook him.

Blackthorn watched in disbelief as his form shimmered back into visibility.

_This can't be!_ His mind screamed at him yet again. _How did he know? How did the samurai know?_

Still, he was in the air, if only slightly, and starting to pull up and away. He had Nesco in his sights now. She would pull off no more surprises.

Someone grabbed Blackthorn's right foot.

He looked down and gasped. The Slave Lord lieutenant he had just been fighting had grabbed hold and was hanging on.

Blackthorn snarled at him. The fool! He'd just fly over the lake and peel him off there. He'd make a nice snack for the lacedons.

Then he felt another weight on his foot, and once again could no longer believe what he was seeing. It was as if his entire world had turned upside-down in the last thirty seconds.

Another man was hanging onto the first man's waist. This man carried no weapons and wore no armor- in fact, he was clad in the sopping wet simple garments of a Suderham citizen. Even as he began to pull away, it took a moment for Blackthorn to realize that this was exactly who it was- one of the wretched specimens of humanity that the Furyondans had saved from the waters of the lake.

Then a woman grabbed hold of the man, and another man grabbed hold of her.

Like a great worm, all the people that Elrohir and his friends had saved were now piling on, forming a human chain.

It was then that Blackthorn noticed he was slowing down.

He wasn't gaining any more altitude.

There were too many of them.

"Get off!" he screamed at them. _"Get off!"_

There had to be a dozen people hanging off of him now. Blackthorn felt himself dropping back towards the ground.

He wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot. The oni, always cautious, still carried his greatest weapon in reserve. He wouldn't need it for these vermin, however. He could break each one of them in half with no effort at all. In mid-air, he twisted around and his long, muscular arm reached out to grab the man hanging onto his ankle.

Flame exploded in Blackthorn's eyes.

The ogre mage screamed. Fire burned him as it did any humanoid. He could not heal from it. The pain was as much from surprise as from any physical injury. He rubbed his eyes clear, wincing at the small patch of seared flesh around his brow.

Another flame slammed into him, but this dissipated upon impact without harming the oni.

Blackthorn looked back towards the forest. His keen eyes showed him a sight that for once, was exactly what he had expected to see.

The man who had ruined his spear stood there, walking forward from the very edge of the forest, conjuring small flames in the palm of his hand and then flinging them at Blackthorn. Unlike the first, these either missed the ogre mage entirely or failed to penetrate his spell resistance.

Then Blackthorn saw he was about to hit the ground.

A guttural snarl of rage erupted from his throat. He'd use his last weapon. Then, there would be no one to stop him escaping.

"Run! All of you, run! We'll take him!"

A human voice. Familiar.

Blackthorn crashed to the ground on his side, like a wounded bird trying to fly on one wing. The wretched refuse of Suderham natives were already fleeing, except for the traitorous lieutenant.

But now others were arriving on the scene. The paladin- it had been he who shouted. Others in armor. It seemed as if half a dozen of the Furyondans converged at once on his position.

And that was exactly what Blackthorn had been waiting for.

The oni opened his mouth and exhaled.

A great cone of white shot out and enveloped each and every one of them in an arc of frozen death.

For a moment, there was silence.

* * *

The humans lay underneath a thick coating of hoarfrost. None of them moved.

Blackthorn had won.

The ogre mage took deep, gulping breaths of the cold air.

He smiled. He had survived, as he always did. He was about to rise to his feet when he heard the whisper nearby.

"Oni wa sato."

* * *

Something sliced so deep into Blackthorn's right leg, he felt it strike bone.

There were no words, either in his own tongue or that of humankind, to describe it. It was as if the heavens themselves had decided to strike the oni down.

Falling back onto his side amid his own wails and cries of torment, Blackthorn began to drag himself away from the scene. He didn't even realize he had dropped the sword. Both of his arms were exerting themselves to their upmost limits to drag his gigantic body away from this impossible attack.

For a moment, Blackthorn thought that his _darkness_ had returned all on its own, but then he realized that a shadow had fallen over him. The oni looked up.

Standing over him was Nesco Cynewine.

Much as she had last time Blackthorn's _cone of cold_ had struck her, the ranger's entire upper body was coating with ice. Beneath the whiteness, her skin had turned blue, and parts were now turning black and hardening. She swayed uncertainly on her feet.

But unlike last time, Nesco's green eyes looked as sharp as ever. They stared down at the ogre mage. Her arms were raised above her head.

And in her hands, she grasped the impossible.

Emerald energy cracking around the blade like jade lightning, Icar's katana glowed a brilliant green in her hands. Nesco's hands, unlike the rest of her, were not trembling at all. It was if the sword itself were steadying her limbs.

"No," whispered Blackthorn in horror.

When Nesco Cynewine opened her mouth, her teeth started chattering so hard, she could hardly get the words out.

But she did.

"_Say… goodbye… to you!" _she hissed.

The katana, aimed directly at the oni's neck, came down.

Blackthorn's scream was cut short only by his decapitation.


	188. The Survivors

**25****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Blackthorn's head rolled along the grass for what seemed like an inordinately long time and then stopped.

Nesco felt the ice rush back into her veins as the glow faded from the katana.

Her fingers tensed up, the sword falling to the ground. Slowly, the ranger's body began to double up. It felt like all the muscles in her body were shutting down.

_That's all right_, she thought to herself as her sight dimmed. _At least the pain is gone, and I'm tired of pain. I'm tired of fighting and maybe, just maybe, I'm tired of living._

She was about to surrender to the encroaching darkness when Nesco heard a sound that did something she would have sworn by all the gods was impossible.

It was a sound that made her blood run even colder.

It was the sound of Blackthorn yelling.

* * *

Uncomprehending, Nesco stared at the severed head of the ogre mage, which was shouting and screaming in what Nesco presumed was Kura-Turan, but she couldn't understand a word of it. The tiny white pupils in the midst of the oni's eyes were more visible now than they ever had been, and growing still larger. The ogre mage's head was upright, but it wobbled precariously from the creature's jaw opening and closing as it continuously yelled.

Nesco began to back off away from it and as she did, something lumbered into her field of vision.

Blackthorn's headless body was crawling around on its hands and knees. Every few feet it would stop and sweep its hands around, as if feeling for something.

Something, Nesco realized with a sickening shock, like its head.

_No,_ she cried to herself. _Please, let someone else finish this. I can't. I'm too cold and I'm too hurt. I just want to lie down and go to sleep. Please, someone else do this._

Nesco was so cold, she couldn't even turn her neck. She thought she heard approaching footsteps behind her, but all she could do was stare at that hideous shrieking head and the body that was slowly but surely coming closer and closer to it.

And then she was sixteen again.

* * *

_The whole of the flower beds of the Cynewine estate were bare with the advent of Ready'reat. Small patches of frost dotted the packed brown earth. The weather was cold and clear. It was, as her eldest brother Sir Helgin had assured Nesco, perfect conditions for a game of Kick. Helgin's eyes, green with a hint of hazel- the same as his sister- sparkled down at her as he smiled. Nesco, just happy to be in his company, watched the steam come from his mouth in puffs as he spoke._

"_It's simple enough, Nessie," Helgin had explained while pointing to one end of the field where two wooden posts had been set upright about five feet apart. "You and Miles try to kick the ball between those posts, while Joseph and I try to do the same at the other end of the field. Remember, though- you can't touch the ball with your hands!"_

_Nesco frowned at the far goal. "They're awfully close together."_

_Helgin reached out and tousled his sister's hair. "Nothing good is easy, Nessie."_

_She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Father," but then realized she had to say a few things. A few important things._

"_Helgin," she mumbled, unable to quite look him in the eye, "thanks for putting Joseph on your team and not mine."_

"_You won't be thanking me after the two of us wipe up the field with you and_ _Miles."_

"_Just try it!" she laughed shakily, but before Sir Helgin turned away to rejoin his younger brother, Nesco caught his eye again. _

_He gave her an inquisitive look. "Yes?"_

_Nesco swallowed. Sir Helgin had just returned from his first patrol as a full-fledged Knight of the Hart. He had been in the Vesve. He had seen combat._

_Nesco couldn't stop worrying about him._

"_I heard," she asked, trying very hard not to let her voice choke up on her. "I heard that orcs play this game using the severed heads of their victims. Is that true?"_

_Sir Helgin looked intently at his younger sister for a moment, and then smiled a thin smile._

"_You hear a lot of things about orcs, Nessie. Come on, let's get ready."_

_He ran off, but his voice had been just a bit too casual._

And now Nesco was running again. She was going to play Kick.

* * *

She didn't run straight at first. Nesco needed to get the proper angle for her kick because she knew she'd only get one chance. Her legs screaming protests at the ranger for her still daring to utilize them, Nesco came out of her circular jog and came at her quarry.

The head shrieked something, and Blackthorn's body lunged at her.

A blue fist nearly as big as Nesco's head came at her, but she ducked underneath it. The other hand grabbed hold of her, but she spun around, twisted and broke free.

Just a few more feet.

The ogre's body made a diving tackle to try and cover its head, but it was a second too late. Nesco's foot connected solidly. The ranger shouted out in fresh pain. She'd probably broken yet another bone, this time in her big toe, but the ball- the head- sailed serenely up and away in a big beautiful arc.

It landed about thirty feet away with a splash in the lake.

"Goal," whispered Nesco.

The oni's head shouted. It screamed, it roared, its jaw stretching impossibly, obscenely wide- but then the dark waters flooded into the creature's mouth and it sank beneath the surface and was quickly lost to sight.

And the headless body, which had begun to rise back to its knees, suddenly slumped forward face down on the grass. It twitched once and did not move again.

Blood began to pour from the stump. The dark fluid washed over Nesco's feet.

Nesco Cynewine took several steps backwards. Everything in front of her, and all the sounds around her, seemed to recede rapidly. The world began to spin and the ground began to rise, and she knew that her legs were giving out.

Her last thought was of Tojo, but it left her before she even hit the grass.

* * *

"Lady Cynewine?"

A hand, rough and yet tender, on her cheek.

"No," she moaned, eyes still unable to open. Cold and pain were starting to come back and she didn't want that. Her right side, her chest, the back of her head, her nose, her foot; she wouldn't be able to stand it.

A cry of pain escaped her lips as she felt a finger touch the bloody wreck of what had once been her nose.

But then the pain eased, and a small shiver of warmth came back to her body. It was enough to trigger her body's own defense mechanism of shivering, and she began shaking violently. The person who was kneeling over her pressed his body against hers.

She could feel a beard pressing against her cheek. Without even thinking, she wrapped her arms around the person's shoulders and held on.

Then a voice.

"Take what heat you can from my body, Lady Cynewine. I've only given you the barest healing, enough to stabilize you. I don't have a lot to go around, and I must check out all the others. Breathe in through your nose if you can."

The voice was fuzzy; indistinct. Nesco couldn't quite recognize it, although she felt that she should.

_Aslan?_

The thought sent her body into even more violent paroxysms of shivering. The man held on. Hugging her now.

_Is this Aslan? Has he regained his paladin's grace? Was I unconscious that long, or has he somehow managed to remove the collar?_

Her spasms began to subside. The person released her and Nesco knew he was getting ready to move on.

She opened her eyes.

The face above her was not that of Aslan.

* * *

Hazel eyes regarded her from a tanned and heavily-lined face. He sported a thick and bushy beard, which was still somewhat flattened from pressing against Nesco's cheek. The high forehead was caked and matted with dried blood, like almost every face Nesco had looked at since this day began. Dirty and unraveling braids hung from the back of the man's hair and over his shoulders.

He was not smiling, but there was still something reassuring, if intimidating, about the intensity of his gaze as he peered at Nesco analytically.

Then there was recognition; and then there was joy.

"My god," breathed Nesco. "Wainold?"

"Right the second time, Lady Cynewine," the druid responded, getting back to his feet and wiping the muddy grass off his already dirt-covered robes. "We'll play catch-up later. There are still others I need to check on. Rest here for the moment, but be prepared to move. We can't stay here indefinitely."

He spared her a quick glance as he moved off. "By the way, nice kick."

"Wainold!" she cried out after him. "What about-"

But the druid was already moving towards the _Water Dragon._

Nesco looked around. Arwald was sitting up in the grass nearby, his head bent low and his hands hanging limply in his lap. Aside from soft, somewhat ragged breathing, he was not moving at all. Further back, Tojo still lay where he had fallen.

Nesco began to crawl towards him.

* * *

Aslan, having returned to Cygnus, had just hoisted the mage into a standing position as the druid arrived. Wainold reached out without a word and touched the side of the mage's face.

Some of the magic-user's burns faded from an angry red to a pale pink. New strands of hair shot out from his scalp, replacing some of those which had been burned away.

It was clear from the expression on the druid's face that this was not the time for pleasantries, so Aslan got straight to business. "How are the others?" he asked through chattering teeth.

"Arwald and Nesco were among the worst, but I've stabilized them," Wainold replied, taking an unfamiliar, waxy green leaf from his belt pouch and rubbing it over Cygnus' skin. The wizard winced but said nothing.

"Sir Menn and Sitdale are ambulatory, though not much beyond that," Wainold continued. "Thorimund's fair, but I don't think he can walk far on his own. He looks like he's been poisoned and I can't do anything about that right now. He," and here the druid hesitated, taking a deep breath, "told me about Hengist."

"I'm sorry, Wainold," said Aslan quietly.

The druid made a perfunctory attempt at a shrug. "I saw Talass' body in the boat back there," he said after a moment. "Damn gods and their visions. Here." He shoved the leaf into Cygnus' hands. "Crush that leaf between your hands- you should be able to get a few drops of oil. Rub it on the worst of your burns. I've got to see the others."

And he was off again.

* * *

Zantac propped Unru up against the hull of the _Water Dragon_ and sank down to sit on the pier beside him.

"I saw you," the illusionist wheezed with the effort at speech, one hand clutching his stomach. "Ketta and then Lamonsten. I never knew you were such a killing machine, Zantac."

The Willip wizard looked away before replying. "Neither did I," he said softly.

Zantac felt Unru tap his shoulder and point. He looked over and was astounded to see Wainold approaching them.

The druid held up a staying hand. "If it's not related to injuries, save it until later," he said curtly as he knelt down beside the two wizards and examined them closely. "By The Shalm," he exclaimed in a low voice as his hand moved up and down Zantac's face. "Is _any_ of this blood yours, Zantac?"

"My shoulder," he replied dully, looking away as he felt Wainold examine it. Then, surprisingly, some of the pain went away.

"It's only an orison," Wainold answered his questioning look as the druid rose back to his feet. "I don't have much left, and I don't know where it might be most needed."

"Those bats," Zantac queried, something he had seen now leaping back to mind. "The ones that drove off the guardsmen. From you?"

Wainold nodded. "I was late arriving at this little to-do of yours. After I summoned the swarm, I saw that Arwald and Lady Cynewine seemed to be having the roughest time of it, so I went down there to help as I could."

Unru opened his mouth to speak, but the druid was already walking down the length of the hull. The two arcanists saw him grab hold of the ship's rope ladder and begin climbing.

* * *

Argo Bigfellow Junior looked up at the approaching druid, but the big ranger's face betrayed no expression at all. It was almost as if he had been waiting for him all along.

Wainold's mouth was set in a thin line as the druid knelt down to where Argo was cradling Elrohir's head in his lap. Without looking at Argo, he extended a finger to Elrohir's stomach and pressed it against the dagger wound.

After a moment he looked up at Bigfellow.

"He's still alive, you know."

"I know," said Argo, his auburn eyes looking tired and dull, "but I can't wake him up."

Wainold eyed the ranger's still form intently. "Poisoned," he said after a moment.

"Can you help him?"

Wainold glanced over at Argo. Never had he seen the big ranger looking so tired and shrunken. He resisted the urge to comment on this however, and was about to say something else when he noticed the gaping wound in Bigfellow's own stomach. He extended a hand towards it but Argo grabbed his wrist.

"Elrohir," Argo repeated, his voice still sounding tired but now more insistent. "Can you help him or not?"

"Not with you holding my arm, I can't."

Argo let go of the druid's wrist.

"To answer your impertinent question, not with the poison," Wainold said, flexing his wrist, "but I don't think that's the real issue here. If the venom was designed to be lethal, he'd be gone by now. Alias once told me about these so-called "svartalf" and their poison. Designed to render opponents unconscious, especially their surface cousins who can't be taken by _sleep_ spells." He shrugged and his frown deepened. "The very real danger is that Elrohir will slip away from internal injury and blood loss before we can have more healing available."

Argo closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then winced from the pain that caused him. "Can you do anything?"

"We need to get away from here," replied Wainold. "The volcanic gas is coming over the lake and although it seems to be dispersing as it covers more ground, I don't want to take that chance- not with so many of us in such poor shape. I've got one more healing orison, but right now you need it more than him."

"Give it to Elrohir," Argo said, his tone flat.

The druid scowled at the big ranger. "You may think you're being noble, Bigfellow, but you're actually just being stupid. You certainly don't have brains to offer, so we're going to need your brawn to help carry those of us who are worst off."

"Give it to Elrohir," Argo repeated.

There was a slight pause and then Wainold sighed and gave his last small portion of healing to the unconscious ranger. Then he stood up and rubbed at his forehead, which Argo now saw spotted a sizeable welt that looked like it had been bleeding not long ago.

"You and I will get Elrohir off this ship," the druid said slowly. "We'll all gather together and then we'll set out-"

He was interrupted by a terrifying scream.

* * *

The druid and ranger spun around. The cry had come from no more than twenty feet away and although it had been terrible enough to chill both men to the bone, it had cut off as quickly as if its utterer had been _disintegrated._

There was no doubt as to its source. After a moment's hesitation, Argo and Wainold rushed over to where a body still lay on the deck.

"John," murmured Argo, his face pale as he and Wainold bent down.

The pirate was a ghastly sight. His skin had turned a sickly grey in color and had seemed to contract over his bones, even cracking in some places. Scurvy's open and unseeing eyes had been drained of all color, his black irises now the same putrid grey.

But even worse was the expression now frozen on his face.

Argo Bigfellow, who would have wagered his own life that he would never have felt sorry for Scurvy John, had to stand up and look away. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"It's like he was attacked by a wraith or specter," he heard Wainold mutter. "His very life essence drained away."

Bigfellow turned back as the druid straightened up beside him. Wainold's own face looked clammy, with cold beads of sweat forcing their way through the dried blood on his forehead.

"Any idea how or why this might have happened?" he asked.

Argo started to shake his head and then stopped.

_I might be going to Hell, but Hell is coming for you._

Scurvy John's pronouncement rung in his ears, and for a moment Argo thought his heart had stopped beating.

_One way, Bigfellow? Are you sure?_

Argo started to shiver violently, despite his best efforts to stop it. Wainold eyed him, frowning. The druid clasped the ranger's arm to try and steady it.

"What is it?"

Bigfellow couldn't think of how to phrase it. He didn't even know how to think it; how to give a voice to the unborn dread that was trying to coalesce in his brain.

"Later," was all he could manage to mutter. He cast his mind about for something else to say, but the words of the late pirate captain spawned a new fear.

"Wayne," he said suddenly.

The druid started to scowl at Argo, but stopped when he saw the earnest expression on Bigfellow's face.

"Wayne," the ranger repeated, only half aware of what he was saying, "did we," he swallowed, "lose anyone?"

Wainold dropped his eyes to the deck for a moment. The druid took a deep breath and was about to reply when he was cut off but yet another scream.

* * *

This one was from much further away, but it seemed just as loud to the two men as the last one had been. This scream did not suddenly cut off moreover, but lingered, transforming even as they listened to a keening wail that sounded to Argo as terrible and yet as sad as the sound of a banshee.

It seemed to rise upon the wind, settling over and through the two men, weighing them down with an inexpressible force of sorrow.

Argo continued to listen to that sound, unaware of Wainold standing by him or anything of the outside world for that matter. The wail dissolved into mixed cries and sobs and still Argo stood there, transfixed, while the ranger's mind slowly opened to the waves of grief that were coming from the young woman whose voice he now recognized as Nesco Cynewine.


	189. Broken Chains

**26****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Near the far side of the Aerie Lake, The Pomarj**

Cygnus took another deep sigh, dipped the quill in the ink bottle again, and began the process for what very well might have been the thousandth time.

With painstaking deliberation, the wizard began to transcribe an arcane rune from Lamonsten's spellbook into his own. It was not an exact duplication, yet the differences were both subtle and not wholly under Cygnus' conscious command.

The language of arcana was a means of communication discovered, not created, and every single wizard "spoke" it slightly differently. These differences might be easily surmounted, but they could just as easily remain maddeningly complex and indecipherable.

Cygnus had been at this task since the moment Zantac had been able to memorize a _shelterdome_ and set it up for his fellow mage to utilize so he could work undisturbed. That had been sometime in the middle of last night, and it had to be close to sunset now.

It was hard to tell, though. Although the _shelterdome_ was transparent to its lone occupant, it was currently covered with a fine but opaque layer of volcanic ash.

Of course, the mere fact that he was here, alive, clothed and fed and able even to attempt this task spoke of their good fortune. It had been a joy- although not an unexpected one- to discover all their equipment on board the _Water Dragon_, but Cygnus made a mental note to thank Argo for insisting that they search the ship before they departed the scene, much to Wainold's annoyance.

In retrospect, there was no reason to doubt that the Slave Lords would not have just the treasures of Cygnus and the others with them, but their own as well. It was lucky indeed that the containers they had uncovered in the hold had not been magically trapped, but in retrospect Cygnus guessed that there simply hadn't been time for that in the Nine's sudden flight from Suderham. Sir Murtano, with a guilty smile that spoke volumes of his early life, had picked the locks on the chests with ease.

They had uncovered not only Lamonsten's travelling spellbook among the items, but numerous sets of spare clothes as well. Lamonsten hadn't been nearly as tall as Cygnus, so the green robes he had on now looked ridiculously short, but they were warm.

And so here he was, attempting to copy into his own spellbook a spell designed to remove curses; a spell that would hopefully allow Aslan to be free of the collar that was suppressing his Talent. Then, they could all go home.

Lord, how Cygnus wanted to go home.

_Of course, there's a good chance this may not work at all,_ Cygnus thought to himself for might very well have been the thousandth time.

* * *

The _shelterdome_ sat near the edge of a clearing approximately forty feet wide that been cleared of underbrush by the party, and where they were now all ensconced and waiting for the Aardian wizard to emerge and announce the successful completion of his task.

Hopefully.

The winds of fortune had at least turned fair in the most literal sense, as a northerly breeze had blown up that kept the poisonous yellow gas from the eruption out over the lake. Thus, the group had not had to move far before setting up camp for the night, although the druid warned everyone repeatedly to be ready to move at a moment's warning.

Argo, Nesco, Wainold and Arwald had taken the lead in constructing lean-tos and temporary shelters. These, along with the tree canopy overhead, helped to keep the worst of the ash fallout off of everyone's head. Still, what looked like grey snow continued to fall silently all around them.

The normal animal sounds of the forest were completely absent. Only the occasional creak of a tree in the wind could be heard.

The party was located perhaps a third of a mile from the main trail leading northwards. Wainold was adamant about staying away from any type of road, pointing out that any travelers they might encounter would be more likely than not to be more sympathetic to the Slave Lords than to their killers. They might well even be humanoids; orcs or worse.

The largest shelter, in the center of the campsite, housed the twelve Suderham citizens they had rescued. Argo had been ready to run Slimebucket through- or at least exiling him- for abandoning his charges, but the former Slave Lord officer had pointed out that someone needed to stay behind and guard Talass' body. This had been accepted as a pretty poor excuse all around, but in the end it was decided to let him stay, and now he sat huddled with the others, looking thoroughly miserable.

Next to them, a small ditch had been dug and lined with several pieces of the _Water Dragon's _mainsail.

Two bodies lay in this ditch, swaddled in bloodstained sheets.

* * *

Wainold walked among the inhabitants of the clearing, silently handing out blackberries to everyone. He came over to where Argo Bigfellow and Unru were sitting on a fallen log and joined them, handing each of them a berry.

Unru looked at the blackberry in his hand and grimaced at the druid.

"I'm grateful for the nutritional value your magic gives these, but they still don't feel very satisfying going down."

"If you don't want yours, I'm sure anyone else here would gladly take it," Wainold growled at the illusionist. "It also heals the body like a curing orison, although I'd be hard-pressed to think of anyone who deserves it less than you do. I trust the water I created for you to drink is up to your standards?" he finished with a sneer.

Unru smiled. "Like my goodberry- I mean my good buddy- Argo here always says, you work with what you've got," he quipped before popping the berry into his mouth and washing it down with a swig from a waterskin.

The druid shook his head. "Hard to believe any of you survived," he muttered, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at another log where Sir Menn, Sitdale, and Thorimund were all seated, having a subdued discussion. "They were just telling me how Theg Narlot fled when Blackthorn went down, even though he'd been holding his own in melee. Guess he saw which way the winds were blowing."

"So what about you, Wayne?" Argo asked.

"Don't call me that."

Argo shrugged. "Sure thing, Wayne. Now as I was saying, what happened to you anyway?"

Wainold glared in exasperation at the Bigfellow for a moment, but then sighed and recounted his tale. After checking out the road to the brothels, the druid had decided for one quick flight in bird-form around Drachen Keep. Just as he had closed in on the stone fortress however, everything had suddenly gone black.

He had awoken in his human form, chained down onto a table. Before he could make out clearly the nature of his surroundings or his captors, a piece of parchment had been shoved in front of his eyes and a voice he in retrospect guessed was a _suggestion_ spell ordered him to read it.

"I had barely started reading it when there was a_ bang_ and a puff of brown-colored smoke and then," he shrugged, "well, the next thing I knew the chamber was empty and the walls were starting to crumble all around me."

"A _snake sigil,"_ murmured Unru thoughtfully. The phrase meant nothing to Argo.

"I managed to break the chains and escape," Wainold continued, "and then I saw how bad things really were. I turned back into a bird and flew around looking in vain for you people. Seeing that the Aerie was doomed, I turned into a fish and swam for it. When I reached the far bank, I saw a battle going on about a quarter of the way around the lake."

The druid fell silent, further continuation being unnecessary.

"I wonder why they didn't put you down in the caverns with us," Argo mused after a few moments of silence.

Wainold snorted. "I doubt they'd have been able to suppress my ability to wild shape as easily as they did with Aslan."

Without meaning to, Bigfellow's eyes drifted off to his right.

* * *

Not catching his companion's glance, Aslan was sitting somewhat uncomfortably on the ground, keeping company with a figure lying on a bedroll and covered with a coarse woolen blanket up to his neck.

"How are you feeling, Elrohir?" the paladin asked.

His team leader looked up at his long-time friend with an expression that was half bemusement and half exasperation.

"Still cold and fatigued, Aslan, but cognizant enough to realize that's the fifth time you've asked me that in the last hour. For the last time, _I'm fine."_ The ranger's head turned towards the other side of his blanket. "You tell him, Nesco."

"You only just regained consciousness a little over an hour ago, Elrohir," Lady Cynewine said softly. "We had every right to be afraid. Even with all the healing from Wainold and Sitdale we've had in the past twenty-four hours, there was still the possibility that you- you…"

Nesco blinked rapidly and looked away from both Elrohir and Aslan. She was determined that she would not cry and after a few seconds and a few deep breaths, the danger of that subsided. Still, she could not shake off the grief.

Or the guilt that she could have done better.

"Tell me again about the sword," she heard Elrohir say, and she knew her team leader was making an attempt to distract her from those same pointless cycles of recriminations and what-if thoughts that he knew Nesco was experiencing.

No doubt, she thought, because he was experiencing those very same thoughts. She turned back to him with a weak smile, and saw his deep blue eyes fastened on Icar's katana which, along with his wakazashi, she now wore on her hip.

"Well," she said cautiously, choosing her words with care because she did not want to make assumptions about things she still did not know, "I suspect it's some kind of oni-slaying sword. We know that Icar was loyal to Markessa, and since she didn't trust Blackthorn, it's a fair guess that Icar didn't, either. And considering the weapon Icar carried, it's no surprise that Blackthorn disliked the samurai as much as he did. That's why he didn't join the fight in the kitchen earlier- he was waiting for us to take care of Icar for him."

"But then why not simply dispose of the daisho once we had fled and he had the chance?" Aslan wondered, frowning.

"I've been thinking about that," replied Nesco, "and I can't assume to know the answer. I could postulate that perhaps Icar's weapons are like Gokasillion, at least as in regards to the type of creature they were designed to slay. Perhaps he couldn't even touch them, and didn't trust anyone else enough to see to their destruction, so he decided to keep them as close to hand as possible and actually wear them. I suspect," she finished, "that it gave him a feeling of superiority as well- a reminder that he had triumphed over his most dangerous foe."

"Too bad for him," Elrohir said slowly, still looking intently at his fellow ranger, "that he didn't realize that _you_ were his most dangerous foe, Lady Cynewine."

Nesco felt her cheeks turn slightly pink, but she shook her head. "No, Elrohir," she responded, turning her head to look at the two unmoving figures wrapped like mummies lying nearby. "Tojo was."

"Only until he decided to transfer that title to you, Nesco."

She looked over at Aslan, and the two looked into each other faces for a short time. Then, the paladin shook his head and gave that small, bewildered smile that so captivated Lady Cynewine every time she saw it, this time not excepted.

"I wonder though," Aslan mused, "how in name of Asgard did Tojo know all this? Not to mention knowing the command phrase that activated the sword's special abilities."

Nesco make a gesture of surrender. "There, I haven't a clue." She looked over again at the samurai's body, and could not fight off the sorrow that settled over her. "Tojo kept many things to himself."

Aslan nodded. "As we know all too well. But remember this, Nesco. Tojo lived his life according to the code he called _bushido_; a rigorous way not only of living, but even of thinking. If he kept secrets from us, it was because he felt it was what he had to do, not because he didn't trust us. He as much as told us that."

Nesco nodded, wishing again she could have been at the Brass Dragon with the others when the whole story of Tojo's secret dishonor had been laid bare for all to see. She wished she could have been there to comfort him.

""What's all this talk about Tojo in the past tense?"

Elrohir, Aslan and Nesco watched as Arwald, still clad in his damaged armor, eased his way slowly down to the ground beside him, wincing with pain several times as he did so.

"You'll get him raised along with your wife, Elrohir, once you return to Chendl," Wainold's cohort said. "The Noble Council sponsored this mission. They'll have to pay the Valorous Church to do it."

There was a brief and uncomfortable silence. None of the other three wanted to return to the subject that festered in all their minds like an incurable wound.

It was with a little start that Nesco realized that Aslan and Elrohir were both looking at her, and she realized that she alone had the experience that made her uniquely qualified to answer Arwald, although she dearly did not want to.

Her voice trembling, Lady Cynewine spoke, her eyes wandering the ash-coated trees as she did so.

"Only a willing soul can be raised, Arwald."

"So?" scoffed the fighter. "Why would he not want to come back? You came back- who _wouldn't_ want to come back? I know that-"

Arwald's breath abruptly caught in his throat. Instinctively understanding, Elrohir withdrew his right hand from underneath the blanket and reached out to touch Arwald's knee, the only part of him he could reach from his position.

"I'm sorry, Arwald," Elrohir said quietly. "I'm sorry I couldn't save Hengist."

Arwald bit his lip. Nesco recognized all too well the expression of someone fighting off tears. After a moment, he gave a wan smile down at the ranger.

"Talking to Wainold got me thinking, Elrohir," he said, his words coming faster now as if he suspected that slowing down might choke them off forever. "I realized that even if I had been in command, it would have turned out the same way. Hengist would still have insisted upon making the attempt to reach those glow-fungi, and I'd have been forced to realize that he was right. The brutal truth is that he was the most inexperienced fighter amongst us, and he knew his death would have the least effect on our chances of survival, as long as he could get us that light. And he did."

"But I couldn't figure out a way to get his body across that chasm," Elrohir responded, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. "I couldn't even give his soul the option of deciding whether to return or not."

There was another brief silence, and then, with more small grunts of pain, Arwald stood back up again. His face as he looked down at Elrohir was not unkind, but it was stern.

"You were doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing, Elrohir," he said curtly. "Attending to the living- the people under your command. The people you were responsible for."

Arwald turned away and slowly walked off, his last words trailing behind him.

"The dead don't need leaders."

* * *

They watched him go in silence. Arwald strode off to a tree and leaned up against it, his back to them.

Nesco had opened her mouth before she knew what she was going to say- she only wanted to break that terrible silence when another voice did it for her, carrying across the clearing.

"Excuse me! Could I have everyone's attention, please?"

Nineteen heads turned towards Sir Selzen Murtano.

* * *

The knight was still standing near the jumbled pile of weapons, jewelry and assorted items that the party had stripped from the bodies of Lamonsten, Slippery Ketta and Scurvy John before they had fled from the battle scene. It was intended that they would cast _detect magic_ on the pile as soon as feasible, to facilitate the inevitable distribution of swag when the time came.

But yet, even though that particular divination now rested in the mind of several spellcasters now, no one had bothered to cast it yet.

No one cared about treasure or magic items. It didn't feel right.

So Sir Murtano had self-appointed himself the unofficial guardian of the pile and kept close to it all times. But now the knight was turning his head from one end of the clearing to another, his gaze passing from one set of eyes to the next before he asked his question.

"When was the last time anyone saw Zantac?"

* * *

The waters of the lake lapped against the rocky shore.

Zantac, currently sitting coiled up as tightly as he could atop a flat boulder barely large enough for the purpose, stared at the water as if hypnotized.

Like some form of grey algae, the dark waters were now completely covered by the volcanic ash that continued to fall unceasingly. Only the slight movement of the waves betrayed the surface's liquidity. Ahead at an indeterminate distance, the cloud of gas mingled with the ash fall to comprise an impenetrable fog that still hid the Aerie from view.

Every so often, a dull rumble, like a great muffled roar, came drifting across from the mist. Zantac didn't know if it was the Earth Dragon or Mount Flamenblut, and he saw no point in wondering about it, so he did not.

In fact, Zantac did not want to think about anything. That was why he had slipped away from the others to return to the lakeside.

The Willip wizard looked around. The ash was covering everything. It occurred to him that although he was probably no more than a half-mile at most from the clearing, there was a very real chance that he would not be able to find his way back to it now.

He turned back to his examination of the waters. He didn't care. All he knew was that at some point back in that clearing, in the midst of studying his spellbook, a horrible searing pain had suddenly shot through his chest.

_I don't care what else happens… I am going to save this woman._

But he hadn't. He hadn't saved her. Zantac had let her die.

Tears came of their own accord, but they only made the wizard angry. He didn't deserve tears. He hadn't earned the right to self-pity.

He wiped them off furiously, ignoring the cloud of fine ash particles that flew off from his hair in all directions as he did so.

"You know, barbers carry shampoos for dandruff like that."

* * *

Zantac whirled around to stare at the figure that had just emerged from the forest's edge.

"Get out of here, Unru," he snarled.

The illusionist continued to walk forward however, until he stood just behind Zantac, who glared at him fiercely, trembling.

"I said _get out of here!"_ Zantac shouted after a moment when his fellow mage had made no move. "I'm not Torlina, Unru! I don't want your words of consolation, and I certainly don't want your stinking arms around me! And if _dare_ to glamour yourself," he seethed, staring at the dust-coated chapeau on top of Unru's head. "I will personally hurl you into the lake and summon every damn lacedon I can!"

Unru tilted his head, his dark eyes peering into Zantac's own. The Yatian mage's expression was carefully neutral.

"Very well then, Zantac," he said slowly. "You… are… a… fool." He paced the words out deliberately for effect. "I trust you don't find those words consoling?"

Zantac shook with anger, but deep down he knew his rage was not meant for Unru, but for himself.

"They're also unnecessary," he replied at last, turning back to stare off into the fog. "I happen to be very aware of that fact."

"Fools don't know enough to hurt when they should. Where then does your pain come from?"

Zantac was about to turn and shout out a retort when he felt himself suddenly deflate. He rubbed his face and his hair again, still not looking behind him, and tried to tell himself that there was no pain, only foolishness.

Eventually, the words came out, if only in a harsh whisper.

"She was just a whore, Unru. Just a whore."

"Really?" The illusionist's voice sounded casual. "I thought she was the one who led us to the Slave Lords. Without that information, we would have wandered around blindly until The Nine struck first and obliterated us. Sounds like a bit more than the average prostitute dishes out."

Zantac waved a dismissing hand. "We got the same information out of your girl. Patrice, or whatever her name was."

"True indeed," Unru replied. "And for that reason and no other will I mourn her loss. Yet that expression I saw on the face of Lord Andrew told me that your young woman was something more. Perhaps something much more."

The Willip wizard turned and looked at Unru, who was still gazing intently at him.

"But you, Zantac, are now the only person who knows for sure whether that is true or not," Unru said quietly. "It seems to me a selfish act indeed to let that knowledge die along with her, just to spare yourself the heartache."

The illusionist took a deep breath. "Argo tracked you here. He's standing just inside the trees, waiting for us. Shall we go back together, or do you want him to come out here and use that renowned Bigfellow tact?"

A small chuckle leaked out of Zantac despite himself.

"Just give me a moment. I'll be along."

Unru nodded and walked back towards the forest.

* * *

Slowly, Zantac stood up.

He took several deep breaths, turning Unru's words over in his mind.

Slowly, almost of its own accord, his hand dipped into his belt pouch and fished out two Suderham gold pieces.

He stared at the two small circles lying in his palm.

That's all she had cost. Two gold coins.

He didn't know what he was looking for, or why he was staring at these coins. It seemed as if his mind had secretly handed control over his body to his heart.

Like most coins, the faces were crude, pressed from rough molds. An imperfection ran through one of the gold pieces, so that the chains which surrounded and imprisoned the small figure in the center were broken.

The figure was free.

Zantac hurled that coin away as hard as he could. He watched it spin end-over-end until it landed with a tiny, almost dainty splash in the water and was gone.

"Goodbye, Beryl," he whispered.

He placed the other coin- the one with the prisoner- back into his belt pouch and headed back to rejoin the others.

* * *

No one spoke on the way back, and no one spoke when the trio re-entered the clearing.

Zantac was glad that all the faces he saw showed only relief and not curiosity. Even Elrohir, whom Zantac was glad to see had regained consciousness since he had left, looked from the body of his wife whom he was kneeling over, and smiled encouragingly.

The Zantac noticed that the _shelterdome_ was gone.

Cygnus was standing in the center of the clearing. Directly across from him stood Aslan.

The tall magic-user turned and gaze Zantac a look that he understand instantly. It was a look that said _I'm sorry, Zantac. I wanted to go and comfort you, but I couldn't stop until I was done._

Zantac gave his friend a smile that showed he understood, and the return smile he received told him his silent reply had been understood as well.

Cygnus turned back to Aslan. "I'm ready now, Aslan, but please remember, this may not work. I can give you a dozen reasons why it might not."

"I understand, Cygnus," replied Aslan quietly, "and you have my same appreciation whether it does or not. Cast, please."

Cygnus incanted, his arm describing small circular motions that were interspaced with what like the tracing of arcane symbols in the air. He stepped up to Aslan as the last of the arcane vocalizations left his lips, and then he touched the metal circlet encircling the paladin's neck.

There was a very faint _click._

No one moved. No one spoke.

With what seemed like an agonizing slowness to those watching, Aslan slowly reached up to his neck and twisted. A catch that had not existed before slid open, and now he was holding the open collar in his hand.

One look at the paladin's face told everyone that his Talent was still there- and ready to be used.

The clearing exploded. Everyone, even the Suderham citizens, was now surrounding the two individuals; Cygnus and Aslan. Clapping them on the back, shouting words of encouragement and gratitude.

Aslan suddenly held up his hand for silence and gestured for those people surrounding him to back off. Puzzled, they did so.

His expression grim, Aslan laid the circlet down on one of the fallen logs.

The paladin stared at it for a moment, and then suddenly his sword was drawn.

"_Aslan, no!"_ shouted Elrohir.

But it was too late. Aslan's sword came down on the collar, not only cleaving the cursed item in half, but the log underneath it as well.

There was a shocked silence, during which the paladin's light blue eyes, which contained a definite anger, sought out those of his team leader.

Elrohir bit his lip as he stared at the destroyed collar, and then raised his gaze to meet that of Aslan.

"That might have been a potent weapon against Nodyath."

Aslan's eyes closed as he realized that fact. "I suspect Nodyath will not allow us to take him alive," he muttered at length, although it seemed an obvious effort to save face.

"What now?" asked Sir Murtano quietly, the knight's voice carrying a clear desire to get things back on track.

Aslan looked back at Elrohir. Soon, everyone was staring at the ranger.

* * *

He couldn't believe it was over.

It had seemed like many lifetimes ago when Sir Hallien of the Royal Court had barged into the Brass Dragon and read off a list of names that King Belvor had summoned for him to meet.

They had fought like they never had before, and they had suffered like they never had before.

And they had lost like they never had before.

Elrohir glanced again at the two figures lying still in the ditch, and wanted this adventure to end. End with the triumph of life over death.

And Elrohir could scarcely believe that only earlier this year, he had become disenchanted with retirement.

Feeling like an old, old man, Elrohir walked over to Aslan and put his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"Take us home, Aslan," he said.

And he knew he spoke for all of them.

"Take us home."


	190. My Fair Bigfellow

**27****th**** Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Castle Chauv, Furyondy**

Lady Bigfellow couldn't breathe.

A terrible crushing pain encircled her torso, tightening more with every second around her chest and back.

She knew she was going to pass out soon.

Caroline didn't want to act, but she knew she had no choice.

Her hazel eyes flickered over to where the Baroness Chauv stood, watching her.

"My Lady," Caroline gasped. "This corset is _killing_ me!"

* * *

The Lady Chauv sighed, equal parts sympathy and exasperation evident on her face.

"Is it really that much worse than that dreadful armor you wear?" she asked, no doubt thinking she was sounding completely reasonable. "I daresay you'll get used to it in time, Lady Bigfellow. Now, watch me again."

Caroline grimaced and hoping fervently that being able to breathe was really more of a luxury than the necessity she'd always thought it was, turned her attention back to her tutor.

* * *

She still wasn't exactly sure why the Baroness had taken it into her head to instruct her in the manners and customs of nobility. Caroline didn't care for such things, and she knew Argo certainly didn't. The Lady Chauv's official explanation was that Caroline's husband, upon his return and seeing his "new" courtly wife, would realize at once what he had been missing and appreciate her all the more.

Caroline suspected it in fact had more to do with the fact the Baroness had no daughter of her own. There was a governess who lived at the castle who instructed the ladies-in-waiting in the noble arts, but the Barones**s **seemed determined that Caroline Bigfellow was to be her own personal protégé.

_Lucky me_, Caroline thought to herself sourly. Fortunately, her oxygen-starved grimaces served to cover up any outward evidence of her grumpiness.

And she did have to admit that on the whole, she very much liked the Lady Chauv.

The two women had spent much of the previous day together, talking. Caroline found the Baroness surprisingly easy to confide in; easier, Caroline had to admit with a silent stab of guilt, than Talass ever had been.

So they had talked of their lives and of their loves. Their triumphs and their tragedies. The day had just seemed to fly by and Caroline felt better than she had-

-since that night.

Caroline had not confided in Lady Chauv about her miscarriage, but that was still not a subject she could even bear to think of herself, so she threw aside her internal objections and agreed enthusiastically when the Baroness had broached the idea of coaching Caroline in some of the finer points on being a nobleman's wife. If nothing else, it would serve as a distraction.

_Then again,_ Caroline thought as she returned herself to the present, _suffocation works surpassingly well as a distraction all by itself._

Caroline had never worn so many layers of clothing in her life. The serving girls Jolene and Aleena had helped Caroline into them, just as they did daily with their mistress, but for some reason it had seemed to take twice as long to get Caroline dressed as it had the Baroness. She had scowled as the ladies-in-waiting shot glances at each other, clearly communicating in silence just how much of an irritant Lady Bigfellow was to work with.

Caroline had often waited impatiently in the past for Argo to don his plate mail, usually with help from someone. Now she knew her husband had nothing on her.

Over white satin underclothes of breeches, hose and the abominable corset was put an ivory silk slip. Then came a long, trailing gown of deep blue velvet fringed with red lace on the hem and the low neckline. Over this went a long overcoat of cotton dyed a sky blue. Then to Caroline's horror came a full-length mantel covered with fox fur and trimmed at the shoulders with a brooch. The slippers were pleasant enough; made of plush and fur-lined velvet and fashioned with a buckle on top, but they were worn inside uncomfortable wooden overshoes.

Caroline's black hair had been plaited, which involved a hairdresser Lady Bigfellow was certain must have been previously employed as a torturer. A long piece of undyed linen had then been pinned over the remains of her hair, wrapped around her throat and tucked down the hemline of her dress. Caroline thought that this served to complete the strangulation motif very well. Apparently the unspoken aim here was to cause her skin color to turn a shade of blue to match the gown-

"Are you watching, Caroline?"

Lady Bigfellow gave it her honest, best attempt at an attentive expression. "Yes, your Ladyship."

The Baroness shook her head in dismay but Caroline caught the brief puckish smile.

* * *

This certainly seemed like an odd place to hold an etiquette lesson to Caroline. Rather than in a chamber or courtyard, the women were standing in the midst of the section of Chauv Castle that was still being reconstructed. It was a wide and very uneven dirt ramp that ran from the castle grounds up to the sections being mortared. It had rained the previous night and dirty water, thin mud and stones ran in a jumble own a sluice that meandered its way down the ramp. There was as yet no ceiling and Caroline could see the unbroken clouds of grey above. She fervently hoped it would not start raining again.

Serfs tramped by in both directions, many carrying buckets of mortar or pushing wheelbarrows laden with stone blocks. None passed by without a curious peek at the noblewomen. Those whose looks lingered too long however, were quickly dissuaded by a sharp glance from the Baroness.

"Observe," instructed Lady Chauv and with that the Baroness began to move around the perimeter of their surroundings, her wooden shoes somehow managing to avoid getting mud-splattered despite the filthy surroundings, protruding rocks and flowing rivulets of water. Her dress had the same massive sleeves as did Caroline's, yet she got no dirt on them even though they fell within an inch of the uneven ground.

The noblewoman then stopped and gestured to Caroline. "Now you."

Lady Bigfellow grimaced again and tried to recreate her instructor's circuit around the ramp area, but it was hard to balance in these shoes. The sleeves of her gown were absolutely enormous and unwieldy. Caroline lifted her arms to avoid trailing the sleeves on the dirt.

Lady Chauv shook her head. "No."

"But how-"

"Lady Bigfellow, a nobleman or woman can always be identified by their bearing, even if they were clad in rags," the Baroness explained. "All your movements must seem effortless to any onlooker. Otherwise, you are but an imposter playing dress-up."

"It seems rather pointless." Caroline was trying hard but she could feel her temper rising.

Lady Chauv's smile was tight. "Your grace is as important an identification as a signet ring, except it is much harder to forge. The clothes we wear are cumbersome not without cause, Caroline. Our ability to wear them without displaying discomfort is expected of us, and it helps mark us as nobility, not only in the eyes of our peers, but to the masses, as well."

"If I trip and break my neck, they'll mark me as a casualty."

The Baroness chuckled for a moment but then eyed Caroline seriously, her head tilted slightly. She bit her lip. "Your Aeridian accent is rather pronounced, Lady Bigfellow. Clipped on your long a's. Try repeating after me: The rain in Aerdy falls mainly-"

"Your Ladyship," Caroline interrupted, unable to stop herself. She then paused for a moment to gather her thoughts before proceeding.

"My husband has the same accent I do, and is he quite fond of it."

Lady Chauv seemed to realize she had crossed a line. Her head inclined slightly. "Of course. Forgive me, Lady Bigfellow. Let us return to-"

She stopped. A teenager that Caroline recognized as one of Sir Kenneth's squires had entered the area and was staring at Lady Bigfellow.

"You have a message for me, young Higgins?" asked the Baroness coldly.

The youth seemed to shake himself, his cheeks looking pink. "Um, yes. Of course, Your Ladyship. Your son reports that the Earl of Farlyow has arrived and awaits your presence in the Manor Room."

The Baroness turned a grim expression to Caroline. "I'm afraid we must stop here, Lady Bigfellow. Affairs of state such as these now fall upon me, whether I wish it or not. I shall see you at supper."

With those words she turned and followed Higgins back up the ramp. Caroline could not help notice how much more slowly and sadly the Baroness was moving now.

She turned to see the two servants watching her. Caroline, feeling grateful that she was no longer sharing a room with them, gave the ladies-in-waiting a wan smile.

"If you two could release me from this corset before I asphyxiate, there's an extra wheatshaff in it for each of you."

The offer did not seem to brighten the two girls' expressions any, but they turned and headed up the ramp, Caroline following. When they reached the top however, Caroline tapped Jolene on the shoulder.

"Where is your companion, Melissa?"

The teenager's eyes sought the floor before replying. "She fell ill this morning, Lady Bigfellow. Right after she-"

The two girls exchanged a furtive glance.

"Right after breakfast," finished Jolene. "The physician says she has brain fever."

"Brain fever?" repeated Caroline, concerned. "That sounds serious."

"As I was told by Her Ladyship, she is expected to recover fully," Jolene replied, glancing down before wiping her nose and starting to walk again. "Let us get back to your quarters, Lady Bigfellow."

* * *

They had just reached the corridor outside the guest chambers that had been set aside for Caroline when she gasped and instinctively put a hand against the cold stone wall to steady herself.

Monsrek's voice had entered her mind.

_Caroline, I reached Elrohir yesterday. Argo is fine; Slave Lord organization destroyed. Party returning to Chendl. Will be in touch again when possible._

Caroline stopped where she was, her eyes unfocussed, oblivious of the servants' calling her name.

Then she leapt into the air.

"Yes! Yes! Argos' alive! My husband's alive! They all are- they're all safe! They did it! They accomplished their quest and now they're coming home!

Still shouting, she hugged the two girls fiercely who, after a moment's hesitation, hugged her back and murmured congratulations, even if their expressions suggested that Lady Bigfellow had utterly and completely lost her mind.

"I'll be right back!" she called to the servants while pelting back down the hall. "I've got find Sir Dorbin and give him the message!"

Caroline was pretty sure Dorbin was at the edge of the castle grounds hawking with Sir Silverton. She had almost reached the main door of the castle when she suddenly stopped dead.

The message.

Frowning, Caroline went over it in her mind.

_Argo is fine._

Sir Dorbin knew of course that Caroline pined for her husband, but he also knew how deeply she cared about all of Argo's friends.

Why then simply not say, _Everyone is fine?_

Caroline's heart has started to slow down, but now it pounded worse than ever as she quickened her pace to find Sir Dorbin.


	191. The Wait

**28th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Chapel of Heironeous, Chendl, Furyondy**

Argo couldn't help but feel that Heironeous was watching him.

The big ranger looked away from the wall frescos and drummed his fingers on his knees as he sat on the edge of the long pew, distinctively and uncomfortably reminded of his last visit to this room.

Back then, he had looked over to his right to see Talass scowling at him. This time, there was only Unru; now dressed in a simple peasant's long tunic tied with a belt. The illusionist was uncharacteristically quiet as he sat, intermittently nodding off into semi-consciousness.

Bigfellow glanced again to the altar at the far side of the chapel and to the heavy door beyond it, made of the same white marble as the walls. The door to the Room of Return.

Beyond that door, Gaereth Heldenster, the High Priest of Heironeous, was attempting to raise both Tojo and Talass; a feat that, according to the latter's vision, would only be halfway successful.

Argo had again purchased a light green tunic worn over grey trousers. These were made of wool this time however, rather than flax. The ranger also had a new cloak, this one a dark green. Once again, it had been folded and placed underneath him as a makeshift cushion.

He had new scars. New ones to go along with his many old ones. Argo had stared repeatedly at the large scar on his chest, a long one running down his left leg and a smaller one on his right side. He had been healed, but the scars would remain.

He wondered if Caroline would care.

Suddenly desperate to break the silence that had descended over the party, the ranger nudged Unru.

"I forgot to ask you," Argo ventured in a casual voice, "but just as Scurvy John was about to run me through with my own sword, I heard the improbable sound of a rust monster in the vicinity. Now I do seem to remember telling you about our battle in the Hall of Pillars while we were hiding out, Unru. You don't suppose there could have been some kind of audible illusion at work there, do you?"

Despite his grogginess, Unru managed to assume a lofty air of disdain.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, but Argo caught the illusionist's smile before Unru turned away again.

Aslan, sitting to Unru's right- the position that had been occupied by Tojo previously- also apparently felt inclined to speak up to keep the silence at bay.

"Sir Dorbin did say you were a brilliant battle tactician, Unru, even if you did come with a rather hefty price tag." The paladin gave the Yatian mage a bitter smile.

Unru returned it in kind, and Aslan could see the flicker of the Revealing Duel in those brown orbs.

"Well, Aslan," the illusionist queried. "Was I worth the price?"

"I'm returning you to Sir Dorbin," the paladin retorted. "What do you think?"

Unru chuckled wearily, but let the silence fall again.

Aslan couldn't deny how useful Unru and his companions had been, or how elated he had been when Elrohir had suddenly shouted with elation upon receiving Monsrek's _sending_. Sir Dorbin had been waiting when Aslan had first _teleported_ back to Chendl carrying Talass' body, and the knight had accompanied Aslan back to The Pomarj to speed up the return process. Dorbin was back there now, mindresting before returning the final two, Sitdale and Sir Menn. Wainold and his allies were staying behind to help the Suderham citizens find a place of safety. The druid had scoffed at Aslan's offer of coming back for them, saying that they could get along just fine in the wilderness without him, thank you very much.

The paladin took a deep breath and wondered when- or if- he'd ever be able to do that without feeling a tinge of pain. The paladin probably sported more new scars than any of his friends. The marks from the giant crawfish's pincers encircled his waist and much of his left side bore a series of gashes from the looter whose sword he had acquired back on the Aerie. Smaller signs of wounds now healed adorned his right arm and his right side. At least the myriad bruises and broken bones inflicted by Brother Kerin's vicious beating were gone without trace now.

Nesco looked to her left, caught Aslan's eye, and gave him a commiserating smile.

The paladin returned it in kind, which made Lady Cynewine glance away.

Her face flushed again, and that made the scar on her left cheek hurt.

That scar, and the now much-larger one on her chest were the ranger's only physical reminders of their ordeal, but they were enough.

Especially the latter. Examining it earlier in private, she could see that scar tissue now spread partially onto both breasts.

They looked deformed to her own eyes, and far too hideous for anyone else to ever-

Nesco blinked rapidly to head off the tears and tried to chide herself for her selfishness. There were others in worse shape than her.

Others with far worse things to dread.

She tugged on the hemline of her brown leather skirt. It had seemed longer when she'd first tried it on, but now it seemed barely to cover her knees. Nesco wore a dark tan leather overtunic that came down to her waist. It fit well, but she was starting to feel uncomfortably warm.

Nesco turned to her right just in time to catch a wizard's eyes dart away from her.

Cygnus hadn't even realized he'd been staring at Nesco's legs until she had suddenly looked over at him. Embarrassed now- he didn't know if she had seen him, and didn't dare look back- the mage made a show of going through his new salamander skin spell component pouch, his eyes not really seeing the sand, feathers, beads, bat guano pellets and other sundry items his fingers touched on. Unable to shake the feeling that Nesco's eyes were still on him, he tossed the hood of his new grey frock-style robes over his head and gave a fake shiver, despite the fact that the numerous torches lining the walls of the chapel were giving off a fair amount of heat.

The Aardian wizard was also discomfited by the silence that had again blanketed the waiting party, but he couldn't think of any words to break it that wouldn't sound hollow to his ears.

He again fingered the hilt of his dagger. His new dagger. Lamonsten's magical dagger. He hadn't made a claim on it. In fact, everyone had unanimously agreed that the weapon should go to Zantac.

Everyone that is, except Zantac.

The Willip wizard had wanted no part of the weapon, so it was given to Cygnus by default. Both he and Zantac had purchased brand new staffs, which currently lay in their guest chambers elsewhere in the Royal Palace. As it had turned out however, while the Slave Lords had a large amount of personal wealth with them in the form of gems and valuable objects of art, the only magic items besides the dagger that Cygnus and the others had managed to obtain from the three of the Nine they had scavenged was Scurvy John's cutlass and Slippery Ketta's gloves. The former had been sold. The latter had been _identified_ by Cygnus as _gloves of swimming and climbing_, which went a long way towards explaining how Ketta had managed to swim over a hundred feet in a matter of seconds.

Elrohir had been noticeably keen on those gloves, and they now fitted comfortably over the ranger's hands. He paid no more attention to them now however, than he did to the new scars on his left shoulder and right cheek.

Cygnus glanced over to his right. Their team leader sat slumped, his eyes fixed on his gloved hands resting in his lap, but the mage was sure Elrohir wasn't seeing them.

The silence was intolerable now. Cygnus couldn't not say anything any longer. After all, he reasoned, not having the right words never seemed to stop Elrohir.

And yet somehow, Elrohir's not-right words always seemed to wind up being the right ones after all.

"She'll come back, Elrohir."

* * *

The ranger looked over at Cygnus. While he certainly didn't seem comforted by Cygnus' words, he seemed relieved that someone had punctured the balloon that contained the one subject that had been filling everyone's mind. The magic-user heard numerous clearing of throats.

"You know I think the world of Tojo," Zantac, sitting to Elrohir's right on the edge of the pew, commented, "but I can't imagine him returning and Talass not. Tojo died in combat. He told us himself that would be an honorable death. His soul must," the Willip wizard paused to take a deep breath, "be at peace now."

"That may not be the issue," Elrohir responded. The team leader straightened his posture, but his blue eyes turned back towards that marble door. "Talass' raising is contingent on the will of two deities: Heironeous and Forseti. The Archpaladin I admit I still know little of, but The Justice Bringer…" his voice trailed off.

"I don't understand, Elrohir," Nesco said, frowning. "Your wife was a priestess of Forseti-"

"-who I am certain tried to alter the vision He sent her," her fellow ranger interrupted. "Defying the will of the gods is not the path one takes if they ever want to be resurrected."

The bitterness in Elrohir's voice seemed almost like a poison cloud in the holy confines of the chapel.

"You still don't know that, Elrohir," Aslan argued. "Anymore than you did earlier. The Aesir teach us that our fate is immutable, but we don't know what awaits us until the future becomes the present. There's no commandment against doing everything in one's power to assure a desired outcome."

"That's what I always say," put in Cygnus with a grim smile at the paladin.

Aslan frowned at the tall mage. "Manipulating others is a slippery slope, Cygnus. The gods may not mind, but what about those whom you use, even for noble ends?"

Elrohir hadn't seemed to hear this last exchange. "In some ways, you and Talass had more in common than she and I did, Aslan. At least in matters religious." He fell silent again.

Argo spoke up.

"I just had a thought," the big ranger announced.

"Miracles indeed abound," muttered Aslan, but Bigfellow plowed on, undeterred.

"It's not a very comforting one," Argo warned, then spoke over the resulting groans. "Come on, you all know I don't believe in sugarcoating the truth."

"As Talass would say, the first problem is identifying the truth in the first place," the paladin reminded him.

"True," Bigfellow admitted, "but just assume and bear with me for a moment."

"Do we have a choice?" Zantac asked.

"No. Hear me out. Tojo's death may not have been an honorable one. Now my memory has always been a sieve, but I think I remember Tojo saying it would be honorable if he died in battle _during his quest_, but he didn't die during his quest."

His voice, which had been rising, abruptly lowered in pitch.

"He died during _our_ quest."

The silence returned again.

"I can't imagine that," Nesco said at length, the anger audible in her voice. "Who on Oerth- or Aarde- could have been more honorable and heroic than Tojo?" She looked back and forth among her fellow party members. "Come on! You all know it's true! What kind of a king or whatever his liege was called could possibly deny him that last honor?"

"I'm not talking about the perceptions of others, Nesco," replied Argo softly. "I'm talking about how Tojo viewed himself. Who on Oerth- or Aarde- was ever harder on himself than Yanigasawa Tojo was?"

"How about you?" asked Aslan quietly, but Bigfellow ignored him.

"Wait a minute," Zantac cut in, his forehead creased in concentration. "I think you're missing a key point, Argo. If what you say is true and Tojo's death was not an honorable one, then-"

"-then he'd _have_ to come back!" Cygnus finished for his fellow mage. "His honor wouldn't allow him to accept his death- not if the option of returning was opened to him!"

"Come on!" Elrohir nearly spat out the words with an unexpected savagery. "Eternal paradise is yours for the taking, all worldly obligations wiped away with no living soul able to stop you, and you'd throw it all away to return to a lifetime of shame, dishonor, and the pain of failure?"

"Tojo wasn't like us, Elrohir," Aslan said, but the Aardian ranger waved a dismissing hand.

"He was a mortal, Aslan. That's all you need to know. No mortal could refuse that. I doubt Tojo's soul still felt the stain of his dishonor after death."

There was another silence, during which six heads turned towards Nesco Cynewine.

Nesco grimaced while fiddling with her hands. "I wish you'd all stop looking at me like I'm some kind of an expert on this subject."

"Well, you _are_ one up on us, Lady Cynewine," Argo said with his pained smile.

"But-" Nesco struggled for the words. "It wasn't like just taking a stroll. I had-" she hesitated, "I had no sense of self, at least not until near the end, after I'd already decided to return. I had no memory of my previous life, or at least I don't remember thinking of it."

"But you were tempted by what you saw," Elrohir persisted. "The afterlife due the righteous."

Nesco was cut short in both thought and word.

She could almost see The Mountain again.

"Yes," she admitted after a long pause. "I was tempted. Very much so."

Elrohir looked both satisfied and crestfallen at the same time. "See? There you are! Tojo will take the rewards that he has earned and-"

"_Why are you doing this to yourself, Elrohir?"_ Argo rose to his feet, shouting with exasperation.

"Don't you understand?" Elrohir stood up as well and glared down the length of the pew at his fellow ranger. "I knew about Talass' vision from the start! All of our missions to The Pomarj except the first were undertaken on my own free will! I knew one of you wouldn't be coming back, yet I let us go anyway, _just because I was tired of being retired!"_

Everyone stared at their team leader.

And for a while, it seemed like no one would dare to break the silence anymore.

But of course, eventually someone did.

"Speak for yourself, Elrohir," Argo Bigfellow Junior said calmly. "I went because I wanted to. I knew the danger and I went anyway. You never made me go. End of story."

Elrohir gave his fellow ranger a sour smirk. "You're saying the fact that I wanted to go didn't even factor in your decision a little, Bigfellow?"

"Did I or did I not refuse to go on your second expedition to the stockade?" Argo countered. "Did that win me any friends among the lot of you? No. Did I let that stop me? No. Seems pretty simple to me. I love you like the brother I never had, Elrohir, but you couldn't make me pick an apple against my will, let alone follow you into unending peril."

"I think Argo speaks for all of us, Elrohir," Zantac said, looking up at Elrohir. He then glanced over at Cygnus for support, but the tall wizard looked pointedly away.

"One more item, if I may," Aslan announced, getting to his feet as well and looking steadily at Elrohir, who met the paladin's gaze head-on.

"What do you call _not being retired_ anyway, Elrohir?" Aslan asked.

The ranger looked confused.

"You know what I call it?" the paladin asked and then pointed straight up at the ceiling where an enormous fresco of the god Heironeous, with _continual lights_ blazing from his eyes, brandished a blazing battleaxe against the infernal forces of evil.

"I call it helping people who can't help themselves. I call it doing what both you and Talass have done your entire lives, Elrohir. I call it seeing that justice is done."

Aslan shrugged and sat back down again.

"We paladins call it _doing good."_

This one time, no one seemed to mind the silence.

And when it was broken, it was not by any voice- but by the grinding sound of a marble door being opened.

* * *

Swinging into the chapel on dwarven-made hinges of stone, the square door to the Room of Return, ten foot to a side, slowly opened wide.

Gareth Heldenster came limping into the chapel, one arm on either side draped around an acolyte.

The High Priest's face looked ten years older than when they had last seen it less than an hour before. He trembled in the grasp of his fellow clerics, and his eyes seemed blurry.

Everyone on the pew who was not already standing now did so.

Heldenster looked from the face of one acolyte to another, took several deep breaths and nodded while withdrawing his arms from their shoulders. The two younger priests stood carefully by, ready to grab Gareth if the High Priest seemed about to collapse, but Heldenster seemed to be regaining some strength with each passing moment. His lips moved soundlessly in what the others assumed what a silent prayer.

Then he straightened up to his full height, gave his head a final shake and addressed the party.

"Blessings upon you," he intoned, but it seemed to Elrohir that the High Priest was not meeting any of their eyes. The ranger's heart seemed to twitch and tighten in his chest.

"As all know," Heldenster continued, "there is no greater miracle than the gods may bestow upon us than the return of those who have passed over the Great Divide of the Astral and onto Mount Celestia itself. Such a boon is not always granted, even to the most righteous, for it is often a selfish one, driven by our own sense of loss and not the…"

Gaereth's voice became a buzzing to Elrohir's brain as anger began to build inside the ranger's body. Why was he spouting all this mindless blather? Didn't he know what this wait was doing to them all? To him?

_My wife. My dearest. Oh, God. Talass… Please,_ Elrohir pleaded silently- to Heldenster, to Heironeous, to Forseti, to anyone- _please just let him say it. I have to know. I can't stand not knowing. I have to know. I HAVE TO-_

It was not Heldenster's voice that snapped Elrohir back to attention, but the sudden movement of the High Priest's arms, which suddenly swept wide, seeming to encompass the whole chapel.

"_All hail the power of Heironeous!"_ Gareth suddenly and unexpectedly shouted, causing not only his audience of seven to flinch slightly, but his two acolytes as well.

"Nothing is beyond the power of The Archpaladin!" Heldenster continued to shout. "His strength and his valor encompass not only his faithful, but even those of like mind and like heart!"

The High Priest's chest swelled with pride, his face broke out in a gigantic smile and his final pronouncement swept through the chapel like a magical tide of irresistible force.

"By the infinite grace of the Invincible One, _both souls_ have returned!"

* * *

There was one final moment of silence.

It was very brief.

And then the chapel exploded in shouts of relief and screams of joy. Elrohir didn't even register who he was hugging or who was hugging him.

And then after- who knew how long it was- when he thought he had screamed himself hoarse and cried himself dry, Elrohir could see the same sense of wonder in the eyes of his companions.

A sense almost of disbelief.

"I'll never forget to honor this day for the rest of my month," said Aslan, wiping the last of his own tears of relief away, "but I'll be the first to admit I don't understand it."

"Same here. How could the vision have been wrong?" Cygnus wondered.

It was with some reluctance that Elrohir turned his attention away from his new-found happiness to this question. No easy answer came to him, but he couldn't see its importance at this point anyway.

"It was wrong. The vision was wrong," he said, shrugging. "Either Talass misinterpreted it in some way, or maybe it wasn't a vision at all. Merely a bad dream. Maybe-"

"Elrohir," Argo suddenly interrupted.

His team leader looked over at the big ranger.

Argo wasn't smiling anymore. His face was looking back towards the High Priest.

Elrohir turned to follow Bigfellow's gaze.

Heldenster wasn't smiling anymore, either. A new solemnity rested on the cleric's lined face. It seemed so incongruously deep that it was almost a sorrow.

And he was looking directly at Elrohir.

"Normally," the High Priest began, casting his gaze down to the marble floor, his voice no longer booming, "it is mandated that those who have made this greatest of journeys must rest, alone and undisturbed, for a time. But the priestess Talass has given me a message of such urgency that I feel I must pass it on to you immediately. She has asked to speak to you, Elrohir."

Gaereth looked back up to meet Elrohir's eyes.

There was no mistaking the sadness in them now.

"I think you should go and see her."


	192. The One Who Didn't Come Back

**28th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**Chapel of Heironeous, Chendl, Furyondy**

Each step forward seemed to take twice as long as the last one.

Sounds were muffled; the faces of people- his friends, Heldenster and his assistants- all oddly out of focus.

It was as much by touch as by sight that Elrohir made his way to the entranceway of the Room of Return. The ranger stopped momentarily against the marble door, feeling the cool marble beneath his palm before stepping through the open doorway. A small foyer, also of marble walls, stretched out to the right and Elrohir followed, barely registering the grinding noise of the door closing behind him.

* * *

The Room of Return was not as large as he had imagined it; perhaps twenty-five feet to a side. _Everburning torches_, which gave off light but not heat, illuminated white tapestries inlaid with gold filigreed designs that hung over the upper halves of the walls. The ceiling boasted four different tile mosaics of the Archpaladin. Several wooden chests of drawers were positioned near the walls at different points.

He saw Tojo first.

The samurai was lying on one of two altars in the room. Except for his face, he was covered completely by a white woolen blanket with the holy symbol of Heironeous- a fist clutching a lightning bolt- prominently displayed on it. A large pillow supported his head. Tojo appeared to be sleeping, and a feeling of relief swept through Elrohir as he saw the samurai's chest rise and fall slowly. Tojo's face was as peaceful as the ranger could ever remember seeing it.

On the other altar, near the far end of the room, was Talass.

Another cleric of Heironeous was adjusting Talass' pillow and looked up as Elrohir approached. A young woman in the familiar white cassock with gold trim that all acolytes of the Invincible One wore, she seemed somewhat flustered and gave him a brief nod as she grabbed a box from the floor that Elrohir could see at a glance contained Tojo and Talass' old and bloody clothing. The priestess then opened a small door at the far end of the room that Elrohir hadn't noticed before and hurried through, her two long braids bouncing behind her. The door closed slowly behind her, seemingly of its own accord.

Elrohir approached his wife. Talass also appeared to be asleep, although he could see, peeking out from underneath the blanket, her left hand and part of her arm.

True to their contract to heal them all fully, Heldenster had _regenerated_ Talass' arm with his divine prayers, but Elrohir couldn't resist sucking in his breath as he saw the chalk-white pallor of Talass new limb. It was admittedly smooth and unblemished, but the ranger couldn't help wondering if it would always look that way. The next instant however, he had dismissed that thought as childish and irrelevant. She was back. His wife had returned, and he shouldn't give a damn about trifles like that.

He turned his gaze to Talass' face. Her poor nose, broken so many times, looked as if the priestess might actually have trouble smelling through it now, but at least there was no more blood. He had just taken in her face, looking so incredibly beautiful to him no matter how many times it might have been mauled when Talass opened her eyes and turned to see him.

Those light blue eyes he knew so well opened wide in amazement.

He smiled at her.

"Hey there, beautiful."

Her expression did not change.

"Dearest," she whispered after a very long moment. "Is it really you?"

"It's me," he nodded, unable to prevent the tears filling up his eyes again. "Your jumping partner."

And then he had rushed forward and hugged her as best as he could given her position. Talass struggled to sit up, but seemed only able to use her right arm.

Elrohir decided to spend the rest of his life in that embrace.

The words that came out of his mouth were badly incoherent, but it didn't matter. Talass too seemed to be messing up her speech, but their tears spoke for both of them. Elrohir had never felt more in tune with his wife than he did right now.

He silently vowed then and there not to lose that connection again. He'd show Argo what the best and strongest marriage in The Three Worlds really looked like.

"Sit," Talass said, a flicker of her old commanding ways evident even in that one soft syllable as she maneuvered her body enough to create a sliver of space on the altar where her husband could sit, and he did so.

She looked down and to her left and grimaced. "My new arm is still asleep. The High Priest says the blood will be flowing fully through it in about an hour or so and I'll have full use of it then." Talass gingerly touched her nose with her right hand and grimaced again at her husband. "Seems strange having such a perfect arm attached to such an old, broken-up body."

Elrohir lifted her chin and stared pointedly into her eyes.

"Don't you dare change a thing about that old, broken-up body. I like it just the way it is."

This time they kissed.

They kissed as if it was their first time.

They kissed as if it would be their last.

Elrohir had never dreamed a kiss could have such healing powers; how much stronger it could make him feel. Not to mention, he had to admit with a smile he kept inside, how much aroused.

After they eventually pulled apart, Talass nodded towards Tojo. "I was so frightened when I saw Tojo lying there, but Heldenster said he had returned as well." Her head suddenly jerked back towards Elrohir and her face showed apprehension now. "I didn't have the chance to ask him. Did we- did anyone…?

Elrohir placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "No one else aside from Hengist, and he died before you."

"Did he-"

He shook his head. "No. The others weren't able to get his body across the chasm in time. We did meet up with Wainold, however. He had also been captured by The Nine, but managed to escape when the volcano erupted."

As he watched his wife digest this new information, Elrohir's heart suddenly seized up.

He had just remembered why he was here.

"Talass," he said. Elrohir kept his voice as gentle as he could, but the ranger couldn't keep the trembling out of it. "Heldenster said there was a message-"

At that last word, Talass suddenly bolted upright and gasped, oblivious to the blanket falling off of her upper body.

"Dearest! What is it?" All the old fears and dreads, so recently thought banished forever, had returned and were rearing their ugly heads.

All the happiness had drained away from Talass' face.

Slowly, the priestess of Forseti turned and faced her husband again. Of such intensity were the mixed expressions now forming on her face that Elrohir never even glanced at Talass' naked torso, which he normally would have done much more than glance.

Wonder, joy, grief and fear were somehow all superimposed on that face which Elrohir had thought he knew so well. It was as if a multitude of Talasses, superimposed over each other, were staring at him simultaneously.

Then the wondrous Talass spoke. The words were low and soft, but Elrohir thought the whole Flanaess could still somehow hear them.

"Dearest," Talass seemed barely able to get the words out, as if the import of them had swelled the very sounds until they were too large to disgorge. "Dearest, _I saw Him!"_

Elrohir frowned. "Who?"

"_Forseti!"_

* * *

Elrohir nearly gasped himself. "The Justice Bringer? The god himself?"

Talass nodded vigorously. "He was right there! I was standing in a meadow, and at the far end of it was a waterfall- the same one I had seen in my vision! Then the fossergrim emerged from it, but as he walked towards me, he changed- and it was Him!"

The joyous Talass now took center stage. The cleric seemed lost in rapture, her eyes now elsewhere.

"Oh, Elrohir- I wish you could have beheld Him! To be in that presence- there are no words I can find that could convey that…"

Elrohir sat silently and watched as Talass seemed to be trying to recapture the essence of that moment. While a part of the ranger was happy for his wife- to be in the actual presence of one's deity was the highest dream any cleric could ever ask for, he knew it was among the rarest of events as well.

A faint feeling of uneasiness nagged at him like a persistent itch.

Talass seemed to give up on the attempt and returned herself to the present. "Then He spoke to me, Elrohir. He explained everything! The true meaning behind my vision, and-"

She stopped abruptly, and then gasped again. Her face drained of all color until it was as white as her new arm. Her eyes went blank.

"Talass! Dearest, what is it?"

Talass face now showed only grief. Sorrow as if no other emotion ever had or ever would reside there again.

Elrohir grabbed her by both shoulders. Fear flooded through every fiber of the ranger's being.

"Talass!" he shouted. "What is it? _Speak to me!"_

Slowly, Talass turned her eyes towards him again.

A single tear ran down her cheek.

"Dearest," she whispered. "I have to go."

* * *

Elrohir stood up.

He staggered backwards away from his wife.

She held out her arms to him beseechingly, but he took several more steps back, nearly stumbling. Fear had now given way to horror.

Was it a lie? Was it all a lie? Had Talass come back briefly only to-

His wife, ever the Priestess of Truth, discerned his thoughts.

"No, dearest," she said, her voice strong now but still no less shaken with grief. "Not in that sense. I'm not going back to Asgard- at least, not until my final day here on Oerth, but… but I…"

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, but more tears still leaked out.

"I have to go home. I have to go home to Rhizia. To the Fruztii."

She opened her eyes again. Elrohir was still staring at her. She couldn't bear those eyes.

"Dearest," she croaked, her arms still held out towards him. "Please, sit back down. I'll explain… I'll explain everything I know. Don't leave me."

_Don't leave you? Didn't you just say you were about to leave me?_

Very slowly, Elrohir walked back towards the altar but he did not sit down. He remained standing beside it, gazing down at Talass. His features settled themselves into a stony mask.

Elrohir had no choice. He had to do this. If he was ever going to be able to hear what his wife had to say- and part of him knew he had to hear it, even as the other half would sooner have stabbed himself through the heart than hear these oncoming words- he was going to have to banish all emotion.

No matter what the cost.

His mask seemed to crumble Talass' face as if he had taken a warhammer to it, but the ranger would not yield.

"Explain," he commanded.

The cleric's entire body was trembling violently now. The fearful Talass had emerged- one that Elrohir had never seen before. She clumsily pulled the blanket back over her as well as she could with her right hand and then, being unable to look her husband in the eye, stared down as she began.

* * *

"I saw not only my god, Elrohir, but someone else as well. Forseti showed him to me. It was- it was my father."

She glanced up at Elrohir as if hoping for any sign of commiseration from him, but his face remained impassive.

While there was a part of him that did sympathize with Talass- the unexpected revelation that her father had died must have been crushing, even with her deity nearby- Elrohir's one meeting with Talass' father had not been a pleasant one. The High Priest of Forseti had borne nothing but ill-will towards the foreign man, and that surely had not improved after his daughter and Elrohir had eloped and hurriedly left the land of the Frost Barbarians.

Talass looked away again. Her voice choked up again, but she continued.

"It had happened right before we were first summoned to Chendl. That was why He sent me the vision in the first place."

Elrohir frowned. He was so confused that he forgot to keep up his mask. "I don't understand."

"There is no one left now to continue the priesthood of the Peacemaker among the Fruztii," Talass continued. "Other faiths, such as those of Kord and Tyr, will take its place completely. More warlike faiths. My father was- unable to find anyone else who was willing to assume that mantle before he died. First my sister Talat had deserted him, and then I-I…"

Talass broke down into sobs.

Elrohir continued to stand there.

_Damn you to Hel's realm, Elrohir! Comfort her! She's your wife- weren't you just vowing to yourself how things were going to be different now? You knew how much she had given up to marry you, even if she never let you see it! Put your arms around her and comfort her! You love her no matter what! You know you do!_

And he knew it was true. All that his mind raged at him was true.

But the hurt held him back.

After a few minutes, Talass continued, her voice stopping and starting in fits as she kept trying to hold back further tears.

"The Justice Bringer told me- I had to return home. With no formal line of succession of our priesthood left, I'll have to re-establish myself as- as a valid claimant in the eyes of the Frostwulf Jarl before I can legally claim the title of High Priestess of Forseti. That's the second of the two tests Forseti spoke of."

Elrohir frowned again. "The second? What was the first?"

With what seemed a superhuman effort, Talass raised her eyes to meet those of her husband again. "My vision."

Despite himself, Elrohir found himself sitting down again next to his wife. She smiled through her tear-stained face and clasped his hand. That contact, both joyous and painful, caused Elrohir's mask to instinctively re-assert itself. Seeing this, the priestess dropped her eyes away from him again, but continued her tale.

"I first had to prove myself to my god before I could prove myself to my jarl. While I was still accepted by Forseti as His instrument, I still betrayed my church when I left with you, dearest. He needed to see a sign of my loyalty. Was I willing to make the supreme sacrifice to further the ideals of loyalty? Of putting the welfare of others before my own? Of helping to defeat the designs of evil, whenever and wherever they might be found?"

With another flicker of her old strength, she tightened her grasp on Elrohir's hand so much that he looked back at her, to find her ice-blue eyes blazing fiercely.

"That was the true meaning of the vision, Elrohir! I misinterpreted it! We all did! _One of us won't be coming back._ It wasn't death the Justice Bringer was referring to at all!"

There was a brief silence and then Elrohir spoke. His voice sounded hoarse and strange to him.

"So it _was_ you, after all. The one who wouldn't come back."

Talass let go of his hand. Again her eyes filled with tears as her strength seemed to fail her.

"Yes," she whispered.

Again Elrohir felt vindicated.

And again the feeling of knowing he had been right had never felt so wrong.

"If all this you say is true, then why," he asked, his face drawn tight and his voice as hard as he could make it, "can't I come with you?"

Elrohir didn't know what kind of response he had been expecting, but Talass surprised him. His wife grasped his hand again.

"You _can_, dearest! You can! Only," she paused, "not right away."

Her husband's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

Talass took a long, slow, deep breath.

"A month or so after my sister Talat had run away, my father received word that she was now in the company of Nitch Redarm, a cleric of Hextor-"

Both Elrohir and Talass looked wildly around them. The _everburning torches_ had all momentarily dimmed.

Talass gave Elrohir a sheepish smile. "I suppose I should watch my language here," she said, clearly hoping for another softening of his expression, but it didn't come. After a few moments, Talass continued, her tone downcast.

"My father, despite his anger at my sister, pronounced a charge of heresy against Redarm for the act of seducing a priestess of the Justice Bringer. Any Fruztii who placed his faith in Forseti would be honor-bound to capture Redarm if possible and return him to Rhizia for trial. Needless to say, the punishment after conviction would be death."

She glanced back at Elrohir.

"I am certain that after you and I left, dearest, that he had done the same to you. That was why I always said it would be useless to return and try and reason with my father. I knew you'd never willingly let yourself be taken prisoner. Nitch Redarm died from other causes before he was ever captured, but I know- as much as I hate to think it- that my father never renounced his charge against you before he died."

"Wouldn't it have died with him?" Elrohir asked.

Talass shook her head. "No. Only the High Priest, or High Priestess, of Forseti could recant the charge. Do you understand now? If you came back with me now, you'd be arrested by the first Fruztii who recognized you. But once I can gain the title of High Priestess, I can recant the charge myself."

"Wouldn't that be seen as a conflict of interest?"

His wife smiled. "Fruztii law lacks many of the subtleties and nuances of these southern courts. In truth, my jarl could object, but I won't get to be High Priestess without his blessing anyway, so I doubt he will."

Elrohir tried to quiet the storm raging behind his stern mask, with little success. "How long will this take?"

Talass hesitated. "I can't be sure. My jarl is sure to assign me a difficult task to prove myself to the Fruztii before he would even consider re-instating me. At a minimum, I'd say two to three months."

Elrohir abruptly stood up, said, "Just give me a moment," and started to pace the room, thinking furiously.

* * *

Perhaps, he thought, it wasn't all as bad as he was making it out to be. Two, three, maybe even four months was a long time to be sure, but compared to an eternity without Talass, it was endurable. Even the prospect of returning to Rhizia with Talass seemed more palatable now, without her father to interfere. Elrohir had retired for the second and last time- of that he was sure. Neither riches nor glory appealed to him. Not that either had ever been a driving force in Elrohir's life, but now a quiet life in the rugged Thillonrian Peninsula appealed to him. He, Talass and Barahir. A family together at last.

He stopped pacing and turned back to Talass as more questions entered his mind. "When would you- when would you have to leave?"

"Time is precious in this matter," she replied quietly. "Tomorrow, if possible."

"And what happens if you fail this task? You _are_ free then to return here, right? Your obligation would be discharged?"

Talass gulped.

"Dearest," she said softly. "If I fail in whatever quest my jarl appoints for me, it will only be because I have died in the attempt."

"_What?"_ Elrohir thundered, his wife flinching from his voice. "And your god demands this of you? After all you have sacrificed for him and his ideals- _your very life?_ I don't see why you have to do this, Talass. I don't see why you have to do any of this at all!"

"Dearest," she cried back. "I am His priestess, the instrument of His will-"

"A slave to it, you mean!" the ranger roared. "What kind of a god would inflict such misery upon his best and most loyal servant? It sounds like The Earth Dragon all over again! If Forseti is so uncaring about his worshippers, perhaps it is best if he winds up with none at all!"

"_Elrohir!"_ Talass shrieked in horror.

And then The Question broke loose from Elrohir.

The one he had wanted, but never dared ask, from the very beginning.

"_Who is more important to you, Talass? Your husband or your god?"_

Talass tore at her hair and wailed.

_Please dearest, oh, please DON'T MAKE ME CHOOSE!"_

"I'm not the one forcing this decision upon you, Talass," Elrohir replied, his voice suddenly calm again. "Forseti is."

"Elrohir-"

"I have to go now, Talass. You need your rest. We will talk more of this after Heldenster releases you."

In truth, Elrohir had no desire whatsoever to talk anymore about this- he couldn't see what could come out of it except more anguish and heartbreak- but it gave him an excuse to leave. He rounded his back on his wife- and stopped.

Propped up on both elbows, Yanigasawa Tojo was staring at him.

Elrohir looked away as he blustered past and down the foyer. There was no handle on the marble door, but it began to open as soon as his hand touched it.

* * *

The Room of Return was soundproof from within, but now Talass' sobs could be heard issuing from within as Elrohir rushed past his shocked friends and companions, ignoring their frantic questions.

He knew he was hurting her, but he also knew he had been hurt.

All he had ever wanted for him and Talass had been a union of love- and her god had destroyed that.

He cursed Forseti and all gods above and below as he hurried from the chapel.


	193. Resignation

**28th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

The king of Furyondy tapped the head of his mace into his gauntlets of his left hand.

The hazel eyes of Belvor IV, His Most Royal Highness and Pious Majesty, wandered again from the massive pillars carved in the likenesses of his royal predecessors to the cold blue eyes of Sir Hallien who stood obediently at the feet of the pink marble slabs that supported the royal throne.

The knight recognized the impatience in the eyes and manner of his liege, but could do nothing other than clear his throat in an empathic manner and turn again to face the bronzed double doors at the far end of the chamber, some forty feet distant.

Sir Davos Rahldent, standing by those doors, must have heard the sound of approaching footsteps, for he suddenly gestured to two nearby servants, who each grasped the handle on one of the doors and pulled.

Nesco Cynewine, flanked by Comitello, slowly entered the throne room.

Lady Cynewine was clad in brand-new chain mail, over which was a blue tabard. Emblazoned on the front of her tabard was the royal insignia of Furyondy. This was a downwards-facing silver crescent on a blue field in the upper right and three stacked golden crowns on a red field in the lower left.

The ranger carried a round metallic shield with antlers painted on an azure field, its reflection of the numerous torches a testament to the shield's pristine condition.

Nesco wore neither helm nor coif and her brown hair had been cut back down to its usual short length, not quite reaching her ears. Her own eyes stared straight ahead, but the nervousness in her expression was all too evident. She glanced over to Comitello as she had done several times during their walk down the long hallway outside the throne room, but the aristocrat was already moving away to stand dutifully off to the side.

It had in reality been over fifteen minutes earlier that Comitello had shown up and informed Nesco that she was to don her new armor and pick up her new shield, both of which had been waiting for her when she had returned to Chendl, and appear at once before the king. However, it seemed much shorter than that to her.

The fact that it was nearly midnight turned a merely unusual request a downright bewildering one for her.

Nesco spared barely a glance at the chainmail-clad Household Regiment, standing stiffly at attention alongside both mosaic-filled walls. She had just noticed something else that arrested her attention.

King Belvor was wearing his full plate armor.

Then she saw that the six figures occupying the scalloped niches against the far wall were also all armor-clad.

On the far left was the elf Cerenellyl, an ambassador from The Knights of The High Forest. The Verdant Order was one of two other knightly societies allied with The Knights of Furyondy. Nesco did not know Cerenellyl beyond their casual meetings at royal functions.

Next to the elf stood Sir Damoscene, in newly-cleaned leather armor. The next niche was occupied by Sir Juntaros, clad in his plate mail.

The leftmost of the three niches on the other side of the throne held Sir Selzen Murtano, also resplendent in plate mail and looking quite different than when Nesco had last seen him. The fifth niche held Sir Gideon, a young knight and friend of Nesco when she had been out in the field with the Azure Order.

Nesco had just started to feel guilty about not keeping more in contact with her fellow Order members when she saw the last man among the six.

Lady Cynewine stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes flew open wide.

Sir Alexor Cynewine stood stiffly in his old but shining full plate, his eyes fixed squarely on his daughter.

All six were smiling, and all six bore expressions of expectant pride.

Nesco wanted to turn and run.

The ranger, trying desperately to keep her knees from giving out on her, looked back up at her sovereign. The king's handsome face smiled benignly at her from underneath his open visor. He nodded slightly.

Nesco took two quick steps forward and fell down upon one knee. She thought Sir Rahldent was announcing her, but sounds weren't coming through very clear to her brain right about now.

"Your Royal Majesty," she somehow managed. "I am ever your loyal and expectant servant."

"Rise, Lady Cynewine."

It seemed to take an embarrassingly long time for Nesco to regain her feet, but perhaps that was only her own skewed perception, for no one's expression changed.

"Nesco Cynewine," Belvor pronounced, using the full weight of his impressive mien. "You have returned to us in triumph, having made your king's will manifest in a manner which exceeded all our expectations, my own included- and do not doubt for a moment that my expectations for you were very high indeed," the monarch concluded, his smile fading to accentuate his sincerity. The smiles of the sextet behind him however, grew still wider.

"Nesco Cynewine," the king repeated, "it is the judgment of your liege that you have performed not one, but numerous acts of exceptional honor, bravery, courage and-"

The rest of his words were lost. Nesco was suddenly submerged in her resurgent panic.

_No! No! By Zeus, not now!_

* * *

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Once the shock had begun to wear off and the reality that she and her friends- Tojo and Talass included- had returned from the last leg of their months-long quest, Nesco had done some intense deliberating in a very short period of time. Numerous possibilities and divergent paths lay invitingly open before her and yet the one which called to her the loudest promised neither riches nor glory.

She could still hear Elrohir's voice.

…_we would all be very, __very__ happy if you would come back with us to the Brass Dragon... to live with us._

And despite whatever had transpired between Elrohir and his wife in the Room of Return- and there was no doubt that it was something serious- Nesco knew this was the path she wanted to travel, no matter what the cost.

But she thought she would have time to prepare. Time to broach the subject delicately with her family, her friends in the Order, and most importantly, with her king.

But she was abruptly out of time, and out of options.

Her eyes still fixed firmly on the floor, Nesco did the unthinkable. She interrupted her king.

"Your Royal Majesty, forgive me!"

King Belvor fell silent.

"Please forgive your most unworthy servant, but I must speak on a matter most urgent! I beg Your Highness to grant me this boon!"

Nesco raised her eyes to meet those of her liege. She did not dare to glance at the six people behind him. She knew what she would see in those faces. Surprise, possibly disapproval.

Belvor, always the diplomat, showed only a cool and neutral demeanor. Eyes narrowed slightly, he gave another brief nod.

Nesco rose again to her feet. It seemed to take even longer this time, and she was certain this time the king noticed it.

"Your Most Royal Majesty," she began, keenly aware that the next words she spoke might change her life forever.

"In the months I have spent in the company of these brave and heroic people, I have learned much- not only about them, but unexpectantly-"

She hesitated, a vision of Aslan's face flashing briefly through her mind's eye.

"- of myself as well," she continued, her voice trembling even more than she had imagined it would in her numerous rehearsals of this moment. "Know that I am ever your loyal subject, ready to render any service, even unto my life, at your command, but they have offered me a place among them at the Brass Dragon Inn. I have-"

Again she hesitated. This was the part she knew she would have the greatest trouble explaining. The ranger placed her hand over heart for emphasis as she continued.

"-not a vision, but rather a _sense_ that these good men and women have yet great trials before them, and I desire to be at their side in these struggles. This might lead to a conflict with my other duties and so I once again beg of you, Your Majesty, if my Lord is pleased with my service thus far, do not begrudge your servant her one request, nor think ill of her for it."

Nesco's lips trembled, but she plowed on.

"Heavy is my heart for speaking these words, yet as certain it is for the path on which it leads me. I painfully ask you to grant me the right of secession-"

She heard a gasp from the far wall.

"-and accept the resignation of my commission from the Azure Order."

* * *

A silence as heavy as any that had preceded it in the chapel that morning descended upon the royal throne room.

Nesco kept her eyes firmly planted on King Belvor's face, or at least as much of it was visible beneath the raised visor of his helm. More than ever now, she did not dare to look at the people standing behind him. She didn't need to.

She could imagine all too well the look of loss on Juntaros' face. His fear of losing any chance of being with Nesco being realized before his eyes.

The consternation on Damoscene's face. Wondering why his star pupil was deserting the organization she had wanted so vehemently to join less than a year ago, and wondering how Belvor would judge him for her desertion.

And most of all, the hurt and betrayal on her father's face.

_I didn't want it to be like this,_ Nesco's heart cried out from within her chest. _I thought there would be more time._

King Belvor sighed. All eyes and thoughts returned to their monarch at once.

"Nesco Cynewine," the king began.

This time, Nesco's name sounded very different on his lips to her now.

"You place your liege in a most uncomfortable position."

His gaze, which had been looking almost wistfully upwards, snapped back down to bore into Nesco's face.

"You ask me for a boon which you know full well I cannot in good conscience refuse. The Archpaladin's Duty to The People stipulates that you shall not serve here when your heart lies elsewhere, and His Duty to A Lady, especially to one of such virtue, makes my decision one of mere formality. I of course shall be candid, Nesco Cynewine. Your leaving the Order is a great blow- for me, for your peers and for all the good people of Furyondy. Nevertheless, I shall grant your request, Nesco Cynewine, but know this first-"

King Belvor sighed again and seemed to stand still taller in his great silver-plated armor.

"As I am sure you have realized by the great deeds you have accomplished and by your summons here tonight, if you do wish to reconsider this decision of yours, which I cannot help but regard as a hasty one, know then that your knighthood is not only assured,"

His hand went abruptly to the hilt of the sheathed sword at his side.

"It is at hand."

* * *

Nesco closed her eyes.

Deep down, she had suspected it, but she couldn't afford to dwell on it. It was the greatest of many things that were calling her back from this momentous decision.

Knighthood.

She had wanted it, desired it, craved it so bad she could taste the anointing meersalm oil on her tongue. She could feel the flat of King Belvor's _holy avenger_ tapping on her shoulder.

Her father's dream fulfilled. Her own pride in finally proving herself to Joseph, once and for all.

Nesco opened her eyes. Either the throne room was starting to tilt to one side, or she was in serious danger of collapsing.

"Your Royal Majesty," she said, not quite sure how the words were squeezing past the parched and cracked desert of her throat. "This boon was once my life's wish, and your offering even now brings tears to the eyes of your most unworthy servant, but my heart stands fast in this matter."

_What a goddamn lie. You have no idea what you really want, Nesco. Aren't you giving up everything just to chase an impossible dream?_

Nesco tried her best to ignore her inner voice, concentrating with all her might on the face of her monarch.

After several agonizing moments, Belvor nodded again. Now his voice sounded weary.

"As you wish, Nesco Cynewine. You have your king's blessing. Go in peace."

She turned to leave.

"_Lady Cynewine!"_

Nesco's heart slammed back and forth inside her chest cavity. Her feet stopped before expected them to and she nearly stumbled before turning around.

The voice had not been that of King Belvor.

Sir Alexor Cynewine was looking, not at her daughter, but at King Belvor. The elder knight's eyes moved down to his shield and then upwards to meet those of his liege.

After a moment, Belvor nodded to show he had received the unspoken message. He turned back to Nesco and held forth his right hand.

"Nesco Cynewine," the king said yet again, and now the weariness in his voice also carried the unmistakable tint of reproach. "Surrender your shield."

The ranger glanced down at her new shield, emblazoned with the Azure Order's crest. It took a moment for her to understand and then she moved forward slowly, like a sleepwalker, until she was just close enough to offer it to her liege, her arm fully extended as if she was afraid he might lunge forward and attack her.

King Belvor took the shield without a word.

Nesco bowed low and, trying desperately not to run, strode briskly out of the throne room.

* * *

Silence, not Belvor, reigned for a few seconds.

Then the king assumed authority again.

"None of you had any inkling of this?" he asked, not even bothering to hide the displeasure in his voice. His question was asked to all six, but the monarch's hazel eyes centered on Sir Damoscene, Sir Murtano and Sir Cynewine. All responded in the negative.

"A great loss for the Order, my liege," offered Sir Juntaros, his voice carrying the dim hope that his king might reverse his decision.

Belvor nodded but seemed distracted. "Yes," he murmured, again tapping the mace into his palm.

"Fortunately," he said after a few moments deliberation, "there exists an option to ameliorate this loss."

The sextet looked at their king curiously. He repaid their looks with an almost mischievous smile.

"Future services," he said cryptically.

Not bothering to explain, Belvor's gaze swiftly landed on the knight still standing by at the foot of his throne, the scroll with the words of the knighthood ceremony still clutched tightly in his gauntlet.

"Sir Hallien!" snapped the king. "Bring me Aslan!"


	194. Aslan And Tojo

**28th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY**

**The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

"Tojo-sama? May I come in, please?"

Yanigasawa Tojo, currently sitting lotus-style upon his bed, opened his eyes and turned his head to the left, but the samurai's gaze took several leisurely seconds to come back into focus. As he lifted himself out of his meditative state, Tojo glanced down at his hands which lay in his lap, fingers clasped together. A ghost of a smile flickered for a moment on his face.

He might have known who the first one to return would be.

"Come in, Asran-sama," he said.

The sturdy wooden door of Tojo's guest room swung slowly inward, as if Aslan was afraid that Tojo might be standing right in front of it and he risked hitting the samurai in the face as he came in. The paladin's gaze alighted upon his friend and he smiled.

Tojo gave just enough of a return smile to show he understood and appreciated the gesture. No more.

"I know the hour is very late, Tojo-sama, but may I speak with you? Briefly?"

Tojo nodded and the paladin walked over to a nearby ornate wooden chair, which he pulled over to the side of Tojo's bed and sat down upon. Aslan was wearing tan cotton trousers covered by a simple undyed long tunic. The paladin wore a white, triangular, cotton hat which elicited a momentary eyebrow lift from Tojo. Aslan had abandoned his ponytail, and his hair hung loose down to his shoulders.

The samurai himself, bare-chested and wearing only a pair of dark green silk pantaloons, regarded his visitor with the same calm and patient expression as of old. For his part, Aslan had a hard time keeping his eyes away from the gaping, circular scar in the middle of the samurai's chest. He wondered if there was a matching scar on Tojo's back and supposed there was one. He then supposed that he was wasting his friend's time and should get down to the reason for this call.

He was about to do so when he noticed the gold bracers on the samurai's arms.

Tojo was once again wearing his dastana, and Aslan couldn't help rebuking himself for insisting that they bring the bracers, which they had discovered amongst their other possessions in the chest onboard the _Water Dragon,_ back home with them. He wished the Slave Lords had simply thrown them away.

Tojo's eyes followed Aslan's stare back up to his face. "Do you stirr have question for me, Asran-sama?"

The meaning was clear to the paladin. Nothing had changed for Tojo in terms of his honor or his quest.

Some of Aslan's questions were indeed answered- and he was in fact grateful that he wasn't going to have to articulate them after all- but others still remained. However, he couldn't bring himself to omit at least some opening pleasantries. "Are you feeling more rested now?"

In mid-afternoon, Tojo had finally been released from the Room of Return by Gaereth Heldenster, and several servants had escorted him directly to the quarters prepared for him. Nesco had asked Comitello to remain in the chapel however, and contact her and her friends when this returned. Thus, she and the others- including Elrohir but not Talass- were waiting outside this very door to greet him. Tojo had still been very groggy though, and had managed only weak smiles and murmurs of greetings as they all greeted him joyfully. He had not even objected when Nesco had given him a brief hug. They had then all departed, promising to return once the samurai was better rested, presumably the next day.

But apparently, Tojo thought, Aslan had not been able to wait quite that long. It was just short of midnight.

"Yes, Asran-sama," Tojo replied. "I sreep most of day. Berieve _gaijin_ saying is, 'I sreep rike dead man.'"

The paladin smiled again. "And you keep saying you have no sense of humor, Tojo."

"I do not, Asran-sama." The samurai stated, his expression still blank. "Onry say what I mean. Nothing more."

"I will try to be succinct as well with you, Tojo-sama, but I hope you can forgive my gaijin failings. It's hard not to see you alive and well again without becoming emotional with relief."

Tojo nodded. "I understand."

"First," Aslan asked, still skirting the issue, "has anyone filled you in on what happened after you, er-"

The samurai shrugged. "No need, Asran-sama. You are here; enemies are not. Easy to assume we triumph."

The paladin bit his lip. "Were you aware of what was going on back with us while you were…" he again trailed off.

Tojo frowned and Aslan could see at once this was an uncomfortable subject for the samurai. His violet eyes did their familiar dance around the walls of the room rather than meeting the paladin's gaze as they had been up to this point.

"No, Asran-sama," he replied at length. "It- very hard to describe. I think hard on how to describe experience to you, but cannot find right words at this time. Wirr say more when I can."

_And that's that_, thought Aslan. _Subject closed. May as well move on to the main event._

"Tojo," he said slowly, "I ran into Sir Dorbin a little way ago. He's just returned with Sitdale and Sir Menn and he was heading to his quarters to retire for the night but he- I suppose the best word would be _leaked_- something to me."

Tojo cocked his head slightly, his eyes returning to his visitor's face..

"Something very important- and very disturbing- happened at the Brass Dragon while we were gone. Dorbin said that he does not want to explain until we are all assembled together back at the inn, so I guess we have no choice but to wait, but he did say that Caroline had been spending the last few days at the Castle Chauv."

"Dorbin-san must think she be safer there," the samurai mused.

"My thoughts exactly," Aslan agreed, "and since Dorbin made no mention of another attack upon the inn by anyone, I'm guessing Caroline had another dream- one explicit enough to convince Sir Dorbin to take action."

Tojo looked thoughtful but said nothing.

"What this all may be leading to," Aslan continued, "is that our troubles may not yet be over- and that's not even counting Nodyath and the Emerald Serpent. I know that you must be eager to resume your quest, Tojo, but if my presence is required at the Brass Dragon for a time-"

Tojo interrupted, a rarity for him.

"I wirr not abandon any of you, _tomodachi."_

"But," Aslan really didn't want to ask this, "wouldn't delaying your quest still further bring even more shame upon you? Isn't that the reason last time that you said you had to…"

The paladin desperately wanted Tojo to say something here; to help him avoid these uncomfortable questions, to explain, to fill the unexplained gaps in his knowledge.

Tojo however, said nothing. He merely looked away from Aslan again.

Again the paladin decided to detour. "I wanted to ask you about Icar's katana, Tojo. We've guessed that it was a magical weapon specifically designed for use against onis and that the phrase _oni begone_ in the Nipponese tongue were the words that activated its special powers, but why didn't you simply tell Nesco that? You can be maddeningly oblique at times, you know."

Tojo shrugged, not taking offense at the remark. "Brackthorn was nearby, Asran-sama. Cood not risk having him overhear. Trusted in Nesco-sama to understand and she did."

"But," the paladin couldn't keep the sense of wonder out of his voice, _"how in the name of Asgard did you ever know all this in the first place?"_

Tojo raised an eyebrow at Aslan.

"Very simper, Asran-sama," the samurai replied. "Icar terr me, with his rast words."

The two were silent for a while.

"You always make it seem so easy, Tojo," the paladin said at length, shaking his head.

Tojo shrugged again. "Samurai prace honor above awe, Asran-sama. Remember that, and you wirr understand us."

In a display such as he always associated with the impetuous Argo, the paladin was suddenly speaking words without thinking first.

"Why did you come back, Tojo?"

Tojo took a very deep breath and looked away again. His bearing clearly suggested the question was not a welcome one.

"You know what I think?" Aslan asked.

The samurai stared straight ahead at the far wall. "Not have _herm of terepathy_, Asran-sama," he said coolly.

"I think you didn't come back for your quest at all, Tojo. I think you came back for us."

The samurai did not respond but his breathing became audibly heavier.

"I know you place honor above life itself, Tojo-sama," the paladin said softly. "What I don't know is in what place you put love."

Without any knocking, the door suddenly swung inwards. Standing in the open archway was Sir Davos Rahldent, dressed in his plate mail. He did not even glance at Tojo.

"His Most Pious Majesty requests your immediate presence, Aslan," the knight announced in his deep voice.

_A kingly request,_ Aslan thought. _Difficult to ignore._

Aslan stood up. Tojo met his eyes as the paladin turned to leave, but the samurai's expression was still neutral. Aslan left the room behind Sir Rahldent, closing the door quietly behind him.

Tojo continued to stare at the door for a long time.


	195. Their Last Night

**1****st**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**The Royal Palace, Chendl, Furyondy**

Elrohir was not sleeping when he heard the door of his guest room slowly open.

The ranger always slept lightly in any case and being in a strange room, even one deep within the bowels of the royal palace of Chendl did nothing to quell his uneasiness. Even if he had been asleep, he was certain the almost-inaudible sound of a well-oiled door hinge swiveling would still have been enough to trigger his alertness.

But tonight, sleep was a lost cause.

The ranger had lain wide awake in the pitch black, staring up at a stone ceiling he could not see. The room had no windows and at this late hour not even the torches on the hallway sconces outside his room were lit.

That was fine with him. He wanted it dark. He _felt_ dark.

Elrohir brooded endlessly over the scene with his wife that morning- or the previous morning, if it was past midnight now, as he guessed it might be. That would make it the first of Harvester. A new day and a new month.

The first month of the rest of his life without his wife.

His eyes narrowed. Whoever was opening the door was doing it very slowly, as if they did not to wish to awaken the sleeper within.

The ranger's hand slid under his pillow and closed upon the handle of his dagger.

He sensed that the individual had entered the room, but he could not hear any footsteps. The person might be right at the edge of the bed by now.

With one fluid movement of his left hand, Elrohir grabbed the black piece of cloth that lay wadded up on the end table next to his bed and lifted it up.

The _continual light_-endowed coin that the cloth had been wrapped around fell down back on the end table, rolled off and fell to the floor. Shadows danced crazily around the room from the shifting light source, but it was still more than sufficient to reveal the intruder.

Talass gasped from just inside the doorway.

* * *

Elrohir stared at her.

Despite how anyone else might have viewed it, the ranger had not expected his wife. He was sure she would have sought other quarters within the castle. After all, it was only for one night.

The priestess of Forseti slowly lowered her hand from her mouth. Her ice-blue eyes blinked rapidly from the sudden light, but they did not leave her husband's face.

By instinct, Elrohir considered the possibilities. An illusion, a disguised assassin, even a doppelganger, but threw them all away just as quickly.

He knew those eyes.

Talass, clad only in a white cotton nightgown, still gazed at him. It seemed to be the grieving Talass again; that ineffable sadness seemingly carved forever on that face. She opened her mouth, but closed it again after nothing came out.

Elrohir's wife was never at a loss for words, but the ranger himself was all-too familiar with that feeling. Sometimes Elrohir felt he had been born that way; a silent baby emerging from his elven mother's womb, too stupid to cry because he didn't know that was what babies was supposed to do.

And he realized that in that moment, that one little idiosyncrasy connected them, even if nothing else did.

Elrohir thought for a while.

Talass still stood there.

And then the ranger shifted his body, as Talass had done the previous morning to make room for someone else to sit down.

Putting the dagger on the table, Elrohir patted the bed beside him and tried to smile at his wife. He didn't quite manage it, but Talass knew how his face worked.

The joyous Talass now at least shared the cleric's features, if not displacing them. She walked slowly forward and sat down beside him.

They stared into each other's eyes.

Elrohir didn't know who had made the movement, but he was suddenly aware that underneath the blanket, their hands were touching.

A single tear ran down Talass' face.

"Make love to me," she said.

The ranger heard the question in her voice.

He took her in her arms.

* * *

Elrohir knew nothing had changed.

Even in the throes of the passion he welcomed, as he watched the silhouette of his wife straddling him rise up and down with his movements; even as they shared in the explosion of ecstasy simultaneously, Elrohir knew.

He breathed her scent deeply as they lay together afterwards facing each other. Her head nestled against his neck, his face buried in her blonde hair, one hand absently caressing her shoulder.

It was wonderful. As wonderful as it had ever been, but he knew this was their last night together. Their last coupling. One for the road.

Elrohir tried to shake the cynicism away from his thoughts, but it clung on tightly, as if with claws. His grip on Talass tightened and she raised her head to look at him.

He was too full of hurt. Too full of pain. He tried, but the words leaked out anyway.

"Don't go, dearest."

She sighed, but her expression held only sadness, not reproach.

"I have to," she whispered.

"Couldn't," Elrohir's mind whirled, desperately seeking ideas or possibilities that a part of him knew Talass must already have considered, "your sister Talat do this?"

His wife's eyebrows raised and what was almost a smirk appeared on her face. "You've never met my sister, Elrohir, yet I know you loath her with all your heart."

"I have several good reasons," he replied, grim-faced.

"True," Talass countered, "but Talat did more than turn her back on our father. She turned her back on our god."

"I thought she had repented."

"To regain the favored status as a priest or priestess of one's god takes more than repentance, Elrohir. It requires almost a cleansing of one's entire soul, and my little sister has a long way to go down that path. Plus, I'm not sure she even wants to. Her only concern right now is keeping her unborn child safe."

Elrohir pursed his lips together and turned his face away but Talass cradled his cheek with her palm and pushed it back to face her.

"Dearest," she said, more earnestly now. "Even if you don't have faith in the Justice Bringer, don't you at least have faith in _me? _Don't you believe that I will succeed in whatever task lies before me? Do you believe so little in my own ability?"

"It's not that," he argued. "What happens afterwards? What happens if Forseti imposes some new condition or new task upon you? You can't say that won't happen- he hasn't been honest or direct with you so far! Or what if your people still won't accept us? Just because they can't throw me in jail doesn't mean they can't make life miserable for us. They could still stay away from your church just to spite you for being my wife! What will the Justice Bringer do then- demand you divorce me?"

"Elrohir-"

"And what about Barahir?" he continued. The ranger's voice was rising higher than he wanted, but he couldn't help it. "Will our son ever be accepted there? He's only half-Fruztii! Will that be enough? Do you really want to put your own flesh and blood into such a situation?"

Talass was crying now.

"Dearest," she sobbed. "I _know_ that Forseti will provide for us! He would not ask this of me if he did not intend to do so, and he is the god of Truth! He is of the Aesir, headed by the very god you worship yourself!"

Elrohir held onto his wife until her tears had subsided. When he spoke again, his voice was low again in volume, but still hard in tone.

"Talass," he said. "I was raised in the elven faith, because that was all my mother's people knew. According to my mother, my father told her that if he ever were to have a son, he would want him raised in the Asgardian faith. It was only because she told me this that I sought out the Aesir after I left Samseed. I only worshipped the All-Father because my father did, and I wanted to respect his wishes!"

She looked at him, and he thought her eyes were going through him.

"Even to this day?" she asked.

"No," he admitted after a pause. "I came through so many dangerous encounters that I believed that Odin really was looking out for me. And then when I found the Asgardian faith here on Oerth-"

He hesitated.

"-when I found you," he went on, "I was sure I had made the right choice."

"So what happened?"

Elrohir sighed and sank back down on the bed, Talass still nestled close to him.

"Everything seemed to start falling apart about the time after Barahir was born. The Year of War & Peace, the battles against Iuz, and now everything that's happened this year." He swallowed hard. "And I can't help but feel that the worst is yet to come."

Talass kissed his chest.

"And if it does, we will rise above it, dearest," she murmured. "The next year will find us all together again, stronger than ever."

Elrohir closed his eyes, hugging his wife for all he was worth.

"I want to believe you, dearest. Oh, God, how I want to believe you."

_But I can't_, he thought as he turned over on his side. "Go to sleep, dearest. It's going to be a busy day tomorrow- for both of us."

_For both of us_, the thought intruded. _I'll never be able to use that phrase again._

* * *

Elrohir was not surprised that he had nightmares when he finally fell asleep. All he could remember later was a dead, skeletal hand reaching out for him.


	196. Goodbyes

**1****st**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Chendl, Furyondy**

Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Tojo, Cygnus, Zantac, Nesco, Sir Dorbin, Unru, Sir Menn, Sitdale and Talass waited in the midst of the crowds slowly being herded through the city's western gate.

It was perhaps an hour until sunset, and Elrohir could see the lengthening shadows of the men and horses just outside the outer portcullis; parties as eager to enter the city as the ranger was to leave it.

None of Elrohir's band was standing next to each other. The mass of people, many tending to horses or other animals as well, constantly jostling around all them were to a certain extent to blame. Only partially however, as Sir Dorbin was still standing in a tight knot with his three compatriots, talking quietly with Talass.

The major factor in the case of Elrohir's party was that each member was once again focusing their spare thoughts inward.

* * *

Argo was in an uncharacteristically foul mood.

It hadn't helped the big ranger's disposition that, as far as he was concerned, they were all facing the wrong way- both literally and figuratively.

The capital city of the kingdom boasted four gates, each aligned more or less with the cardinal points of the compass. If Argo had been intending to take a nice, leisurely, month-long stroll home, he would have left by the southern gate. The road from there led to the town of Worlende, by the banks of the Att River. Travel on or by that river southeastwards would eventually take Bigfellow to the independent city of Free Borough and from there, a well-paved road east-southeast all the way home.

To Caroline.

Of course, he had not intended any such journey. Argo was looking forward with undisguised anticipation at teleporting back to the Brass Dragon with Aslan, or Sir Dorbin, or whoever. The ranger wanted to be with his wife so badly it hurt. From what little Aslan had told Argo of what Dorbin had told _him, _there wasn't any time to lose.

And speaking of being separated from one's spouse…

The gist of why Talass was leaving them had been supplied to him and the others. Elrohir had given his version and Talass had supplied hers.

Not surprisingly, there were some discrepancies between the two.

Despite his deep friendship with Elrohir, Argo accepted Talass' version in terms of veracity simply because of who she was- a priestess of Truth. In terms of what action needed to be taken however, the big ranger thought that wasn't even a point worth debating. If Elrohir loved his wife as much as Argo loved his- and Argo was sure that he did- then Elrohir would follow her all the way back to Rhizia. Covertly, if necessary.

Damn the consequences, Argo had told his fellow ranger. Without that special someone to love, you might as well go for a nude swim in an Abyssal lake.

Elrohir however, had been firm to the point of curtness. He was going to let Talass go and wait for her message that all had gone well and it was safe to take Barahir and head northeast to join her.

"_You're going to trust in the gods over your own heart?" Argo had asked in disbelief. "You're insane if you do that!" _

"_Coming from a nut job like you, I'll take that as a compliment!" Elrohir had snapped back. "Deal with your own wife, Bigfellow. Don't tell me how to deal with mine!"_

And to make matters worse, mere minutes later as Argo had been stomping through the courtyard of the palace, he had suddenly been accosted by a rather regal-looking elf. Despite the top of his head not quite clearing Argo's chest, the elf, clearly a noble of some kind from his dress, had gazed up at Bigfellow as calmly as if they had stood eye-to-eye.

"I am Cerenellyl. I bring you a message," he had stated without preamble. "A party of three urgently wishes to meet with you at sunset this day. Meet them outside the western gate. They will be expecting you."

With that, Cerenellyl had turned around and strolled off, blithely ignoring the ranger's questions.

Bigfellow had had quite enough. He'd given the message to Elrohir and agreed to go with the others to meet these people, but there was no way in Hades Argo was going to wind up travelling anywhere but back home. No more distractions. There had already been too many, in his view.

* * *

Cygnus was feeling wretched.

Like Argo, the tall mage wanted nothing more than to get back to the Brass Dragon, and viewed their upcoming encounter with annoyance. Whoever these three people were, Cygnus was sure that they would request some kind of service from him and his friends. A service that would in all probability involve another lengthy journey of some kind.

Unlike Bigfellow however, for Cygnus the Brass Dragon was to be only a stopover. The Aardian wizard's ultimate destination was the Hidden Jewel within Welkwood.

Cygnus was going back for his son, and he had no intention of coming back to the inn with him.

He had not specifically told anyone else of this, although during a drinking session the previous night with Zantac, Cygnus had talked- and later mumbled- constantly about what a terrible father he had been and how he let first thoughts of revenge and later other concerns keep him from being there for his son.

"_Other concerns?" Zantac had repeated, the Willip Wizard's face screwed up with the effort to keep his concentration. "You mean like putting your own life on the line to protect your friends?" He shook his head. "Yeah, that sounds like you, Cygnus. Selfish to the core. Don't know why they put up with you."_

"_You don't lock your own son away in a box or send him to live with strangers just because you've got other things to do," Cygnus growled. "Other parents manage to raise their children just fine."_

"_First off," Zantac countered, holding up an unsteady finger, "you started off with a handicap you didn't antici- anti- you didn't expect. You didn't know what was going to happen. That he was going to be born… that way. No one but you could have recovered from that shock at all."_

_Cygnus took another swallow of Celene Ruby. "That was only because I spent more time thinking about how to kill Iuz than I did about Thorin, or even Hyzenthlay. I still think about it," he muttered darkly into his goblet._

"_Second," Zantac went on, holding up three fingers, "your friends gave you the time you needed while the elves gave your son the mind he needed. And what did you do then, huh? Huh? Did you tell this Alias, 'That's awright, you keep him?' No! You went back for him and then you did what every good father does."_

"_What's that?"_

"_The best you can." Zantac shrugged. "Then you pray like a madman it all works out."_

_Cygnus scowled. "But I didn't do the best I could have! That's the whole point! I should have taken Thorin and left as soon as I could have! Then at least I'd have been with him all this time!"_

"_Yeah?" his fellow mage challenged. "Well, thirdly-" Zantac blinked dully at his three raised fingers and lowered one, "well, secondly, what were you gonna tell Thorin when he looked up at you one day and asked, 'Father, why did you leave all your friends to die when you knew they were in danger?' Huh?"_

_Cygnus drained the rest of his goblet and slammed it down on the table as he got up. "I'm going to bed. I'm obviously not getting through to you. We're just going around in circles."_

"_We are?" Zantac queried and then nodded wearily in relief. "So that's why the room's spinning."_

Cygnus's eyes scanned the crowd until he caught side of Aslan. The wizard chewed his lip, thinking. Elrohir not being in a very receptive mood, Cygnus _had_ gone and told the paladin that there was a matter of great importance he had to tell the whole party once they had arrived home. He wondered if Aslan would guess what it was. Very possibly, especially considering that Cygnus had already started down this road once before. He only hoped that Aslan wouldn't start talking about it with the others before Cygnus could broach the subject himself.

The mage still had no idea of the words he was going to use. He also didn't know how he was going to be able to hide from all of them how much leaving them was truly going to hurt him. He had to, though. He didn't want them clamoring for him to change his mind.

Better if they all thought of him as callous, manipulating, and unfeeling. It would make the goodbyes easier.

The unfeeling Cygnus steadied himself against the interior gatehouse wall as he felt his eyes well up.

* * *

Aslan felt overwhelmed.

Although immune to normal sicknesses and disease, Aslan still felt as if a rampaging chariot had run him over. His muscles ached, and he felt as if he hadn't slept a wink last night. A pounding headache rounded out these physical delights.

He had actually slept, although it had taken a while. He'd come back from his audience with King Belvor deeply troubled, disrobed and lay down in his bed, trying to ignore the sounds of Elrohir and Talass making love in the next room over. Normally the paladin would have been delighted with the renewed filial affection that might imply, but in his current frame of mind the paladin was only irritated that the adjoining walls of their chambers weren't as thick as he had originally supposed.

He should have known. He should have seen it coming.

It had never occurred to Aslan that Nesco would resign from the Azure Order in order to stay with them, but in retrospect it made sense. Going off for months at a time as they were want to do made one unavailable to serve if the call to arms came in.

The king's request, he had to admit, was what he might have done in the same circumstances. The ironic thing was that Aslan would not have felt morally bound in the slightest if he had not been a paladin himself.

_Lord, we paladins can sure be a crafty lot when we want to._

It was stress and anxiety that was making him feel this way. Aslan knew that, although it gave him no relief. Just as it seemed things were going to start quieting down at last, they were heating up again. And not just to a boil, but to an explosion.

This circle of friends as he had known them was coming to an end.

The paladin recited the litany in his head again for the hundredth time.

Talass really was leaving them. That topped the list for several reasons. Firstly of course, because Talass was one of them. As Elrohir had told Nesco several weeks earlier, they were a tight-knit group, at ease- as much as they could ever be at ease- only with themselves. And now one of them was departing forever.

It was like watching an iceberg calve off from a glacier, knowing more were to follow.

Aslan knew he would miss Talass terribly. Although Elrohir and Cygnus also worshipped the Aesir, only Talass drew power directly from them via faith as Aslan did. Perhaps they had never shared deep, warm conversations together, but in its own way that special bond had strengthened their relationship. They had shared the same values of morality, justice and order.

Now the group would be fractured forevermore by this. Either Elrohir would leave them in a few months time to rejoin Talass, or he would be so heartbroken by what he felt was the desertion of his wife that he would never be the same. He might even take his son and leave the Brass Dragon anyway, just to escape the memory of Talass' presence there.

Then there was Cygnus and his upcoming announcement. Aslan was certain he knew what it was. Cygnus was going to collect Thorin and depart. Out of all of them, the tall mage had always been the least enthusiastic about returning from retirement. While he had seemed initially to Aslan to be uninvolved in Thorin's upbringing, that had been gradually changing over the course of this year. Aslan was glad of this, of course- as much for Cygnus as for Thorin- but it boded ill for the rest of them.

And what of Zantac? Would he remain if his best friend left the inn, or would he decide to return to Willip?

Then there was Yanigasawa Tojo. The more the party fractured, Aslan knew the more likely it was that the samurai would decide to resume his quest for the Pearls of Hamakahara. After all, it was only the bonds of friendship that held him here. Alone if need be, he would head out into a world not his own. A world that would never understand him.

Aslan didn't want that to happen, but now the paladin might not even have the option of accompanying him.

And then of course, there was Lady Nesco Cynewine.

Aslan massaged his temples as the throbbing in his temples grew worse.

Would her arrival help to avert or at least slow the departure of any of the others? They all were looking forward to her coming to live with them. Elrohir had requested it, with unanimous agreement.

But what if things didn't work out? Nesco would probably regret her decision- resent the sacrifices she had made. Not only her own honor, but the very Cynewine name had taken a blow to its reputation. The news had already spread through the castle like a plague.

And in some way that he couldn't- or perhaps wouldn't- understand, Aslan felt somehow responsible for that.

Pushing that thought aside, Aslan turned his mind to all the concerns that awaited his disintegrating group of companions.

The Emerald Serpent was as active as ever, and it seemed a certainty that they would make another attempt against the lives of Aslan and the others. He was sure they would be better prepared this time.

And what of Nodyath? Aslan could still remember the sight of his own eyes, familiar and yet utterly alien, staring out at him behind the visor of his counterpart's great helm.

He still wasn't certain what Nodyath's ultimate goals were, or if he had indeed parted company with the Emerald Serpent. That would be welcome news, but Aslan knew his own Talent well enough to know he would never be able to rest easy knowing that an enemy possessing the exact same ability was on his trail.

One of them, sooner or later, was going to have to either leave Oerth or die.

And now there was Sir Dorbin's latest news. Whatever it was, it boded ill and could only serve to make the Brass Dragon an even less inviting place to stay for a dysfunctional group of people like them to even try to stay together.

_Oh, yes,_ Aslan remembered. _And now there are those three people we're supposed to meet. They've undoubtedly heard of us and want to request a favor from us. From me, most likely. They probably need to get to someplace far way in a hurry and want to use my Talent as their pack mule._

But what if it was a legitimate, urgent appeal for a good cause? Could he really refuse?

_There are days,_ Aslan admitted to himself. _There are days..._

Without even realizing it, he had glanced over at Nesco.

* * *

Lady Cynewine, formerly of the Azure Order, wondered how she could still be alive.

Surely the misery and woe flowing through every vein in her body like diseased blood would kill her; stop her heart, shut down her brain, cease the suffering.

It wasn't fair.

She had always envisioned this moment as a happy one.

And yet, she had to concede that the actual logistics of telling everybody when and why she was leaving Chendl forever had kind of been skipped over in her mind. Then the moment had come upon her unexpectedly, like a troll lurking around the next dungeon corridor, and there was no time for careful considerations. It was fight or flight.

In her mind, Nesco was definitely fleeing.

And she had never even gotten around to explaining the _why. _Sometimes she felt as if she didn't know herself.

The worst part had been her brief trip back home to retrieve her things early this morning.

_Nesco knew she was never coming back the moment Jeffers had opened the front door of the Cynewine mansion and she had stepped through into the foyer. The manservant's eyes told Nesco in a moment that he knew fully what was going on. There was sadness there, but no disapproval at all._

_Lady Cynewine's hug was half-embrace, half-sob and totally inappropriate for a noblewoman, but she didn't care._

_Neither apparently did Jeffers, although he retained his stiff demeanor even while patting Nesco's shoulder._

"_There, there, miliddy," the butler intoned softly as he straightened her up. "I have tikken the liberty of packing your things for you. They lie in a rucksack in your room. Do forgive my presumption, but I thought you would-"_

"_Jeffers!" Gella yelled from the parlor. "Take Lencon into the kitchen and have him eat lunch in there! Stay with him!"_

"_Yes, miliddy!" Jeffers replied, giving Nesco a final almost-smile before turning and heading down the corridor. Nesco followed._

_Her mother was, not unsurprisingly, lying on the divan. She had a fan unfolded in one hand, but wasn't even bothering to use it. Her grey eyes had lain in wait for Nesco to appear and now they attacked, fastening themselves on her daughter's face with the full force of her cold fury._

_Nesco had of course, expected this, and returned her gaze with one of equal fervor- or at least she hoped it was. Thoughts of rapprochement with her mother were long gone. She cast a glance towards the kitchen door just in time to see the miserable and terrified face of her youngest brother disappear as Jeffers pulled him backwards and closed the door._

_Grief at being refused a proper good-bye with Lencon fueled Nesco's fire._

"_I'm just here for my things, Mother. I won't sully your home any longer than necessary."_

_She headed towards the staircase leading upstairs when Lady Gella's voice hit her in the back._

"_It's not the house that's been besmirched, Nesco. It's our name."_

_Nesco whirled around, but the retort died on her lips. Her mother stood up now, keeping her gaze attack going._

"_That family name your grandfather did such great deeds to acquire, and cherished and nurtured for half a century since then. All of it now trampled underfoot by an ungrateful child. Why, Nesco? Why?"_

_The ranger felt like she was turning to stone under that gaze. She could only mutter, "You're exaggerating, Mother."_

"_Perhaps it seems so to you Nesco, but then you have other concerns to occupy your mind, don't you? You aren't going to stick around and live among the debris of everything that you've wrecked."_

_She wanted to strike back, but Nesco's throat closed up on her. The noise she made sounded disgustingly like a whimper to her as she turned and ran up the staircase._

_She was already crying by the time she made the top landing._

_Sheer effort of will kept the ranger going as she lurched towards her bedroom. Joseph apparently wasn't at home- he'd have joined in the attack by now if he had been. Nesco was glad for his absence, but there also seemed to be no sign of Grimdegn. She'd never get to say good-bye to him either, and that thought touched off a renewed sob, which she choked off only with great difficulty. She pushed open the door of her room with a shove._

_Nesco's father was waiting inside for her._

* * *

_Sir Alexor Cynewine glanced up from the bulging rucksack lying on Nesco's bed to regard his daughter. It wasn't an easy face to read that the retired knight showed his daughter._

_Nesco just stood there. She was no longer crying, but she knew her father could see the tear tracks on her face. He'd probably heard the confrontation below._

_Sir Alexor dropped his gaze to the bed again._

"_It seems you're ready to leave."_

"_Yes, Father."_

_It seemed ages until Nesco could get even those two words out, but time was slowing to an agonizing crawl for the ranger. All the pain and guilt and shame was burrowing into her and waiting for time to stop completely so they could lay in her heart forever._

_The head of House Cynewine cleared his throat and looked back up to eye his daughter._

"_I warned you to be careful, Nesco."_

_She didn't understand what he was talking about, but Alexor's next question struck Nesco like a thunderbolt and made everything all too clear._

"_Which one of them is it, Nesco? Which one of them has stolen your heart?"_

_Time stopped completely._

_Nesco suddenly realized that she was no longer breathing. She inhaled with considerable effort, but her mouth and throat had gone dry and she coughed with the effort._

_Sir Alexor waited until Nesco looked back at him and then continued._

"_Is it the wizard? The tall one?" He snapped his fingers. "I don't remember his name, but I saw the way he looked at you."_

"_No," Nesco croaked out, but she could see in her father's expression that he took this as a blanked denial of his earlier question, and looked pityingly at her._

"_I was once young Nesco, and not so long ago, either," he said. "Do you think me so blind?"_

_The ranger was about to sidestep this as she always did, but before she could do so, The Truth leapt out of her._

_Nesco couldn't help it. She'd never intended her father to be the first one to know. Yes, there were others who knew or at least suspected- Argo, the late Hengist and who knows who else, but she simply hadn't said anything to them. She wished Helgin was still alive. She could have talked to him. But now two small words were leaking out on their own._

"_The paladin."_

_Sir Alexor's eyebrows rose. "Aslan?"_

_Nesco nodded mutely, then looked down, too ashamed to meet her father's eyes any longer._

_She was aware of her father taking a few small steps toward her._

"_Does he know?" he asked, though the inflection in his voice showed he already knew the answer._

_Unable to speak, Nesco shook her head. The tears were starting up yet again._

_The knight sighed deeply. Nesco looked up. Her vision was clouded by tears again, but she saw Alexor place his hand over his eyes for a moment before withdrawing it and looking back at his daughter._

_There was reproach there, to be sure. There was disappointment. But there was also sadness._

"_You've burned your bridges behind you in the worst possible way, Nesco. Why didn't you tell Aslan earlier how you felt?"_

"_Because," she said softly, simply and truthfully, "I was afraid."_

"_And now the rest of your life rides on a faint hope that he will return your affection?" her father replied, trying but unable to keep anger from seeping into his voice. "Is this the creed of your god Zeus? And what of me? Have I taught you nothing?"_

_Not knowing where her courage came from, or indeed if it was indeed courage or just a false and foolish pride, Nesco wiped her eyes clear, stood up tall and faced her father squarely. Words as strong and formal as she could make them began to flow._

"_You have taught me all that is good, noble and worthy, father. For the shame I have brought upon our family, I am sorry. I hope one day you can forgive me, even if that day does not come until long after I am gone. I have no one to blame for my situation except myself and so I shoulder that burden willingly. If it transpires that Aslan does not feel as I do, then I will cross that bridge. The ones before me are as yet unburnt. Just know that I shall love and honor you always, even if I have lost your favor."_

_Nesco stood, trembling, her energy spent._

_Now she could see the brightness in his eyes. The same as hers- green with a touch of hazel. He walked the remaining few steps until he stood directly before her._

"_You will always be my daughter, Nessie."_

* * *

The memory of that final embrace with her father brought even more tears to Nesco's eyes and pain to her heart, and yet it also carried the memory that despite all that she had done that wounded him, the great Sir Alexor would never abandon his oldest daughter in his heart.

And that did help some.

Someone tapped Nesco on the shoulder from behind.

"Lady Cynewine."

She spun around to stare into the face of a palace guard.

More anxiety set in at once. She had surely done something else wrong. Why else would they send someone from the palace after her? If it was to only deliver a message, they would have used Comitello. Was she due for still more censure, more torment, more-

Then she recognized the man.

Eyes the green of olives stared at her from a bronzed, almost golden face. A strand of black hair peeked from underneath the guard's chainmail coif, and when he smiled the skin on his cheeks stretched the faint scar that ran alongside the right one.

"Plisken!" Nesco gasped, relieved at not only the sight of her brother-in-law, but even more by the fact that he was obviously pleased to have found her.

"I'm glad I caught you, Nesco," the guard said, grasping the ranger's shaking hand and giving it a warm squeeze. He was about to say more when a thought clicked in Nesco's mind and she began scanning the crowd around him. Determining Nesco's idea, Plisken said only, "Yes, she's here," and turned around.

Slipping through the mob just behind them as adroitly as a pickpocket looking to approach a mark was the slender figure of Nesco's sister, Bretagne.

A smile appeared on that narrow face seemingly too thin to hold such a wide grin.

And yet those grey eyes looked so sad.

"Nessie! Oh Nessie!" she half-squealed, half-sobbed as she flung herself into her older sister's arms. They clung tightly together for some time. Even though Nesco had hoped against hope that Bretagne, whom she had always been close to, would not abandon her, the ranger had deemed it too risky to attempt a visit to their home. As it was, it had been almost a whole year since they had seen each other.

Nesco looked back towards Plisken as she separated from Bretagne. "Aren't you on duty now?"

The guard nodded. "I'm having friends cover my post, but I'd best not stretch my luck. "Honeysweet, I'll see you later," he said, giving his wife a quick peck on the cheek as he turned to leave. "Nesco, just know that Bretagne speaks for me as well. You've always been kind to us and if we can help in any way, let us know." Then he was gone, using his uniform to part the crowd as he headed back towards the inner gate.

Nesco turned back to her sister. Bretagne was wearing a simple velvet gown in her favorite color, silver. It had several layers to it, including a fairly wide ruffled skirt, but Bretagne still managed to look slender in it. No doubt the fact that she was a good thirty pounds lighter than Nesco despite being almost the same height had something to do with it.

"Listen, Nessie," Bretagne began, her voice nervous and her eyes darting around the crowd. "The whole palace is abuzz. First there was that incredible mission you completed for the Crown, and then I heard you were about to be knighted for it and then the next thing I know everyone says you've resigned your commission!"

The ranger nodded soberly. "In summary,that's about the case, Bree. I'm sorry, I wish I had time to tell you the whole story-"

"Hush." The twenty year-old held up a disarming hand. "You don't have to explain, Nessie. I know you, and I know you haven't taken leave of your senses. At least, not any more than you usually do," she finished with a wan but sly smile while shoving Nesco's shoulder.

"Gee. Thanks a lot," Nesco responded, playing the old game and returning Bretagne's shove.

"I just came from the house," Bretagne confided, trying to keep her tone low enough not to be overheard but yet loud enough for Nesco to hear her over the din of the crowd. "Mother of course is apoplectic, but what else is new?" She rolled her eyes heavenward. "Father wouldn't say much. I know he's hurt, but he won't speak a word against you." Her face assumed a conspiratorial expression as she leaned in closer. "It _has_ to be a man. Tell me I'm right, Nessie."

Nesco hesitated. She wanted to confide in Bretagne. Indeed, the thought of sharing her Dark Secret with someone else no longer seemed the impossibility it once had now that it had leaked out of her once already, but she was still terrified that it might get back to Aslan before they had even left Chendl. And this was definitely not the place for it.

"I can't give you any details here, Bree. I'll send you a post as soon as I can."

The youngest Cynewine daughter nodded in glum acquiesce, but her eyes held a spark of satisfaction that she had divined the truth. "Don't let anyone stop you, Nessie. Mother tried with me and Plisken, and see where that got her? You've got to take care of yourself first."

"I will," Nesco replied, not quite sure if that was the truth or not. "Where are our brothers? Mother wouldn't let me say good-bye to Lencon."

Bretagne scowled at the ranger's words. "Can't say I'm surprised. Whenever Lencon's home, she keeps him on a very short leash- won't hardly let him out of her sight. Well, guess what? All three of them left a few hours ago. Their Order unit is heading back to the Vesve. Plisken said they were heading for either Laurellinn or Ironstead. Scuttle is that the orcs and goblins are pressing the Forest Road something fierce."

Nesco tried to swallow but couldn't. Joseph, somewhere between foolhardy and stupid, was bound to jump into the first possibility of combat that presented itself. Especially now. He'd be bound and determined to repair the stain his "traitorous" eldest sister had left on the Cynewine name. Nesco cursed silently. While she despised Joseph wholeheartedly, she didn't want him getting hurt and she _certainly_ didn't want him getting killed. Resurrection was far beyond the means of the Cynewine household.

Grimdegn was still the squire to Sir Juntaros. Perhaps one of several; Nesco had forgotten. He'd look after the teenager. Nesco knew that, but there were still no guarantees. Plenty of squires never lived to see knighthood, dying alongside their masters.

And Lencon? Little Lencon? One of the many pages that attended to both the knights and their squires; out in the Vesve?

It suddenly occurred to Nesco that if she were now a Knight of the Azure Order of The Hart, she'd probably be out with her siblings now. Able to protect them.

And then it occurred to her that Gella knew where all three of her surviving sons were heading.

_My god. What must that feel like? They're my brothers, but they're her sons! And then the news about me!_

Silently, Nesco Cynewine partitioned a portion of her heart to forgive her mother. She looked up to see a sober expression on Bretagne's face that she knew must mirror her own.

"Take care of yourself first, Nessie," she repeated, giving her sister a quick kiss on the cheek and then shoving her shoulder one last time. "And try not to-"

Bretagne's voice suddenly broke, and her grey eyes shove silver with their unexpected load of tears.

"Try not to get killed again, okay?" she eventually finished, although the earlier trace of humor was long gone.

Nesco shoved her sister's shoulder again.

"Sound tactical advice. Now I know why you never took up the sword."

Bretagne smiled shakily and then turned and walked hurriedly away. Nesco couldn't hear her cry, but the puzzled faces on the commoners who turned their faces to watch the young noblewoman quickly dash by told Nesco the truth.

* * *

"At last!" Elrohir exclaimed, thoroughly irritated.

The twelve of them had finally been able to exit the outer gate and extract themselves from the throng waiting patiently- and in some cases not-so patiently- to be interrogated by the gate guards and pay the one copper common fee to enter the city.

The Royal Highway stretched as far as the eye could see towards the west. A good thirty feet wide, it was paved uncommonly well. Furyondy boasted one of the best road networks in the Flanaess, and the Royal Highway, being one of the kingdom's major trade routes, was perhaps the one best maintained, even in winter.

By unspoken agreement, the dozen moved aside to stand against the thirty foot-high smooth stone walls that surrounded the city.

At least, eleven of them did.

Holding the bridle of her new light warhorse tightly, Talass stood about twenty feet away. The priestess was clad in a simple traveler's outfit; leather boots, a woolen skirt, a silk blouse with overlying leather vest and a hooded cloak, all in shades of dark grey or brown. She looked at her closest friends with a sadness that suggested that she shared everyone's worst unspoken dread.

This was it. This was goodbye.

* * *

Zantac looked around at the others, then shrugged and walked up to Talass.

The Willip wizard was wearing brand new bright red robes, now accented with an orange chapeau, apparently in homage to Unru's headgear, although the illusionist's _hat of disguise _currently looked like the black twin to Aslan's new hat.

Talass grasped Zantac's hand and holding it up between them, planted a small kiss upon it.

"Goodbye, Zantac," she said, trying to smile. "Thank you for everything."

The magic-user did not return the smile. "I wanted to make it up to you, Talass," he mumbled.

She looked at him curiously.

"That overgrown stalagmite; remember?" Zantac explained. "It made me attack you. I swore to myself that I would make it up to you. I never got the chance."

"Zantac," Talass said, her face carefully neutral. "Elrohir and I would not be here today if not for you. You were the one who dispatched that monster on the ledge. We never could have made the jump otherwise."

"But," Zantac protested, squirming with actually having to say the dread words. "But- you died."

Now Talass really did smile. She released Zantac's hand and pulled out her silver representation of a bearded man that hung on a chain around her neck.

"With enough faith, even death need not be the end. Remember that, Zantac. Have faith. You may need it."

Now it was the wizard's turn to look curious.

"I suspect difficult times lie ahead for all of them, retirement or no," the cleric explained, her light blue eyes gazing over the mage's shoulder at the knot of people standing by the city walls before returning her gaze to Zantac. "Even more so than for me. Promise me you'll stay with them, Zantac. Be there for Cygnus. Be there for all of them."

Zantac stared at Talass for a moment and then gave a small but gallant bow.

"I promise, Talass. I'll consider that the true payment of my debt," he said solemnly. Then, on an afterthought, the wizard shrugged.

"Besides, _someone_ has to teach these poor people some fashion sense."

Talass laughed out loud despite herself and gave Zantac a quick hug before the wizard returned to his fellows, passing Lady Cynewine coming forward.

"Nesco," Talass took the initiative as she greeted the ranger with a quick hug. "I'm so sorry. When Elrohir gave you our offer, it never occurred to me that you would have to sacrifice so much for us."

"Sacrifice? Who along among us knows the real meaning of that word?" Nesco asked her, a wry but sad smile on her lips.

"Don't belittle yourself," the priestess chided. "My decision seems to loom so large to you all only because you haven't experienced what I did."

For a moment, Talass' eyes seemed to mist up with a faraway look before she refocused them to regard the ranger.

"My god will take care of me. I grieve at what I have to do, but I'm not afraid. And I admit I am glad you're going back with the others to the Brass Dragon."

"I wish you were coming back as well." Nesco couldn't help but speak her heart.

Talass nodded. "I know. I do too, but my path is set. Thank you for everything you've done for us, Nesco. I will miss you as a good and true friend."

The two women exchanged a few more words of parting, hugged briefly, and then Nesco returned to the others. Seeing her returning, Argo Bigfellow Junior took a deep breath and approached the cleric.

"Well, my good lady," the big ranger offered. "I guess this is it."

Talass frowned slightly. She had expected more.

"Don't I get a good-bye hug?" she ventured.

Bigfellow bit his lip, his expression serious. "You know I always believe in speaking my mind."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," replied Talass.

Argo glanced sharply at her, but seeing the smile on Talass' face broke his own resolve and the ranger smiled back, although sadness quickly infused his grin.

"Elrohir doesn't think he's ever going to hear from you again, much less see you. He won't say it, but I know he feels you're abandoning both him and your son."

"I know," Talass replied wearily, "but my future has been laid out before me."

"Only if you wish it to be," Argo responded quietly. "Assuming Forseti hasn't _charmed_ you, you're free to make your own decisions, and I know you don't really want to go. Sure," he shrugged. "I don't want you to go either. Now I've only got Aslan to annoy, but what I want doesn't and shouldn't factor into this. Only what you want."

"Argo," said Talass, eyeing the big ranger firmly. "Haven't you ever done something you _had_ to do instead of something you _wanted_ to do?"

Bigfellow folded his arms across his chest.

"No."

Talass took a step towards him. "Speaking as a Priestess of Truth, I find that hard to believe. You're too good a person for that."

"My good lady, I have always arranged things so that the thing I wanted to do _was_ the good thing to do."

"Arrangements don't always work out, Argo," she said quietly.

The two stared at each other for a moment and then, with his famous pained smile, Argo embraced her.

"Thank you for being there for me when I needed it," Talass whispered into his shoulder.

Argo knew what she was referring to. That time in the stockade, after Elrohir had been petrified and it looked like all hope was lost.

"And thank you for being there for me," he whispered back. "You've been a true friend, Talass."

They pulled back. "Come and visit Elrohir and me after we've settled down in Rhizia," she said, wiping her tears away.

Argo couldn't even hide the skepticism on his face, but the ranger nodded and backed off, allowing Cygnus to come forward.

"Elrohir owes his life to many people, Cygnus," she told the tall mage, "but no one sacrificed more than you did. Keeping your _telekinesis_ on him as long as you did allowed you to save him, but only at the cost of being struck by Lamonsten's _fireball_. You might well have died."

Cygnus shrugged. "You would have done the same for us." Then he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the cleric. "You know, I think we're more alike than either of us might have guessed. We're both willing to do whatever has to be done, no matter what the consequences."

Talass looked back at him in kind. "I have a god to back me up, Cygnus. Whom do you have?"

"Unlike Elrohir, I haven't lost faith, Talass. I still put my trust in the All-Father."

She walked up to the wizard and clasped his arm.

"Then listen to him, Cygnus. All actions have consequences, even for gods. Lord Odin knows this. Remember the tales. I know how badly you want to protect Thorin-"

"I want to protect my son, Talass," Cygnus interrupted, "but that's only half the story." His mouth settled in a tight line. "I also want to _be_ with my son."

The priestess removed her hand and glanced down at the grass beneath their feet.

"I know, Cygnus. And I want to be with mine. It's been so long…"

The mage waited until she had composed herself and looked back up at him.

"You will find what you seek, Cygnus, but let your friends help you in your search." She stood up on tip-toe and planted a kiss on his cheek, the wizard obligingly bending down to make it possible.

"Goodbye, Talass," he said softly.

"Goodbye, Cygnus. Until we meet again."

Cygnus retreated. He saw Tojo visibly hesitate before coming forward.

Before Talass could say anything to the samurai, he stopped, somewhat further away than the others had stood.

And then he bowed. Long, low and deep.

"_Domo arigato gozaimos, Tarass-sama,"_ Tojo said, unable to hide the tremor in his voice completely. "You show me right, Tarass, where I think there be onry darkness."

"I will pray for you, Tojo-sama," the cleric replied. "I will pray you find honor and I will pray even harder that you will find happiness."

The samurai lifted an eyebrow at that, but said nothing.

"Tad knew you, Tojo," Talass said in a small voice. "He knew how big your heart really is. How much you can offer others; not just as a samurai, but as a man."

She smiled. "Take the best of both worlds, Tojo. I think you know how to do that by now."

So slowly she wasn't sure it was going to happen, Tojo smiled back and then bowed again.

Talass returned the bow. When she stood upright again, Tojo was retreating and Aslan advancing.

Without a word, they embraced.

"Take care of them, Aslan," she said, with almost a note of pleading in her voice.

"Nothing will happen to them as long as I'm around, Talass," the paladin replied softly as they pulled back, "but there may be complications. I had an audience with the king last night and-"

"I can take a guess," Talass cut across him, and by the expression in Aslan's eyes, she knew that she had guessed right. "Is there a specific date?"

"No." Aslan shook his head. "But anytime in the near future will be a bad time, I fear."

The priestess nodded soberly in acknowledgement. "Still, you may be able to turn it to your advantage."

"How?"

She shrugged. "Contacts. You'll have a position of influence you didn't have before. Wheel and deal. You can do it if you have to."

Aslan grunted. "That's more Argo's forte. I'm not very comfortable bartering favors."

Talass smiling. "And yet you've done it more than anyone these past few weeks. Getting us what we needed."

"Yeah," the paladin groused. "Buy now and pay later. Unfortunately, it looks like _later_ is coming sooner than later."

"I have faith in you, Aslan," Talass reminded him, "and so does the High One."

Aslan nodded and gave a tight-lipped smile before asking, "How are you planning on getting home?"

The cleric looked instinctively towards the northeast before replying. "I'll take the Royal Highway east to Grabford and take a boat down the Veng to the Shield Lands. From there, I'll head northeast towards the Duchy of Tenh; either by way of the Artonsamay or overland- I'm not sure yet. From there it's just a quick hop over the Rakers and I'm home."

"That's got to be over a thousand leagues," the paladin stated, before trying, not for the first time, a different approach. "Are you sure you just won't let me _teleport_ you home? I worship the Aesir as well! I'm sure they wouldn't-"

But Talass cut him off. "You're a known friend of Elrohir, Aslan. I can't risk having my arrival start off on the wrong foot. Besides, I think the Justice Bringer wants me to head home on my own. Perhaps he feels the journey will cleanse me; prepare me for what lies ahead."

"And what does lay ahead, Talass?"

She sighed and gave him a weak smile.

"That, even I don't know. But Forseti has given me another sign."

Rather than elaborating, Talass suddenly hugged him again. "May all the blessings of the Aesir be upon you, Aslan."

The paladin wanted to reply but suddenly words failed him.

But apparently, none were needed. For an instant, it seemed to Aslan as if Talass wanted very much to tell him something more, but then the priestess shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Aslan returned to the others. Now everyone was looking at Elrohir.

* * *

Each step a mile, the ranger approached his wife. Eventually, they stood facing each other.

It seemed to Elrohir that he was looking at someone different now.

"We will be together again soon, dearest," Talass urged him. "Please, don't let our parting be like this."

"What about Barahir?" Elrohir asked in a calm, cold voice. "Are you going to leave without even saying goodbye to your son?"

Talass' eyes filled with tears.

"I can't," she said tremulously. "I'd never be able to face him and then leave."

"I should have Aslan go and bring him here then," Elrohir countered.

His wife looked as if he had struck her.

"Why are you like this, dearest?" she cried. "Have I not done everything to explain to you how I must-"

"-and yet your decision not to see your son before you go is based on what _you_ want, not what your god wants, Talass!" he shot back. "Yet with your own husband, divine rule must prevail?"

Talass actually leaned against the flank of her horse to support herself. She buried her face in the animal's mane and wept.

Elrohir turned around. Argo Bigfellow had come up behind him.

"I know you love her," he said, quietly enough so that Talass could not hear.

"Be quiet," snapped back Elrohir, his eyes not leaving his wife.

"Go with her," the big ranger pressed on, undaunted. "If she says no, then follow her. The Fruztii are no match for you now, anyway. _Make_ them accept you. Damn the gods and _make_ your own future! If your true love slips away, you won't find another!"

"I can make them accept me," Elrohir replied tersely, "but they'll never accept Talass as High Priestess with me around causing trouble. I know Talass will succeed in her task and be appointed."

"And then?" Argo hissed. "If she calls for you, will you come, or will you let this wound that you inflict upon yourself cripple you forever?"

Elrohir waved him off angrily, then called out, "Talass!"

She turned her face, wet now with tears towards him.

* * *

He didn't know what to say. Always, Elrohir didn't know what to say.

He knew what he wanted to say. There were a thousand things he wanted to say.

Yes, he wanted to rage at her. He wanted to tell her not to do this. Tell her to abandon her god in order to stay with her family. Tell her that she had already sacrificed enough; her very life. If he, Elrohir, could retire from his chosen profession, then so could she.

And in the same breath, he also wanted to tell her how much he loved her. Despite all the frustrations and hard times they had suffered together, they had loved each other; enough to produce a son they both loved dearly. Flesh of their flesh. Loved enough to plan a future. A future together.

Talass waited.

"Send word," Elrohir said, then turned around and walked away.

By the time he had reached the others and turned around, his wife had mounted her horse and was riding off, heading northwards along the city wall. He knew she would turn right at the corner guard tower and soon be lost to sight. Even as the ranger watched, he saw her urge her horse from a cantor into a gallop.

Then she was gone.

And as always, Elrohir found the right words too late.

"Goodbye, dearest."


	197. The Enemy Revealed

**1****st**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Chendl, Furyondy**

Elrohir abruptly rounded on Sir Dorbin.

"I don't want to wait days until we're all together back at the Brass Dragon, Dorbin. Tell us this news of yours now."

The knight seemed startled by this sudden change of subject, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Monsrek is more knowledgeable about this affair than I, Elrohir. He would be better-"

"_I said now!"_

Sir Dorbin took a deep breath and seemed to wait until the last remnants of the ranger's shout had faded. Then, he slowly nodded, his expression grim.

"Very well, Elrohir. As you insist. Your problem," he paused, "is Kar-Vermin."

* * *

It seemed almost to Zantac and Nesco as if a rippling in the air passed outwards from Dorbin and spread outwards in a wave through all of them at the mention of the name. It was as if Talass had used her _invisibility purge_ prayer. There was no actual ripple of course, but they saw the faces of Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Cygnus and even Tojo tense up.

The five men struggled to keep their composure. Tojo quickly reassumed his usual passive demeanor, but Cygnus' face went pale and stayed that way. Argo bit his lip and clenched his fists, looking northward as if Talass might have somehow heard and would return to help them. Aslan closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if searching for some reservoir of inner strength. Only Elrohir remained absolutely motionless, as if he had been petrified once more. Eventually, a hoarse fragment of his voice trickled out.

"Explain."

Sir Dorbin told them all that he knew of Caroline's terrible dream, emphasizing that his information came from what Monsrek had told him and not Caroline directly, so some details might be lacking.

"Thus," the knight finished, "I took Caroline with me to the Castle Chauv, although she should be back at the inn by now and awaiting you."

There was a moment's further silence and then Cygnus spoke up with a question, but the mage's own tone betrayed him, telling the others that he already knew the answer.

"Is there any chance that this might have been merely a nightmare?"

"None," replied Dorbin flatly. He then proceeded to tell them about his experience with Perlial and White Lightning in the stable.

"Not let you see," Aslan muttered, glancing over to Elrohir, who returned his friend's look with a knowing, if unenthusiastic, nod.

"Have the horses reported any other episodes since that night?" asked Cygnus."

Sir Dorbin shook his head. Argo now spoke for the first time.

"Give me the last part of that speech again, good sir knight. The one supposedly from the Lord of The Second."

Dorbin recited it again.

_Let thirty generations pass from home. Every vestige must suffer at least a while._

_The hair of his children. A reminder of the pain of ungrateful offspring- of any species._

_The soul shell of a servant. What is a ceremony without a feast?_

_The blood of his slayers, for he himself has only dust to offer._

_The eye of a descendant, so that he may see clearly what he has wrought._

_Memories among the stones, so no sin be forgotten._

_The power behind his mirror, for his reflection already rests here with us._

_And the soul itself, born again into the Joy of the twice-damned._

"Sounds like an assemblage of foci for a conjuration ritual," Zantac mused.

Sitdale, who had been quietly standing off to the side with Unru and Sir Menn, now cleared his throat.

"Months ago, Flond mentioned sympathetic magic," the half-elf reminded them. "When we were discussing why Nodyath had stolen hair from your horses."

"The hair of his children," Cygnus murmured.

"The soul shell of a servant," Argo suddenly announced.

The others looked at the big ranger, but Bigfellow was seeing only the expression on Scurvy John's face. Horror beyond imagining.

"It's a ritual, all right," Elrohir stated. The ranger's face had contorted into a fierce snarl, like that of some great hunting cat about to spring.

"They're planning on bringing him back."

* * *

There was more silence.

"But," Sitdale asked, almost timidly, "isn't that impossible? You destroyed this Kar-Vermin, by your own account! He couldn't possibly return yet again!"

"Monsrek was talking about something he called a phylactery," Sir Dorbin offered, directing his gaze at Cygnus and Zantac.

The former nodded. "It's a small metal box, containing unholy, profane incantations of the darkest sort. The lich wears it on his forehead. It's held in place by a cloth that wraps from the head to around the arm. I remember seeing it on Vermin."

"Interesting. I'd heard different descriptions of it," commented Unru, who then shrugged. "Perhaps it's unique to each lich."

"Caroline could not remember, but perhaps you can," Dorbin pressed on. "Was Kar-Vermin wearing this phylactery when you slew him?"

Elrohir, Aslan, Argo, Cygnus and Tojo all looked at one another. They silently sought confirmation of their own memories in each other's eyes before Cygnus very softly finally spoke one word.

"No."

"But how can that be?" Zantac demanded. "From what I know- and admittedly, it's not much- a lich must keep his phylactery on him at all times! It contains his very life essence! He can't exist without it!"

"So I'd heard," Cygnus muttered. When the mage looked over to his friends, they were surprised to see an expression of shame on his face.

"I never even thought about its absence. I was so overjoyed that we'd defeated him once and for all, I never even…"

"Don't blame yourself, Cygnus," Aslan said quietly. "We all shared the same wild abandon you did on our victory. There was never any reason to think that it wasn't the last time we'd ever see that monster."

Sitdale shook his head, looking stubborn. "I've got to say, I've never heard of such a thing as you're proposing. Phylactery or no, you destroyed his body after you slew him- that much I was told. I've never heard of a lich coming back from that!"

"How much do you know about liches?" Argo asked him. Rather coldly, Elrohir thought.

The half-elf was forced to shrug. "Not much." Then he added with a guilty smile. "I never visited an arcane library or joined a Wizard's Guild."

"Neither did I," put in Cygnus.

"Our Guild has a small library," Zantac started, but his fellow magic-user cut him off.

"I know. You keep telling us how useful it us."

"It helped a fair bit when we were researching the Pearls!" Zantac huffed back. "Now admittedly, I've never searched it for information about liches. There might be something there, but the old expression is _When you cannot find the Arcane Talk, you must go to The Greyhawk. _Their lore of arcana is second to none, but I've heard it's very difficult to get at. Their Guild is very selective about to who they grant access to."

"Perhaps here in Chendl?" Nesco suggested. "Karzalin might know, or at least be able to direct us to someone who does."

"I doubt we'd get an audience. I suspect our reputation here is no longer as esteemed as it was yesterday," Aslan said, tilting his head towards the western gate. "It seems we're viewed as corrupters of the Azure Order."

Nesco opened her mouth to protest but the paladin cut her off. "Don't, Lady Cynewine. "None of each here would have acted any differently, even if we'd known beforehand." Aslan looked at his friends for confirmation and Nesco was relieved to find it on every face. She decided to drop the matter.

Elrohir walked several paces, seemingly lost in thought.

"So this is what was behind that feeling I've had ever since the New Year," the team leader said, seemingly to himself. The ranger looked again at his friends, who nodded in unspoken understanding.

"Dreams and bad feelings," mumbled Cygnus.

"A task reft undone," said Tojo.

"Chic's spider," proclaimed Aslan.

The others looked curiously at the paladin.

"He was referring to Kar-Vermin; I'm sure of it," Aslan continued determinedly.

"How would Chic know of him?" asked Zantac.

"Chic was a telepath," Aslan reminded the wizard. "I'm guessing he picked it from Nodyath's mind."

"Which only leads to more unanswered questions." Elrohir frowned as he considered this. "How did Nodyath become involved in all this?"

Argo held up a hand. "Methinks we're trying to trace this from the wrong end. Let's go back to Caroline's dream and that message she heard."

"Yes. Who is this 'Lord of the Second,' anyway?" Nesco asked curiously.

"Dispater. An archdevil of Baator," Elrohir said quietly.

Lady Cynewine felt her blood turn to ice water in her veins.

"I'm sorry I asked," she muttered with a sickly smile.

"According to what my father told my mother, Kar-Vermin was beholden to Dispater from the moment of his transformation into a lich, if not before," Elrohir spoke to the company at large. "I don't know the details, but mere death- no matter how many times- wouldn't release one from that kind of servitude. It's a diabolic agency that's seeking to restore Vermin; of that I'm certain."

"But Lady Bigfellow actually _saw_ him," Sir Dorbin put in.

Cygnus' brow furrowed with concentration. "He hasn't actually come back yet. If he had, we'd know. Yet his soul clearly still exists in some fashion or another, and with enough reality to traumatize the horses and nearly kill poor Caroline."

"Assembled under the auspices of their Most Dread and Awful Presence," Unru mused, repeating a line from the message. The illusionist heard two sharp intakes of breath and glanced over to see Zantac and Nesco both staring wide-eyed at him.

"The Horned Society." Nesco was the first to speak.

"I've heard that name," Aslan frowned. "Cheriken mentioned it on the elven ship. That's the lands to the north of here, right?"

Zantac nodded. "When Iuz the Old vanished in 505, many of his former followers left his empire to set up their own fiefdom nearby. Many of them took to worshipping The Reaper, but other were devout devil-worshippers and remain so to this day. The Hierarchs, their leaders, are often referred to as _Dread and Awful Presences." _He shook his head dolefully. "If anyone could pull off this terrible ritual, it'd be them._"_

Tojo grunted in satisfaction. "Chain begins to take shape. Dispater task Hierarchs. They emproy Nodyath."

"I'm afraid you're leaving out an important link in that chain, Tojo-sama," said Argo, causing the samurai to raise an eyebrow. Bigfellow's next words were addressed not only to Tojo, but to the company at large.

"The Emerald Serpent."

"You think they're involved?" asked Elrohir. "Why would they be?"

"It actually makes sense, Elrohir, in an awful sort of way," Zantac chipped in. "It's often said that the Emerald Serpent spreads evil for evil's own sake. From our best guess, Nodyath took hair from the horses while Tadoa was still the Serpent's prisoner. I'm sure Nodyath was working for them, rather than for the Hierarchs directly. In his case, it was as much for gold as for the desire to cause us pain, I'm sure."

"Nobody loves us," Argo bemoaned with a faux pout.

"Thirty generations have passed from home," said Cygnus, counting off on his fingers. "We can be reasonably sure the Hierarchs have the 'hair of his children' and the 'soul shell of a servant'. We don't know about the other foci; not even what they really are. So far, all our knowledge has come after the fact."

"Well, _that's_ not going to continue!" snapped Elrohir. "Now that we know what we're dealing with!" He again rounded on Sir Dorbin. "Start bringing your men back to the Brass Dragon, Sir Dorbin. After we've taken care of this distraction," the ranger waved his hand in the direction of the Royal Highway, "Aslan will start bringing us home. Aslan, what was the name of that inn we stayed at here that time we came to see Nesco?"

"The King's Arms Tavern."

Dorbin turned to the illusionist. "Unru, I'll take Sir Menn and Sitdale back now and return for you tomorrow. Book rooms for eight at the King's Arms. If there aren't enough free rooms, book the rest at," he paused, frowning and then glance over at Nesco.

"The Heroes' Rest," she suggested.

"Do it," Dorbin said. "The King's Arms will be the rendezvous point, though."

"Agreed, " confirmed Aslan, looking at the others.

"I'll be off then," Unru said. "Don't die without me."

Without warning, his form suddenly transformed into that of a city guardsman.

"Make way! Make way!" Unru bellowed, plunging back into the crowd and pushing his way through it.

"Funny man," Zantac murmured after the retreating illusionist.

"Be careful." Sir Dorbin's warning was issued to all present as the knight placed his hand on Sir Menn's shoulder and the two disappeared. Dorbin reappeared a few moments later by himself and grabbed hold of the waiting Sitdale, who gave them all a brief wave before vanishing again with the knight.

"Elrohir," Argo said, the big ranger's expression having lost all traces of its earlier levity, "I don't care what these three people want. I want to be the first one Aslan takes back. Caroline-"

Their team leader held up a staying hand. "Don't worry, Argo. I fully intend all of us to be heading home starting tonight and you can certainly be the first. I understand your wanting to be with-"

The ranger abruptly stopped speaking as a spasm seemed to cross his features. No one said anything as he dabbed at his eyes.

"I wish they would hurry up and arrive," Cygnus growled. "It's been-"

"They here."

* * *

Five heads turned to regard the samurai and then to follow his outstretched arm.

From the very rear of the line that stood waiting for entry into Chendl, three figures on horseback were now slowly trotting towards them.

"They here for severar minutes, watching us." Tojo informed his companions. "They move onry after Dorbin-san reave."

Elrohir frowned. "Why would they-"

The ranger stopped in mid-sentence.

_Oh, no_, he thought and squinted harder at the approaching trio.

* * *

They were still difficult to make out as the setting sun, now only two diameters from the horizon, was backlighting them. As they came within hailing distance and reined in their steeds however, their features resolved themselves.

The one closest to them was a woman, small in stature and covered by a dark green hooded cloak.

To her left a man clad in plate mail and wearing a helm with a bright red plume across the top stared dispassionately at them. A spear hung from a strap on his horse's saddlebag.

And to the woman's right, a smiling half-elf clad in typical elven traveling garb leaned forward and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hail and well met, mighty heroes!" Aelfbi Gemblossom called out heartily.

* * *

Elrohir felt a sudden chill envelop his entire body, as if he had been abruptly grabbed by a frost giant. A cold fury began to swell from his aching chest. Glancing over to Cygnus, he knew the wizard was experiencing the same feelings.

_No,_ the ranger thought to himself. _There's nothing well met about this at all. If she's still with you three, I'm going to murder her._


	198. A New Direction

**1****st**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**The Canalside Inn, Chendl, Furyondy**

"Why exactly are we here again?" asked Zantac.

His team leader's reply was cold, terse and spoken low enough for only the mage to hear.

"I didn't want to go to any tavern where we might run into Unru, and Nesco said this was the closest thing to a dive that Chendl has."

Zantac grunted and looked around. The Canalside Inn was a bit on the dingy side; certainly not on the level of The King's Arms or The Willow Tree back in Willip, but he'd been in far seamier places in his lifetime.

The tavern, located- not surprisingly- by the banks of one of Chendl's beautiful canals, sported a riverboat theme, with various detritus of barges and boats hung around the place. Someone had seemingly made a half-hearted attempt to craft the end of the long wooden bar into the prow of a ship, but had apparently given up the job half-way. Whether due to lack of funds or lack of talent, Zantac couldn't say.

Several flagons and mugs on their table held the assorted beers and wines ordered by the ten individuals. No one had been particularly hungry; a small bowl filled with goldenseeds was the only food present.

Outside the city walls, Elrohir had curtly refused all offers of small talk, turning his back on the three new arrivals as he ordered Lady Cynewine to find them a suitable place where they could talk more freely. Saxmund, Garoidil and Aelfbi had all frowned at this, although only the latter seemed truly taken aback.

For their part, Argo, Aslan, Nesco, Tojo and Zantac had said little, following the lead of Elrohir and Cygnus. The basics of the situation were immediately obvious to them. The ranger and the tall mage had the most personal and intense reasons of despising the sometimes-traveling companion of their guests, although in truth none of them held any great fondness for her.

The shutters near the wall where their table was situated were left open in a valiant if vain attempt to air the place out. During the daytime the canal view must indeed have been appealing, but by the time the ten had managed to reenter the city, stable the three horses and wend their way here, the sun had been down for almost two hours. Their window, facing east, now showed only the dim glows of assorted lamps and torches.

As usual, Saxmund pointedly avoided looking at Cygnus.

The mood around the table was tense. That _name_ seemed to hang in the air above them, and Aslan could sense that Elrohir was getting ready to release his pent-up emotions with the obvious question, so the paladin decided to redirect matters.

"So. Saxmund, Garoidil, Aelfbi," the paladin announced in as firm and yet nonchalant a tone as he could muster. "How did you know we were here in Chendl?"

The three looked amongst themselves for a moment before Saxmund cleared her throat and answered.

"We didn't," she said in her reedy voice. "Some time ago, we had paid Cerenellyl to notify us via _sending_ if he ever received news of your whereabouts. As chance turned out, we had just left Chendl and were only two days' ride out when we finally got word from him. We immediately turned around and came back."

Argo saw Elrohir and Cygnus scowling, both men aware that the flow of conversation had been directed away from their primary topic of interest. However, Bigfellow didn't want to light that particular fire just yet either, so he followed up. "Where were you heading?" he asked.

"Back to Ironstead," Saxmund replied. The woman finally turned her green eyes on Cygnus, who met her gaze, still unsmiling. "As we had mentioned last time we saw you, we had planned to return to the forest and find the steelsphere from the _Mary Celestial _that we had arrived here on Oerth on. Kingus had thought it might still be functional."

"I told you then I doubted it was." Cygnus' voice was little more than a growl. "Since you're all still here, I guess I was right."

"Not entirely." Garoidil, looking as moody and dour as Flond ever did, spoke up for the first time. Elrohir and the others looked at the fighter but it was Aelfbi Gemblossom who elaborated.

"It was a little over a month ago that we finally located the steelsphere," the priest of Lady Goldenheart related. "We'd hired ourselves back out to the woodsmen of the Vesve as scouts and guards, supplementing their own rangers and warriors. Well, as I said, we found the sphere, but a metal golem that had been in the sphere with us had apparently reactivated itself and wouldn't let us near it. It took several attempts before we were able to destroy the thing. As you had predicted Cygnus, we weren't able to find any sign inside that it might still be functioning. We returned here to Chendl, downhearted. But it was then, while we were having supper in The Heroes' Rest Inn and deciding what we were going to do next, that the most extraordinary creature just strolled through the front door. Well, actually, it nearly had to bend over double to fit through and even then, it barely made it. Twice as tall as a man, with sky-blue skin."

The others stiffened.

"Ogre magi?" asked Tojo, tensely.

"No." Garoidil shook his head. "A lot thinner, and much more urbane and well-dressed."

"Came right over to us. Called itself a mercane and said its name was Agarth," Saxmund said. She then looked around at Elrohir's group to see if either name meant anything, but there was no look of recognition. She shrugged and continued. "Claimed to be a planar merchant. It- he- seemed to know that we'd found the sphere and started asking us all kinds of questions about it. It was then that he said there might be some kind of signaling device hidden within the sphere and if it was still undamaged, it might be possible to use it to call the _Mary Celestial_ to this world!" Saxmund finished, a little out of breath from the revelation.

Aslan frowned. "Can the _Mary Celestial_ fly the skies of a Material world?"

Saxmund shrugged. "I don't know, but Agarth seemed to think it might be able to."

The paladin looked thoughtful and a little chagrined. He had dismissed that possibility during their exploration of the astralship.

"Of course," Garoidil added, smirking, "that's when things got interesting."

"What happened?" asked Nesco.

"Well," related Saxmund. "After we'd told him our whole story and were all set to ask Agarth if he wanted to enter into some kind of partnership with us, he suddenly says he's looking to acquire- his word- the sphere. He said that we really had no claim on it, as we'd been trespassing when we'd boarded the _Celestial_ in the first place. Then he said he was going to go examine it."

"And after he pumps us for information on the damn thing," scowled Garoidil, "this monstrosity has the gall to try and hire _us_ as bodyguards for _him!"_

"Naturally, we declined," added Aelfbi, who then grimaced over at Garoidil. "Some of us more graphically than others, I'm afraid."

The fighter grinned at the memory.

"And he just left?" asked Aslan after a short pause.

Saxmund nodded. "Yes. He just said he'd look elsewhere for protection."

"As an aside, I don't think this Agarth was totally defenseless," Aelfbi mentioned. "After he'd squeezed back out the door onto the street, I saw him disappear."

"Did he cast? Was he a wizard?" inquired Zantac.

"Not that I'm aware of," replied the half-elf. "He just vanished."

There was another silence as this information was digested.

"So," said Argo Bigfellow, perhaps a shade too loudly, "what can we do for you?"

"We were- hoping you could accompany us back to the Vesve," Saxmund said. Her eyes were downcast and she twisted her hands together on the table. "It's a race against time now that Agarth is on his way. Our turning back means it's possible that this mercane will reach the steelsphere before us; depends on whether he has to walk all the way there. We've at least got horses. Even if he does get there first, I don't think he'll be able to just magic the thing into his pocket and stroll off with it. Those things are immense; as I'm sure you'll remember."

"But you want us along in case the issue of ownership comes up," the big ranger said, drumming his fingers on the table.

"We've got salvager's rights!" Saxmund shot back, more fiercely than she had yet spoken that night. "If there's any chance of using the sphere to get back home to Rolex, we're going to take it. We might even be able to get back to our own time that way. After all, the astral _is_ timeless."

"It's also worth noting," said Gemblossom, the cleric now staring in turn at Elrohir, Aslan, Cygnus and Tojo, "that if this is the case, you could also use it to return to _your_ home- the world of Aarde. Perhaps even to your own time, as well. We'd be happy to share the _Mary Celestial_ with you if we can get back to it. Corellon knows it's more than big enough for all of us."

"I have nothing for me back there," mumbled Elrohir, but Cygnus saw Yanigasawa Tojo's eyes brighten momentarily. Here, the wizard knew, was a possible way for the samurai to return home after he had finished his quest.

But it was for his own- admittedly selfish- use that the tall wizard saw a scenario forming in his mind.

_Kar-Vermin_, he thought. _I can hide myself and Thorin from Nodyath, but there's no way on Oerth we'd be able to hide from that lich._

Cygnus took a swig of beer to hide his face as he contemplated. _Our only other option will be to try and prevent this ritual from being completed. A suicidal task if ever there was one. But- if we could get home- Thorin and me... even Vermin might have trouble following us all the way back to Aarde, and he might be loath to do so even if he could. This steelsphere might be something worth following up after all._

Another silence followed. Aelfbi frowned at the lack of response to his offer.

Then, apparently attempting to keep the conversation flowing by any means, the half-elf took a perfunctory look around the table before turning to Elrohir.

"So, Elrohir,' asked Gemblossom in a casual tone. "Where's your wife, Talass?"

* * *

There was the distinct sense that an invisible balloon had been silently punctured somewhere over the table.

The ranger's hands curled into fists as he slowly rose to his feet.

"Elrohir," said Aslan warningly. He reached out a hand to grab his friend's shoulder, but Elrohir shrugged it off.

"Where's my wife?" Elrohir seethed. "It's funny you should ask that, Aelfbi. It so happens that you just missed her. Shall I explain?"

Everyone was staring at the ranger now, unwilling or unable to say anything to stop this. Gemblossom's eyes were wide with anxiety as he gazed at the human now leaning over the table to glare at him. The half-elf's hand reflexively closed upon the holy symbol of a golden heart that hung around his neck.

"My wife," continued Elrohir, "received a vision from her deity that instructed her to leave me; her husband. It seems that her father, the former and only High Priest of Forseti here on Oerth, recently died and she had to return to her people and assume that role."

Aelfbi looked perplexed and appeared to be about to ask a question but Elrohir plowed on. The ranger's anger was palpable, but an ugly and sarcastic grin split his features.

"Now as it turns out, there _was_ one other person who could have fulfilled that role and saved my wife the minor bother at having to leave her family forever. Unfortunately," he continued with a mock tone of sorrow, "that person just _happened_ to have betrayed her father, her deity and her people by running off with a priest of an evil god. This person, as it turns out, is quite accomplished at betraying people and leaving nothing but death and misery in her wake. _Would you like me tell you who this person is, Aelfbi?"_

The last question turned into a shout. The other patrons of the Canalside turned their heads to stare at them, but Elrohir paid no attention. The ranger lunged forward so suddenly that Gemblossom leaned backwards in his chair and nearly tipped it over.

Saxmund and Garoidil were instantly on their feet. The others too stood up, but with exhortations for calm. In the midst of it all, Elrohir turned his flashing blue eyes on Saxmund.

"Where is she?" he hissed. "We know she's still with you, Saxmund, or you wouldn't have waited until Sir Dorbin and his allies had gone. _Where is she?"_

Aelfbi, trying to regain his balance as well as his dignity as he stood up as well, now met Elrohir's angry gaze unflinchingly.

"We thought," the cleric said slowly and deliberately, "the fact that you hadn't immediately sent for the illusionist meant that you did not share this Sir Dorbin's extreme and violent views."

"No." Cygnus now spoke up. "It meant that Elrohir and I want the pleasure of killing this bitch ourselves. If any of you had children, perhaps you'd understand how upset a parent gets when they're threatened and kidnapped."

"Everyone, please," Aslan cut in, motioning with both palms downward towards the table. "Everyone sit down. We don't need any outside attention. That won't help anyone's agenda."

Unable to find fault with the paladin's logic, the assemblage reseated themselves, but the hostility remained.

Elrohir took a hefty swallow of beer and glared again at the trio's leader. Puzzlement now mixed in with his earlier anger.

"I don't understand you, Saxmund," he said finally, shaking his head. The ranger had to pause to get the next name past his lips.

"Talat," he ground out, "betrayed Kingus to his death! I know you and he were close- how can you permit this person to still travel with you? I know Aelfbi speaks of redemption and all that rot," he waved a dismissive hand at the half-elf, "but you seem like a practical person. By the gods, she can't even cast prayers for you now that she's no longer a priestess! Add to the fact that she's a wanted woman here in Furyondy! That makes you all accomplices if she's caught!"

He stared at Saxmund. Aslan saw a note of pleading on his team leader's face; the expression of a man who was heartbroken for answers.

And the paladin knew that Saxmund did not even know the real question that Elrohir was asking.

"Why?" finished Elrohir, before looking away and rubbing his eyes again.

The trio again seemed to silently confer with each other. "Go ahead, Saxmund," Aelfbi eventually said. "I think it will mean more to them, coming from you."

The woman took several long deep breaths and then began.

"Your points are all valid, Elrohir," she began. "And do not think that I don't consider them every night as I lay- alone," her voice broke a little, "in my bedroll. I have no love for this woman and would gladly abandon her to her fate, Aelfbi here notwithstanding. However," she hesitated, "there was one other who spoke out for her redemption."

"Who?"

And here Saxmund turned to look directly at Cygnus.

"Kingus."

* * *

"What?" Cygnus blurted out. The wizard looked wildly around at his friends, looking for validation of what he had heard. He turned his attention back to Saxmund, but he was still groping for words. "But- but- that's impossible! Wescene told us what you'd told her! Nodyath kidnapped Kingus when the four of you went to Willip! It was only after that incident that Talat first came to you, isn't that right?"

But Saxmund shook her head. "No," she said quietly. The woman ground a goldenseed between her thumb and forefinger as she continued, not looking at any of them.

"The day we'd arrived in Willip, we'd taken rooms at The Willow Tree and then gone our separate ways to pick up supplies we needed. When we met up back at the inn that night, Kingus told us that a woman who called herself Talat had walked up to him and told her who she was and that she was considering leaving Nodyath. He said that he believed she was telling the truth and that we should all do whatever we could to help her." She brushed the goldenseed fragments off her fingers. "Well, the next day, Kingus set out for the temple of Heironeous and…"

Saxmund's voice trailed off. Garoidil looked at her, a rare look of concern on his face, and then glanced over at Cygnus.

"Of course," he said sourly, "by the time this Talat showed herself to us, Kingus was already gone. You can imagine that we were less than pleased with her." The fighter scowled deeply. "Saxmund and Aelfbi can say what they like- I'd just as soon run her through. You commit a crime, you pay for it. That's the law in Hellas, and it seems to be the same in this kingdom." He then waved a hand at Cygnus. "And what with what happened with your children, I've no problem with your wanting to kill her. I think we'd all be better off. I've been teaching her some basic combat training so she'll be at least marginally useful, but that's only because Saxmund here keeps prodding me to do it."

He relapsed into a sullen silence and sipped at his apple wine.

Aelfbi laced his fingertips together with his elbows on the table. The half-elf's face assumed a calm expression as he addressed his comrade.

"Tell me, Garoidil," the priest inquired. "I'm still not clear on one thing. Exactly what crime has Talat committed?"

Garoidil opened his mouth to protest but Aelfbi cut him off, partially rising again from his chair.

"No, not Nodyath- _Talat!_ What exactly did Talat do?" Gemblossom asked, his voice uncharacteristically rising. "Did she physically aid him in any way during the commission of any of his crimes? Is being associated with a criminal a crime itself in Hellas? How about here?"

He sat back down, his gaze now encompassing Elrohir and his friends.

"Can any of you name one single crime this woman has committed here in Furyondy?"

"She was silent!" Elrohir snapped at him. "She just stood by while her lover was kidnapping and murdering people!"

"And it never occurred to you that trying to leave a man who can _teleport_ and _polymorph_ at will might seem like an impossible task to her?"

"Don't make excuses for her," snarled Cygnus. "If she's so innocent, let her return to Willip and stand trial. The law will determine if she is guilty or not!"

Aelfbi directed his reply not to Cygnus, but to Elrohir.

"And did your law determine that for your counterpart?"

The ranger blinked, caught off-guard.

"I believe Nodyath determined Mendoleer's fate, not your Baron Chartrain," Gemblossom continued. "According to Talat, Mendoleer- who indeed _was_ a willing participant in Nodyath's crimes- was murdered simply to keep him quiet. What chance do you think Talat would have sitting defenseless in a jail cell; she who has taken Nodyath's greatest treasure from him?"

Try as he might, Elrohir could not find a counter-argument at hand.

Now it was Aslan who leaned forward. The paladin's face was serious, but there was also a curiosity there.

"Forgive me, Saxmund, for lingering on this terrible subject, but there's something I need to know."

Saxmund looked at him expectantly, awaiting the question. Everyone around the table was silent.

"Why exactly," the paladin asked, "did Nodyath kill Kingus?"

"What do you mean, _why did he kill Kingus?"_ Elrohir asked angrily. "This is Nodyath we're talking about, Aslan! He'd already killed Mendoleer and kidnapped both Thorin and Tad! He killed Kingus because…"

Elrohir stopped. For some reason he couldn't finish that sentence in a manner that satisfied him.

"Well," he eventually managed. "I just assumed he was angry that he'd mistaken him for Cygnus and prematurely ordered the assault on The Brass Dragon."

But even as the words left the ranger's lips, he knew they did not satisfy him.

Aslan turned to Cygnus. "Everything I do, I do for a reason," he said to the wizard. "That _is_ what Nodyath told you, isn't it, Cygnus?"

Silently, the wizard nodded, his brain trying to put these pieces together.

"Nodyath didn't kill Kingus," Saxmund said quietly.

The Elrohir party gaped at her, but the woman's next words gave them their explanation.

"According to Talat, Nodyath only kidnapped Kingus and turned him over to The Emerald Serpent. It was they who killed him."

Elrohir snorted. "You're splitting hairs, Saxmund! That's the same as murder! Nodyath must have known what they'd do to him!"

Saxmund looked at him. She seemed calmer now than at any point since they had first sat down.

"It was a contract abduction. Talat said Nodyath even showed her the gold he'd gotten for the job. He was very specific in that The Emerald Serpent wanted Kingus alive."

"Why?" asked Cygnus, but Saxmund merely shrugged.

"He didn't tell her."

There was another brief silence, which was broken by Zantac. "Why this line of inquiry, Aslan?"

The paladin took a small sip of his wine. He glanced over at Saxmund and her two companions before looking back at the red-robed wizard, and Zantac had the distinct impression that Aslan was considering how much it might be able to say safely in front of the trio.

"I spent too long this year not looking for connections when they were right in front of my face, Zantac. I can't afford that naivety any longer. None of us can."

He said nothing more, but Zantac saw Elrohir's face as he gazed at his friend in consternation, and he thought he knew what their team leader was thinking.

_Kingus and Kar-Vermin. Could there possibly be a link?_

All very cheerful," Garoidil growled, "but getting back to the point at hand. Will you help us or not? Like Saxmund says, it could be worth as much to you as it is to us."

"A few moments alone to confer, if you please," Argo Bigfellow said in his most unctuous manner.

* * *

Elrohir waited until the three Rolexians had left the inn before looking at his teammates.

"Well?"

Argo stepped right up. "I told you earlier, Elrohir. I'm going home tonight on the Aslan Express. Nothing they said changes anything about the danger facing us. I'll be damned if-"

Again Elrohir interrupted his fellow ranger. "Don't worry, Argo. I told you earlier you can head home if you wanted to, and that still stands. For anyone," he added, looking around at the rest of his party members.

Everyone looked at each other. Aside from Argo, they all seemed hesitant about voicing their views, or perhaps they were still formulating them.

Cygnus was the next to speak.

"I say we help them."

Aslan whipped his head around to glare at the tall mage. The paladin's eyes narrowed.

"Why, Cygnus? Are your reasons selfless, or are you just hoping to get within striking distance of Talat?"

Cygnus stared back at Aslan, but the magic-user did not respond.

Aslan's light blue eyes seemed to burn a line across the faces of his companions as he looked at each in turn.

"I won't tolerate base treachery. If anyone can't accept Saxmund's view of Talat, then they had best not come along on this journey."

Zantac raised his eyebrows. "Sounds like you're planning on going."

"I am," the paladin replied. "Not only is helping Saxmund and her friends get home a noble cause, but if it does work out, I'd want to be sure that the _Mary Celestial_ doesn't fall into the wrong hands afterwards."

"Well, count me in," Zantac said, shrugging. "I'd love to take a peek at this vessel. I'm wondering though- do you think this Agarth's light blue hands are the wrong ones?"

"I can't say," said Aslan. "I've never heard of mercanes. It might even be possible that this individual was in _polymorphed_ form."

"I'd like to go," Nesco's voice was quiet but firm. "I know the Vesve; the land and the people. I'd be of immense help."

"You always are, Lady Cynewine. I am gladdened for your company." Aslan smiled at Nesco, who felt that familiar and simultaneous mixture of happiness and heartbreak that the paladin's smile always engendered in her.

"I aweso go."

The others looked at him, but the Yanigasawa samurai said nothing more. He did not look at any of them now.

"We are honored, Tojo-sama," said the paladin gravely, although his eyes lingered on the samurai's dastana.

Everyone's gaze now fell upon Elrohir.

There was no mistaking the ranger's internal struggle. Elrohir was gripping the handle of his mug so tightly his knuckles were bone white and his entire body seemed to be trembling slightly.

"Elrohir," Aslan said softly. "You know you don't have to go. We'll all understand. Besides, we-"

"I'm going," the ranger announced suddenly. He did not even seem to have heard Aslan.

The paladin took a deep breath and made sure his friend's eyes were upon him before he asked, "Why?"

Elrohir scowled. "I don't need to explain my reasons to you, Aslan."

"In this case, I'm afraid you do, Elrohir," Aslan responded. "I've already said I won't stand for-"

"You don't have to worry," he snapped back. "I'm not going to kill Talat."

"Prove it."

There was not a sound around the table as the paladin and the ranger stared into each other's eyes.

"Swear it, Elrohir," Aslan's voice was almost a whisper. "Swear you will not harm Talat in any way."

"I swear it," replied Elrohir. "I swear by all the Aesir."

But Aslan shook his head and now the paladin's voice was hard and cold.

"Swear it by something you still believe in, Elrohir."

Elrohir pressed his lips together and Aslan saw his friend's eyes grow moist, but the ranger blinked them clear. Elrohir took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

"I swear it," he repeated, not looking at Aslan, or indeed any of them, now. "I swear it by my wife. I know what Talass wanted regarding her sister, and I will follow her wishes in this matter."

Elrohir glanced out the open window as he spoke.

"I'm looking for answers," he said quietly. "And I think Talat may have some for me."


	199. Reminisces On The Road

**6****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Barony of Littleberg, Furyondy**

**(About 130 miles WSW of Chendl)**

"Garoidil."

The Rolexian warrior looked over at the ranger riding beside him on his right. Elrohir's horse maintained a steady trot, matching his own destrier's pace.

"Daylight's fading. We should make camp soon. When's the next thorp or inn?"

"They're not as prevalent here as they are on the Royal Highway," Garoidil replied. He frowned, searching his memory, then pointed north up the road. "I think the next one's about five leagues further on."

Elrohir considered this and then turned around in his saddle as much as his plate mail would allow to face the three people riding behind him and Garoidil. "We'll go another league and then stop for the night."

Aslan merely nodded in acknowledgement, but Caroline Bigfellow gave a wide smile.

"Another night in the great outdoors. Beats those flea traps we stayed at. Right, love?"

Argo eyed his wife but no quips, witty or otherwise, came to mind. The big ranger smiled back, but the grin stopped far short of his eyes.

Bigfellow couldn't keep his anxiety- and his frustration- under wraps forever.

Not, he wryly reflected, that he'd been doing such a great job of it up to this point.

_It had not yet been an hour since Aslan's return to the Brass Dragon that Argo had thrown open the door of his cabin and headed resolutely at a brisk pace towards the inn, ignoring the barking Grock at his heels._

_The ranger burst through the doors and stomped towards the Tall Tales Room, ignoring all the looks thrown his way from servants and dinner patrons._

_Argo literally kicked the door open._

_Sir Menn and Sitdale were present, but Bigfellow didn't even glance at their startled faces. The ranger had strode right up to Monsrek, who was sitting in one of the armchairs and bent down until his face was a mere two feet from the cleric's._

"_Monsrek," said Argo in a low and steely tone. "Why won't my wife touch me?"_

* * *

_This of course was not true in the literal sense. Caroline had hugged her husband so tightly the instant she saw him that the big ranger thought his ribs might crack. There were tears. He had expected that. There was the agonizing and halting recollection of her terrifying dream. Argo had expected that as well, and held her close and tried with every fiber of his being to comfort her. And eventually, she had composed herself again._

_And yet it had always been the habit of the Bigfellows that their reunions were always followed by a passionate bout of lovemaking. As much therapy as passion; as much a cure for loneliness as an expression of their desire for each other, it had never failed to make their return to each other's arms that much more meaningful._

_But now Caroline couldn't even bring herself to kiss him._

_She kept apologizing; the tears flowing again as if they'd never stop. Argo kept trying to console her, saying he didn't give a damn whether they made love or not (not entirely true). He simply wanted to help rid Caroline of whatever seemed to be still hurting her (entirely true)._

_It was just the dream, she had said. It kept popping back up in her mind's eye when she least expected it. Still apologizing and hugging him all the tighter, she begged him just to give her time to heal._

_Heal. Argo's keen eyes had seen the dried remnants of bloodstains on the floor stones by their bed. Someone had made a good attempt to remove them, but when blood was spilled, you could never get rid of that entirely._

_Argo knew that._

_And he knew his loving wife enough to know that there was something that she wasn't telling him._

_Monsrek, he thought. Monsrek had been the first to reach Caroline after she had woken from her dream. And hadn't Sir Dorbin himself been so keen that Monsrek be the one to explain this whole horrid business to them?_

* * *

_The priest of Trithereon took a deep breath and lay his mug of ale on the end table beside him before looking straight back into the ranger's questioning eyes._

"_Argo," Monsrek said quietly. "Since I have known you, you have impressed upon me with your independence; your desire for the freedom of the individual and the right to make one's own decisions for yourself. I trust also that you have observed those same qualities in me." He fingered the silver holy symbol of the rune of pursuit that hung around his neck. "Kind of goes with the job," he added with a momentary smile._

"_Now," the cleric continued, "unless you are about to throw all your morals and values away simply because you think someone is hiding something from you, I implore you to turn around and head back to your cabin, because your wife needs you, Argo Bigfellow. She desperately needs you to be there for her. Trust in her and respect her wishes as you have always demanded others respect yours."_

_Argo hesitated. His next question did not come out nearly as forcefully as he had intended it to._

"_How can I help her if she won't confide in me?"_

_Monsrek's face remained neutral, but his eyes crinkled in what seemed to Bigfellow to be a kindly manner._

"_Time, and her love for you, Argo, will give you what you seek."_

* * *

_And so Argo had returned to Caroline, and tried to say as much as he could with his hands and his eyes rather than with words, and although his wife still said nothing further about the dream, he could see that she was at least starting to relax._

_To help her along- or at least distract her- Argo related in a very cursory fashion their adventures down in The Pomarj. At turns fascinated, horrified, entranced and amazed, Caroline demanded to know more and more details._

_Before they knew it, they had talked through the entire night._

_Argo watched his wife in profile as Caroline seemed to stare eastward right through the stone walls of their cabin, as if she could see the sun rising above the horizon._

_Then she turned back to look at her husband._

"_Did you believe Elrohir when he said he wouldn't kill Talat? What about Cygnus?"_

_He shrugged. "I don't know, love. I suspect they're not sure themselves."_

"_And everyone else is going?" she asked._

_Argo's eyes narrowed as he nodded. "Yes, but if you think for one minute that I'm going to leave you now and go off-"_

_But Caroline interrupted her with the gentlest of caresses. One slim fingertip upon his lips. The ranger had to fight the sudden impulse to pull that fingertip into his suddenly aching mouth._

"_I know," Caroline smiled weakly. "I don't want you to leave me either, love," she said as she stood up and began rummaging through their wardrobe and pulling on clothes._

"_No need to get up this early," Argo reminded her._

"_On the contrary," she replied, her voice more firm than Argo had heard it since his return, "we need to get moving. You have to be ready when Aslan gets up this morning."_

"_Why?" Argo asked, genuinely confused._

_His wife turned to face him. Her smile no longer looked quite so weak._

"_To tell him he has to take us both back to Chendl. I'm not going to leave my friends behind anymore, Argo. And since we both want to be together…" she shrugged._

_Bigfellow gaped as Caroline pulled her longsword from its scabbard and made a few practice swings through the air with it._

* * *

_Argo had acquiesced, but his concern for his wife's safety seemed to be tying the ranger's stomach into knots. After what he'd been through the past few weeks, the outside world suddenly seemed like a lot more dangerous place to Bigfellow, and for him that was truly saying something. Leather armor for his wife just wasn't going to cut it anymore._

_Well, that had set off a row. Caroline pointed out that she was comfortable fighting in light armor and had in fact never trained any other way beyond the most cursory._

_In an odd way, Caroline's newfound confidence was an encouraging sign, but Argo had hoped it wouldn't have been directed first against him._

_After returning to Chendl and visiting the armorsmith's, the argument had continued, with voices raised on both sides. Eventually, Argo had almost literally had to stuff his wife into a chain shirt, which she had grudgingly accepted as "workable, but still uncomfortable." _

_She'd had her revenge, however. When Argo had been finished with his purchase- a new but thoroughly unexciting suit of plate mail- Caroline had left the shop. She'd returned moments later from the nearby clothier where she'd gone._

_Argo stared. Caroline had retaliated for the chain shirt by wearing only a leather skirt underneath it that didn't make it halfway down her knees. The big ranger ogled his wife's legs all the way from the skirt's hemline to her leather, low-heeled boots._

"_Love," the big ranger had finally managed to splutter. "No one enjoys looking at your legs more than I do, but they won't look nearly as attractive covered with bleeding gashes."_

"_Mobility will save me from those," Caroline replied, crossing her arms defiantly. "And I need all I can get now."_

_Argo decided to choose his battles. He'd given in on this matter, but only after insisting that Caroline now carry a shield. That had started off another row, but Argo had spied a buckler hanging on the wall, and after a few minutes of Caroline doing some more practice swings with her sword and notching arrows on her longbow, all with the small shield strapped onto her forearm, she'd pronounced herself satisfied, if not thrilled._

Satisfied, but not thrilled, Argo thought as his recollections ended and he tried on another smile at his wife riding alongside him.

That kind of summed up all his feelings right about now.

* * *

Aslan hadn't even realized he'd been staring at the Bigfellows until Argo, with that sixth sense that all rangers seemed to him to possess, had suddenly glanced over his way.

The paladin looked away hastily, mentally reprimanding himself for daydreaming. Not keeping his mind where it belonged. On important things.

_But what_, his mind seemed to ask him of its own accord, _are the important things?_

Aslan grunted as the warhorse stumbled slightly beneath him. The steed recovered quickly; it hadn't been anything more than its hoof stepping in a rare hole between the stones, but it was enough to send the paladin's mind reeling back to other subjects, whether he considered them important or not.

Perlial, he thought. She was important.

_The horse's dark eyes seemed to shine somehow of their own accord as Aslan had finished telling her of his adventures. Condensing the last month into ten minutes or so seemed like a crime to Aslan, but it couldn't be helped. The paladin needed to get some sleep and more importantly, some mindrest. Tomorrow, he would return to Chendl and the party was going to head out yet again to frontiers unknown._

_Yet he didn't want to leave Perlial. The paladin's hand continued stroking the animal's grey forehead. He listened to her slow breathing as she seemed to consider all that he had said._

"_I'm sorry," he said at last, mostly to break the silence. "Once again we're off on a long trek and once again I can't ride you as I once did."_

"_Do not be sorry," Perlial said in her unique accent that Aslan so liked to hear. "You do what you must. You would not be who you are if you did not."_

_Aslan was still trying to sort that one out when Perlial spoke again._

"_It is one of the things I love about you."_

_He buried his face in the horse's flank. He did not weep as Talass had, although an aching sadness seemed to be weighing down upon his shoulders._

"_I'm sorry." Aslan seemed to feel the need to keep repeating this; as if he couldn't shake the feeling he was betraying his faithful steed. "I've never been to the Vesve, so I can't teleport there. And in any case, there's so many of us going, we'd hardly save any time anyway. I want to keep Sir Dorbin here as much as possible now that-"_

_His voice failed. Man and animal looked at each other as Aslan raised his head again._

"_I understand, Aslan," said Perlial in as much as a horse whisper as she could manage. The steed's eyes turned to her left and the paladin's gaze followed suit._

_White Lightning was standing some ten feet off. The brown horse faced away from them, yet Aslan could still see that her breathing seemed louder and more irregular than that of her fellow equine._

_Aslan walked over and around to White Lightning. He was not surprised to see the twin streams of water leaking from the animal's eyes. Embarrassed, she tried to look away but the paladin caught her head between his hands and in between drying her tears, spoke to the horse._

"_I'm sorry Elrohir can't be here in person, White Lightning. There just wasn't time. I know it must hurt."_

_But White Lightning slowly shook her long head._

"_Not for me, Aslan," she said softly, and the paladin knew she was referring to her tears. "For my master. His mate gone." She whickered sadly. "How he must hurt, and I am not there to comfort him."_

_Aslan stroked her shiny coat for a little while longer, but could think of nothing to say._

* * *

_The paladin had similarly been rendered speechless by Argo and Caroline's decision to return with him the following morning to Chendl, although it undeniably gladdened him. After purchasing new plate mail for himself, he had linked up with the Bigfellows, Elrohir, Tojo and Nesco at the bowyer's. _

_All but Caroline were buying new bows. Better than the ones they had previously, these were to be composite longbows, Carved from laminated ipt wood and curved for extra strength and durability, they allowed far greater penetrating power for the deadly missiles they launched._

_Aslan watched from the side as the bowyer worked with Lady Cynewine, the last of the five to be fitted for a new bow. The bowyer, an elderly man with great white tufts of white hair growing more from his ears than on his head, whistled as he fitted a stick, notched at both ends between the inside of the bow and the string that Nesco was currently pulling on. The bowmaker's whistling stopped as he eyed his measuring instrument._

"_Ninety pounds of draw weight, Lady Cynewine! Most impressive, indeed! Well, I think that is the bow strength we will go with, then. Oh," he added, looking over at Nesco, "you may relax now." He then bustled off towards the rear of his shop._

_Nesco breathed a sigh of relief as she stopped. She'd been pulling on one bowstring or another for so long, she had started trembling rather seriously. The ranger rubbed her fingers for a moment before looking over at the others with what seemed to be to Aslan a proud smile._

_Ninety pounds, thought Aslan. That was the same draw weight that Elrohir had been measured at. Only Argo and Tojo's had been higher._

_Aslan himself had been unable to exceed seventy-five pounds._

_Of course, as Grock the ogre, Aslan could have probably snapped any bow he might have been fitted for, but that wasn't the same. That was a trick, like using a spell to magically increase one's strength._

_It wasn't a true measure of one's own strength. One's own worth._

_She's stronger than I thought she was, Aslan thought, and the paladin's mind suddenly flashed back to a vision of Nesco Cynewine sitting across a campfire from him that very first night in The Pomarj, eating the meal that she herself had caught and cooked for them._

"_The heart is my favorite part," she had said._

_Stronger, Aslan thought, in so many ways._

* * *

"This'll do," Elrohir announced, reining in his horse to a stop and motioning for the others to do the same.

The ranger certainly didn't mind camping outside tonight. He was very grateful for the coaching inns and small taverns that were spaced frequently along the well-travelled Royal Highway, but more for the food and feed they provided than for the shelter. The latter was never more than a communal floor, and one that always seemed to be both considerably more crowded and less clean than the one The Brass Dragon provided for its guests. After the first few nights, they had unanimously decided to eat indoors but sleep outdoors whenever possible. A brief evening thunderstorm two nights ago had forced their only exception since.

Elrohir's mind, like that of his companions, was elsewhere while his body went through the mechanical motions of pulling out the tents and all other gear they needed from their saddlebags and starting the process of setting up camp. Elrohir had been doing this since childhood. He had done it so many times in his sleep that he had once remarked to Talass he could probably manage it one more time even if he were dead.

Talass.

The ranger forced that thought away. He would let his mind wander anywhere but there.

* * *

He thought instead of the conversation he had had with the guards outside Chendl's western gate as the party, eleven strong, had prepared to head out.

"_Oh, I remember, all right," the searjant had grimaced, looking over at his men, who bore similar expressions of recollection. "It was," his brow furrowed with the effort to remember, or perhaps just to count, "six days ago, I think. The 25__th__ of Goodmonth."_

"_Yeah. It was," another guardsman agreed._

"_You see all kinds come through here sooner or later, but you don't forget a blue giant like that. Pleasant enough though, he was," yet another guard added._

"_Was he alone?" Elrohir asked._

_The searjant shook his head. "No. Had three men with him. Armed like infantry, but I don't think they were." The officer's face assumed a sneer. "Mercenaries, I'd wager."_

_Aslan had looked over at Saxmund._

"_I'd say Agarth found his protection."_

"_This might complicate things," Aelfbi sighed._

_This in truth had seemed only a minor matter to Elrohir, especially in light of the momentous decision he had made not one hour later._

* * *

_It was hardly a new observation to Elrohir that everyone was riding their newly purchased warhorses at a slightly different gait. Everyone had their own skill level as riders. Different horses were carrying different loads- not only in passenger weight, but in gear as well._

_And of course, everyone had to slow down to the slowest rider there._

_It was Argo Bigfellow, with his usual lack of tact combined with his obvious reluctance to be here in the first place, who had stated what his fellow ranger was already thinking._

"_We'll never catch them, Elrohir," he scowled. "Even if Agarth is no faster than a man, he's got too much of a lead on us."_

_Elrohir had glanced over at Nesco Cynewine, their resident expert in this area._

_She nodded glumly. "I'm afraid Argo is right, Elrohir," she sighed. "Ironstead is about eighty leagues from here as the road winds. It'll take us at least a week to get there. If he doesn't encounter any obstacles, Agarth should be reaching the edge of the Vesve by tonight. He and his men will probably make it to Ironstead in four days time from now."_

_Elrohir abruptly halted._

"_Then," the ranger announced in a voice very close to a shout. "We split the party!"_

_An argument lasting a full half-hour had erupted from that statement but Elrohir held firm, pointing out, as he felt compelled to do anytime other words failed him, that he was the leader here._

_It was still far from a sure thing. Lady Cynewine had cautioned Elrohir that at best, her group might catch up to the mysterious mercane and his guards just as they reached the forest hamlet of Ironstead. More likely, they'd still be at least a day behind._

"_Then ride hard!" Elrohir had snapped at her._

"_We're mounted, Elrohir," she had replied, her face serious. "Pushing horses like that hurts them more than it does people. You know that as well as I do."_

"_Aelfbi's with you!" The team leader gestured curtly at the half-elf. "He can heal them!"_

_But the priest of Hanali Celanil had trotted over to the team leader and glared at him with a hard expression that he had never seen there before._

"_So," Gemblossom said quietly, "injuring and tormenting animals is acceptable to you as long as they're healed afterwards?"_

_He shook his head sadly at the ranger._

"_Does White Lightning know how you feel about this, Elrohir?"_

_Elrohir felt like he had just been slapped. There was a long pause during which he stared at the back of his warhorse's head. He knew that everyone was looking at him._

"_Do what you can," he said finally._

_And so Nesco, Tojo, Cygnus, Saxmund, Aelfbi and Zantac had all spurred their horses into a gallop and raced down the Royal Highway until they were out of sight. Zantac's curses and groans of despair as he clung desperately to the back of his steed reached their ears for a minute or so longer, and they too were gone._

* * *

Trying to redeem himself for what he still considered inadequate leadership, Elrohir had then taken to questioning every eastbound traveler they encountered as to whether they'd passed a blue giant heading west on the Highway at any point. He thought this might give them a rough idea as to whether Agarth was making the time they expected of him, or was going significantly faster or slower.

There was certainly no shortage of people to ask. Merchants in all types and numbers, patrols, Mail Riders, coaches, farmers, even a halfling caravan; there had been nothing, however.

Until last night.

"_Yeah, three days ago." The merchant had viewed Elrohir's initial request with some suspicion, as if it might be a dangerous topic that he would be better off avoiding. The ranger's generosity at paying for the man's drinks had eventually loosened his tongue, however._

That put the mercane about on schedule, Elrohir thought now as he lay in his bedroll inside the small tent he shared with Aslan. The paladin's snoring made sleep difficult, but Elrohir hadn't felt much like sleeping anyway. He just lay there staring up at the tent roof and kept his mind moving from one topic to another. All concerning their journey.

All safe topics.

Logistics. Food, water and shelter. Weapons kept sharp, armor kept clean. Daily combat drills. Skills needed honing. Minds needed exercise as well as their bodies. Once this task was finished, they would return to The Brass Dragon. Sir Dorbin had already promised his party would discover whatever information they could to aid them. They'd no longer be blind. No longer be ignorant. Kar-Vermin would never return. Elrohir and his friends would make sure of that. They'd foil the Hierarchs' ritual- make sure it could never happen. With faith in themselves, they could never be defeated. Even the dreaded Slave Lords had fallen before them, outnumbered and out-equipped as they had been. With faith, they could accomplish anything.

Faith. Elrohir felt his eyes blinking. Faith…

_He was running through the woods in the dark, chasing Talass._

_He had to catch her. Tell her it would be all right. Tell her that nothing could break that bond between them. They had love; they had faith. What could prevail against that?_

_The ranger caught glimpses of Talass' white nightgown as the priestess darted among the trees, trying to evade her husband. He worried that she might catch cold. Would she still be able to heal herself?_

"_Talass!" he called out. "Dearest, please don't run!"_

"_I'm sorry!" he panted as he continued to lumber after his wife, who looked further away every time he caught a glimpse of her. "I'm sorry I hurt you back at Chendl! I was hurt, too- I wasn't thinking! Whatever you say! I know it'll be all right now! I know now! Please stop!"_

_But now Elrohir couldn't see her at all._

"_Dearest!" he shrieked, turning around wildly. The light from Gokasillion's blade wasn't enough. He didn't know what direction she had gone. In desperation he had looked down._

_Tracks! Yes, of course. The imprint of her naked feet upon the soft loam of the forest floor. He began to run as fast as he could while still following the tracks. It was still difficult. He had to stay within the confines of his light source, and she would still be moving faster than he could. Should he peel off his plate mail? No, that would take too long. There was no one here to help him do it. He had to keep going. He had to-_

"_Dearest."_

_Elrohir stopped and looked up. From behind a large tree about ten feet directly in front of him, Talass stepped forward and spoke to him._

_He just stood and looked at her while trying to catch his breath. The cleric said nothing else, but was eyeing her husband with a look of utter serenity and peacefulness. He gown fluttered in the whisper of a light forest breeze._

_Then Elrohir noticed Talass was carrying her warhammer in her hand._

_He looked back at his wife's face for an explanation- and his breath caught in his throat._

_Talass' blonde hair was turning black, an ebon starting from the roots and growing outwards. Her gown shimmered and transformed into chainmail. Her warhammer turned into a flail._

_Talat stepped towards Elrohir, who couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe._

_But the ranger's sister-in-law didn't attack him. She just walked right up him and gazed into his face. Her face was still calm, but there was a searching to it- a yearning._

_A sadness._

"_The gods have abandoned us both, Elrohir," Talat said, and her voice seemed to nest in every tree around them, so that faint echoes came back from all sides. "And not from sin, but by our own desire for them to do so."_

_A single tear rolled down her face._

"_Now, we have only each other."_

_A cold wind suddenly picked up._

"_Together in the Hell that awaits us both."_

_The ground disappeared beneath Elrohir, and she and Talat fell into darkness. His body twisted- he heard her scream- now there were other screams- they were surrounded by them- and then there was a laugh._

_A cold, dead laugh._

Elrohir lay awake in his tent for the rest of the night.

There was no point in awakening Aslan or any of the others. There was nothing they could do. There was nothing anyone could do.


	200. Laurellinn

**6****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Two Miles South of Laurellinn, Furyondy**

"Arrgh!" Zantac cried out, swatting furiously at the air around him. "Dire mosquitoes!"

"Oh, stop complaining," grumbled Cygnus as he kept his horse in a steady trot alongside that of his fellow mage. "There's been a lot less of them since the rain started."

"And I'm supposed to be grateful for a downpour?" the red-robed wizard snapped back, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. "I notice they don't seem to be hanging around _you_ all that much!"

Cygnus shrugged. "What can I say, Zantac? You've just got a lot more to offer them, I guess."

"It is to laugh. You should pen a new spell, Tindertwig. Call it _Cygnus' Lame Jests. _Causes your foe to double over in pain from your attempts at humor."

Up ahead of them, Saxmund looked over at Nesco, her expression annoyed.

"Do they always have to bicker like that?"

The ranger shrugged. "After five days of listening to it, you still have to ask? Don't worry about it. It's all good-natured."

"My good nature ran out on me a long time ago," Saxmund scowled back. "And Zantac's right. This rain isn't helping. Thank Borofast we'll be hitting Laurellinn soon."

"Always a mug half-empty, Saxmund." Aelfbi Gemblossom, riding in the party's lead along with Tojo, looked back at his companion with a pitying smile. "I thought that away from Garoidil for a few days, you might lighten up a bit more."

"It's kind of dark to be lightening up," Saxmund responded, her gesture taking in the approaching sunset, the rain and the forest all at once.

"Pshaw!" Aelfbi brushed off the complaint with a rise of his hands, encompassing the woods all around them. "This rain is the very life's blood to these magnificent woods! Enjoy the beauty that surrounds you and give thanks!"

"Yeah, thanks," muttered the rogue, her green eyes squinting upwards through the drops of water filtering down through the arboreal canopy overhead. The rest of her words trailed off into mumbling, but no one present assumed them to have anything to do with gratitude.

"At least we'll have a real roof over our heads tonight," observed Zantac. "And none too soon. I want to swap out some spells."

Nesco hesitated slightly before speaking up. "I'm afraid you probably won't be able to tonight, Zantac. Laurellinn is a logging camp, not a village. They don't have an inn. We'll all be bunking with the woodsmen tonight, I'm sure."

"What?" cried Zantac. "You didn't tell me that! I didn't bother to memorize another _shelterdome _last night, because I thought we wouldn't need one! Just great!"

But Tojo suddenly reined in his horse and held up a hand for silence. The samurai's gaze turned to the right.

"Voices. Not far off," he announced.

The others, silent now, could also begin to hear them. It sounded like a number of men shouting, although the words were indistinguishable. There were no sounds of anyone crashing through the undergrowth, so no attack seemed imminent. Still, they were leery.

Saxmund was the first to dismount, swinging off her horse with accomplished ease.

"Zantac," she said. "Stay here with the horses. The rest of you, come with me."

The Willip wizard sat on his horse, looking agape at Saxmund. It was clear that he found the idea of taking orders from this woman an offensive idea, but Lady Cynewine cut him off.

"Please, Zantac. I think I know what is it and I'm sure there's no danger, but if I'm wrong we don't want hostiles sneaking up behind us. We'll only be a few minutes, I suspect."

"Sure," Zantac muttered as he watched the other four dismount and follow the rogue into the trees, which quickly swallowed them up. "I'll just stay here and mildew."

* * *

Hardwood trees and thick undergrowth surrounded the quintet on all sides as they cautiously moved eastwards. The rain made a constant patter on the dirt and leaves of the forest floor. The sun, sinking ever lower behind them, was already all but invisible behind the low veil of clouds that hung above them like a vast grey curtain.

Cygnus threw a _light_ on the tip of his quarterstaff. Saxmund glanced over at the mage sharply, but seemed to realize that navigation was more important than stealth at the moment and said nothing.

"We're heading towards the river," noted Aelfbi quietly.

"The same one we crossed at the forest border?" asked Cygnus.

Nesco nodded. "It's the one the loggers use. It's a tributary that flows into the Att. The elves call it Airth Eliarna- the birthplace of azure beauty- but we just call it the Blue."

Gemblossom raised an eyebrow.

"See rights up ahead," Tojo said.

Aelfbi nodded in agreement. "They're lanterns, I think," the half-elf commented as the voices ahead grew more distinctive. They seemed to belong to a number of men shouting encouragement and exhortations to person or persons unknown.

It was less than a minute before the scene came into view. The five paused about twenty yards back from the riverbank.

A number of men stood on both sides of the riverbank, spaced about fifty to sixty feet apart. All wore hooded cloaks over leather armor. While they were armed with swords and hand axes, it was a bulls eye lantern that each man held in his hand, illuminating the river in their midst with criss-crossing cones of light.

The waters, darkening in the twilight, were filled with logs. The trunks of oak, elm, ipt, roan wood and many other hardwood trees were floating downstream, constantly bumping and colliding into each other.

There were men in the river, too, but not in the water.

Moving with accomplished ease, five men clad mainly in leather jerkins were running and jumping amongst the floating logs. Now the party could see that the logs were not floating loose in the river, but were attached to each other by ropes attached to sharp, pointed hooks driven into one end of each log.

The men had all converged on a pile of logs near the center of the river and were helping up a companion who had apparently slipped and fallen in the water.

"River pigs," said Nesco, gesturing towards the scene.

Cygnus and Tojo stared at the ranger, but it was Saxmund who spoke up next.

"That's their name for their own, not ours," she shrugged. "The woodsmen who maneuver the logs downstream to the point where they'll be loaded onto carts for road transport south.

Aelfbi frowned as he listened to the shouts of the men. "That man," he said, pointing at the soaked woodsman being hauled onto the logs by his fellows. "He's clutching his leg. It probably got crushed between two logs."

"They have healers at camp," Saxmund reminded him.

"I wouldn't want to make that trip in the rain on that leg," Aelfbi rejoined and without a beat ran forward to wards the closest man on the near riverbank, shouting as he did so. The man spun around, but his posture relaxed as he apparently recognized the cleric in the gleam of his lantern. They exchanged a few words as the others returned to their examination of the chaotic scene before them.

It quickly became apparent that there was another problem. The logs were jamming up and seemed to have been doing so for some time. The focal point seemed to be about a hundred yards downstream of the party's current position, which put it just past the point where The Blue curved around to the right. The lantern men stationed near the river there were shouting.

"Come on, Laertes! They've got Jasper! Get them moving so we can all go home! We're late as it is!"

The reply- an oath laden with profanity- was audible even amid the rushing water, the shouts and the rain. Laertes, whoever he was, Cygnus thought, must have quite a set of lungs.

Then there was an explosion from just out of sight. Fragments of wood flew over the river. Cygnus stiffened, but then heard exaltations and cries of relief from the lantern men as the logs began to move again. Jasper, the injured river pig, had been brought over to the near bank, where Aelfbi swiftly healed his leg, engendering much thanks to the half-elf, accompanied by such hearty back-slapping that the priest nearly tumbled down the bank into The Blue himself.

After ascertaining that all was now well, the quartet began to head back to where Zantac was waiting for them.

But then one of the woodsmen's parting woods had struck Nesco in the back like a flung hatchet.

"Yur brothers, Lady Cynewine. They arrived here this morning. Betcha yur be glad to see 'em, eh?"

* * *

"Loggers," was Saxmund's one-word explanation to Zantac as she swung herself back up on her mount and waited for the others to do likewise. Cygnus and Aelfbi gave a brief synopsis to the red-robed wizard when it looked like he was seriously considering a magical assault upon the rogue for leaving him there to wait alone in the rain.

Tojo was silent, but that was because Tojo was usually silent.

Nesco Cynewine was silent as well, but for an entirely different reason.

The ranger kicked herself mentally, again and again. How could she have been so stupid? Bretagne had _told_ her that they were heading out this way. She didn't know how many of Sir Damoscene's patrol would be staying at Laurellinn and how many would be moving on to Ironstead or points further north, but if they'd just arrived today, they wouldn't be continuing on until tomorrow at the earliest. She should have known her group would catch them eventually. She knew Joseph wore plate mail, even if no one else did and that alone would have slowed the patrol down considerably.

Conversation behind her jerked the ranger out of her thoughts.

"So who is this Laertes, anyway?" Cygnus asked Saxmund, who was riding directly ahead of him.

"Never seen him, but from what I hear, he's the teenaged son of the camp commandant. No one you'd want your daughter to date," the rogue added wryly.

"He's someone who's gotten a lot more grief than he deserves!" Nesco turned and snapped at Saxmund.

The _clip-clop _of the horses' hooves was the only sound for a moment as Saxmund regarded the woman who rode alongside her.

"Of course, you know a lot more about these lands and these people than I do, Lady Cynewine," Saxmund finally replied. Her voice was thin but her eyes were hard.

"Still, from what I've heard I'd be surprised if you haven't killed quite a few of the boy's relatives already."

* * *

The rain was fading as they pulled up by the stockade that surrounded Laurellinn. _Everburning torches _mounted into the log walls were all surrounded by what seemed to be permanent clouds of gnats and moths. Other woodsmen, including a few that Nesco recognized, were emerging from the forest to enter the camp just as the ranger's party was doing so.

"Let's go!" shouted a gate guard, hurriedly beckoning everyone to enter. "Time to close up shop! This ain't Chendl- we don't charge a fee to get in, tho we might if you all keep straggling! Get a move on!"

"Stuff it, Belston!" one of the lantern men replied, although the smile on the man's face belied his words. "We've been doing real work while you've been counting leaves all day!"

"Hey, I don't make the roster, Cassius! I just go where they tell me!"

"Yeah, well if you see a kobold coming, be sure to call for reinforcements. We wouldn't want you to be end up fighting something out of your league, now!" the lantern man Cassius retorted.

Raucous laughter enveloped the crowd as they pushed past the gate, which was slowly pulled shut and barred behind them.

* * *

Laurellinn did not appear to have streets- only buildings scattered about here and there inside an enclosed, roughly rectangular space perhaps three hundred by six hundred feet. Most of the small structures were dark, apparently closed up for the night. One of the few lights came from the smithy, where a blacksmith and his apprentices hammered away, oblivious to the men streaming past them.

"Kind of late for a smithy still to be open, isn't it?" Zantac asked, frowning.

"Lots of shoes needed here," replied Nesco, gesturing to the line of horses being led one at a time into the smithy by young boys, where they were swiftly fitted with new horseshoes fresh from the forge. "They'll do this all night, then head up the road to Ironstead, repeat the process and come back down."

Zantac nodded but couldn't help wincing as he watched the hot shoes being driven with looked like nails right onto the animals' hooves. "Doesn't that hurt them?" he couldn't help himself from asking.

"No," said Nesco, shaking her head.

"Why, Zantac," Cygnus said, grinning. "Could it be that you're feeling compassion for that poor beast that's been carrying your blubber butt around for five days?"

"No," his fellow wizard replied, scowling as he felt the bruises on his inner thighs pulse. "I just wanted to make sure he suffers just like he made me suffer! Those horses know, too. They know when they've got an inexperienced rider on their back, and they love to make them pay for it. Don't tell me they don't!"

"There'd be no point," Cygnus replied as he turned away to rejoin the others, who had already moved on. "There's no room left in your skull for anything other than paranoia."

"Ah, everybody says I'm paranoid, but I know they're all really out to get me." Zantac couldn't keep the grin off his face as he followed after his friend.

* * *

According to Nesco, Laurellinn boasted a population of just over two hundred, and it seemed like half of them were heading inside the main mess, a huge cabin perhaps fifty by sixty. Like all the buildings in Laurellinn, it featured a peaked roof to prevent the snowfalls of winter building up and caving them in.

Just as they reached the front door, Saxmund turned to face the two mages.

"Just warning you. This place can be a little rough. A real wretched hive of sc-"

"After all the things we've seen?" interrupted Cygnus with a snort. "Trust me, Saxmund; it's nothing we can't handle."

The woman shrugged. "I wasn't sure how much you'd seen. Kingus detested places like this."

Cygnus stared directly into Saxmund's green eyes.

"I'm not Kingus, Saxmund."

She stared back at him. For a moment, Cygnus thought he saw the corners of her eyes glisten.

"I can see that," she replied, her voice sounding even more thin and tired than usual as she turned and opened the door.


	201. Haiku, Halforcs And Hilda

**6****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Laurellinn, Furyondy**

For a moment, Cygnus and Zantac had a flashback to Suderham.

Like The White Knight inn of that city, Laurellin's mess was one large, open room. There were no individual tables, but numerous rectangular tables had been laid end-to-end around the perimeter of the room, with benches on either side. These were filling up rapidly with woodsmen, all engaged in boisterous chatter with their neighbors. Many were smoking pipes. A door at the far end of the room led to an attached annex- no doubt containing the kitchen- from which boys and older men were emerging with large trays of food. These were unceremoniously dumped on the tables before they headed back for another load.

The men tore into the food, which looked and smelled wonderful to the two mages. The staple seemed to be roasts; mostly venison, although several game birds were also present. There were sweetbreads, assorted berries, apple and karafruit sauces and a seemingly never-ending supply of baked beans.

The noise level had receded for several moments before the party realized that it was due to their entrance. Or more specifically, the entrance of one of them.

Nesco Cynewine knew exactly why the occupants were looking at her.

There were two reasons. The first and lesser one was simply because she was a woman. All the females of Laurellinn, even the young girls, ate supper at their homes. The evening meal, with its usual copious consumption of alcohol, was considered too dangerous for women to attend. Not for their own safety or honor- the woodswomen here were just as tough and hardy as the men- but because of the danger of friendship-breaking brawls that would otherwise erupt from the men over ogles and drink-fueled bawdy suggestions and propositions. Nesco, unattached and attractive, drew their eyes like iron to lodestone.

The second and more distressing reason was as Nesco had feared. She turned her head, looked to the near right corner of the room, and saw what she expected to see.

In the area of the mess called "Knight's Corner," sitting where they usually sat, were Sir Damoscene, Sir Murtano, Sir Juntaros and Sir Gideon. At their side were several warriors of the Azure Order, including Joseph Cynewine. Among the assembled squires with them was Grimdegn.

Their expressions conveyed all that Lady Cynewine needed to know. Her dear sweet brother Joseph had wasted no time in telling everyone within earshot of Nesco's resignation from the Order.

For a moment, Nesco stopped dead in her tracks as guilt washed over her. It was so strong as to be almost akin to fear.

But then she remembered that a mere two weeks ago, she had been in single combat with an ogre mage- and triumphed. And that had been only one battle out of many.

_You've got nothing to be ashamed of_, Nesco reminded herself. _You're the equal to any of them in battle- except maybe Sir Damoscene._ She tried to convince her body to fall into step with her desires.

As it always seemed to be, the first step as the hardest, but soon Nesco Cynewine had detached herself from Cygnus and the others and strode over towards Knight's Corner.

* * *

Joseph wasted no time.

"These tables are for the Azure Order or those in their charge!" her dear brother said loudly, standing up so abruptly his shin bumped the table and knocked half of his food off his plate. "You're not wanted here!"

Nesco was about to retort, but- to her surprise- it wasn't needed.

"Be quiet!" Sir Damoscene barked at the young man, suddenly rounding on him. "Have you forgotten chivalry already, Joseph? The Code of the Archpaladin? His Duty to a Lady? Still your tongue or it'll be you sitting elsewhere!"

Joseph's mouth worked uselessly. He glanced around, but none of the faces held sympathy, at least not overtly. He sighed and sat down so heavily he caused an audible _crack_ in the wooden bench beneath him, although it held.

The men stood up and cleared a space for her to sit between Sirs Damoscene and Juntaros. Despite his defense of her presence among them however, Damoscene did not smile at Nesco. The Ranger Lord's face was carefully neutral as he signaled a server to bring another plate of food and ale.

The knights Juntaros, Murtano and Gideon all greeted Nesco with wide smiles and welcoming hugs, which warmed her more than any cooking fires could have done. Grimdegn's smile was so wide it was a wonder the teenager's face didn't split in two, but as a mere squire he was forbidden from running up and hugging people in public, even if said person was his older sister. When he came over and bowed low in greeting to her, Nesco had leaned in close to him.

"We'll talk in private later," she whispered. Grimdegn nodded and backed off.

Nesco looked around. There was no sign of Lencon, or any of the other pages for that matter. She wondered aloud about that.

"They're eating elsewhere," Sir Gideon explained. "It's been a rough trip, and that damn rain today did little for them." His gaze wandered over to meet those of his fellow knights, and he seemed to be almost bursting at the seams with questions that they all shared.

Questions that Nesco Cynewine knew she did not want to answer.

* * *

Cygnus grunted as Zantac sat down, squeezing in between him and Tojo. The space created for him hadn't been quite wide enough, but the Willip Wizard had apparently decided to simply demonstrate that fact rather than mentioning it beforehand.

The tall mage scowled at his stouter companion, but Zantac's smile did not falter. The Willip wizard merely grabbed two mugs of ale from the approaching boy server and thrust one into Cygnus' hands.

"Drink," he half-explained, half-commanded. "A good ending to a bad day."

"We still need to find out if Agarth has come through here recently," Cygnus growled back at him. "Let's at least do that before you degenerate into even more of an incoherent slob than you usually are."

Zantac seemed not to have heard this, or if he had, was pointingly ignoring it. Content with a turkey leg and an ale, the red-robed wizard was tucking into his dinner as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Cygnus hadn't eaten since midsun, but he suddenly didn't feel particularly hungry. In fact, he felt slightly ill. The wizard tried to shift into a more comfortable position on the bench, but failed. He and Zantac had stowed their quarterstaffs below them before they sat down, but Cygnus's left foot kept bumping into the end of one of them. That, combined with his various aches, pains, robes still damp from the rain and overpowering pipe weed aromas, made the magic-user desperately wish he were back at the Brass Dragon, sleeping in his own bed. Even a _shelterdome_ would be preferable to this.

He looked around. The place was a maelstrom of laughing, yelling and occasionally, off-key singing. Although the center area of the mess hall contained no tables or charges, it was full of men standing around, talking and drinking, hiding the far side of the room from view. Hooded lanterns hung from the ceiling illuminated the tobacco smoke cloud that made all the woodsmen's faces look somehow slightly sinister to the mage.

Another uncomfortable parallel with the White Knight was that almost everyone seemed to be wearing armor, albeit mostly leather armor or jerkins of one form or another. Cygnus told himself that was only natural, considering Laurellin's location in the Vesve, a forest known to shelter hostile humanoids in the thousands. No one seemed to be carrying weapons however, and that made the mage feel a little better. The Azure Order seemed to be the only exception. Ironically, none of them wore armor. Cygnus supposed their pages and other servitors were currently cleaning them up.

Nesco seemed to have settled in as far as Cygnus could see. The magic-user couldn't make out any of the conversation, but he could see she was talking now to a knight sitting on her left whom he recognized as Sir Juntaros, a nobleman who had joined them for that luncheon at the Cynewine manor, somewhere between four months and an eternity ago.

Juntaros saw Cygnus looking at him and frowned at the mage.

As often happened when she was not in a position to notice him, Cygnus had trouble taking his eyes off Nesco. Then Tojo's body trembled next to his and Cygnus abruptly looked to his right.

* * *

Yanigasawa Tojo was very uncomfortable, and it showed.

The samurai sat polearm-straight on the bench, showing no interest in either food or drink. His violet eyes, which had been darting around non-stop at the raucous atmosphere all around them, now shot over to the face of the woodsman sitting next to him who had just addressed him. The man was young; about Tojo's age. He was holding an ale mug in his hand that, judging by its bobbing and weaving, had already received a few refills. More importantly, he was much too close to Tojo for his comfort. The samurai usually kept even his _tomodachi_ at a physical arm's length, but these cramped quarters allowed for no such luxury.

"I said, are you from Kara-Tur?" the man repeated, raising his voice to be heard above the general din.

Tojo knew the accepted answer to this question. It was one he had received many times since his arrival here on Oerth. The accepted answer, designed to avoid awkward follow-up questions and subsequent sidestepping about the existence of The Three Worlds, was of course, "yes."

Tojo allowed his eyes to latch onto the lumberjack's blurry brown ones and hold them. The samurai felt an odd feeling. An old feeling. One that he had not felt since his training days at _Yama no Tsyoi_.

It was the _buke's_ contempt for lessers who did not know their place.

"No," he snarled at the man.

Tojo did not look down, but he knew that his hand was slowly moving towards the hilt of his katana.

The man's face blanched. He mumbled an indistinct apology, then got up and staggered off into the smoke.

Tojo hardly noted his departure. The feeling had faded, but he was unsettled by its reappearance after several years. Technically, it was not wrong- indeed for a samurai, it was part and parcel of the code they lived by- and everyone in Nippon, from the highest social class to the lowest, knew it and understood their place.

To insult the honor of a samurai was a sure road to a quick death back home.

Tojo knew of course that he wasn't home now, though. He also knew he owed it to his friends to try and adapt to the _gaijin_ ways. At least as much as he could losing his honor.

But now the samurai began to wonder if that was really possible after all. Even finding the Pearls of Hamakahara would not redeem his honor if he came back to his Yanigasawa daimyo a gaijin himself- the soul of a barbarian underneath his buke exterior.

Tojo could hear Aslan's voice reverberate in his head now.

_I think you didn't come back for your quest at all, Tojo. I think you came back for us._

* * *

"Personal reasons."

Those two words, spoken in as much as a subject-killing tone as Nesco could manage, were all she would give her fellow- no, her _former_- Order members concerning her resignation from their ranks.

Their reactions to this varied. Joseph said nothing. Sir Gideon, who was about Nesco's age and had never viewed her as anything other than a good friend, seemed most in sympathy to her, as well as downright awed by her exploits down south in The Pomarj.

Sir Juntaros was outwardly also gentlemanly, but Nesco knew he had gotten enough meaning out of her two-word explanation. She saw him glance constantly over at Cygnus. An involuntary frown appeared on the knight's face every time he did this before he erased it and turned back to Lady Cynewine with a freshly-minted smile on his handsome features.

Sir Murtano seemed at ease enough. She and Nesco hadn't really known each other that well before all this, so there were no prior prejudices.

In fact, Nesco suddenly realized, they had saved each others' lives. Selzen had saved her from Blackthorn, and she had saved him from Tojo. No doubt this went a long way towards his acceptance of her new standing.

Sir Murtano in fact seemed relieved that Nesco was able to corroborate many of his fantastic details about The Aerie of the Slave Lords, which she now realized the other knights had not quite accepted as gospel. She couldn't blame them, though. Sometimes those horrible days in Suderham seemed like a terrible and unbelievable tale, even though only a fortnight separated her from them.

Sir Damoscene, Nesco's former mentor, retained his cool demeanor. He was polite, civil and courteous. In fact, his attitude even seemed genuine to Lady Cynewine, not a false veneer.

But those occasional flashes of warmness she had seen him display when she was his pupil were now absent completely.

Nesco knew why. It didn't take a wizard to figure it out. Damoscene had taken it personally that she had resigned after he had spent so much time training her. Even religion factored into it, she knew. A Zeus worshipper inducting another Zeus worshipper into the hallowed ranks of the Azure Order? There were some of the Furyondan Old Guard that looked askance at such a thing. And these people did hold power, prestige and influence.

Nesco Cynewine had been brought up to both respect all three.

Having accepted her two-word rebuke when he had finally shot the question at her like a crossbow bolt, Sir Damoscene was now instead asking questions about Nesco's experiences on her adventures with Elrohir and his companions. However, his queries, she belatedly realized, all centered on what Nesco had done as a ranger. How had she fared in making shelters, finding game for their party to eat, tracking foes and so forth. She wasn't quite sure why Damoscene seemed to be so fixated on this, unless it was to make sure she hadn't embarrassed him still further by performing at a substandard level.

That thought made Nesco angry enough to clench her left hand, currently out of view, into a fist, but then her brother's voice, which she hadn't heard since her arrival, now broke through.

"So why _are_ you here, then?"

Nesco glanced over at him, but Joseph's face now seemed to show only curiosity. His friends- the other young Order warriors not yet awarded knighthood status, also peered at her intently now, as if she had brought some great new adventure with her.

"You came in with them, right?" one of them asked, pointing across the room at an angle. The great mass of people clogging the center floor made it hard to see, but Nesco could just make out Saxmund and Aelfbi supping and chatting amiably with Jasper, Cassius and several other river pigs. Not only had Aelfbi healed Jasper's leg, but their previous stays here as contract employees made their presence here appreciated by the populace.

Nesco turned back to the Order members and explained the bare bones of her situation, avoiding any mention of the _Mary Celestial_ itself.

Sir Juntaros shook his head. "We've only just arrived tonight ourselves. You'd have to ask the locals."

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesco saw Sir Damoscene frowning at her. It seemed the Ranger Lord was about to ask another question when Lady Cynewine decided to redirect things.

After all, there _was_ another reason for their presence here, and just maybe Lady Cynewine could help out her friends in that regard. The ranger jerked a thumb back over at Saxmund and Aelfbi while still looking at her teacher.

"Those two, along with a fighter named Garoidil, were here twice before; first back in Readying and then again last month; helping out against the orcs and so forth?"

Damoscene seemed momentarily taken aback, but then nodded. "I wasn't here last month, but yes- I heard that they had returned."

Nesco's eyes narrowed as she addressed her next question to the Order at large.

"The last time they were here- was there another woman with them?"

* * *

Belston nodded.

"Of course I remember. You couldn't drink enough to forget someone that tall! Night before last, they arrived. Him and three warriors. He did all the talking, though. Spread around some gold asking questions. By the time I got to where he was, he wasn't giving out any more, though. My luck all over," he groused. "Next morning, they were gone. Headed up the road north."

Cygnus tried to put his headache on hold and focus. "What was he asking about, specifically?"

The woodsman pointed towards Saxmund. "She and her friends found something in the forest last month." He shrugged. "Don't know much about it- they were based out of Ironstead, not here. Something big, though- too big to move apparently. Ironstead commander's got soldiers stationed there day and night from what I hear, so it must be something worthwhile. That's what the blue giant was asking about. Ol' Red there ain't talking though," he grimaced, referring again to Saxmund, "so I got nothing to say."

Cygnus handed the man a wheatshaff. "Here. Hope that makes up for Agarth's miserliness. Let me know if you remember anything else."

With wide eyes and an even wider smile, Belston thanked Cygnus repeatedly until the mage waved him off. He then turned to his left.

"Nesco's estimate was just about dead on, Zantac. We'll leave tomorrow morning, ride like Fenris himself is at our heels, and should catch up to Big, Blue & Ugly just about when he hits Ironstead."

"And then?" Zantac asked, not looking at all eager at the prospect.

Cygnus' smile was bitter. "We renegotiate. Make Agarth an offer he can't refuse."

Zantac was about to reply to this when Cygnus saw his fellow wizard's head turn towards an approaching figure. He followed his gaze.

It was the young woodsman who had been sitting next to Tojo earlier. Despite his obvious inebriation, the man made an elaborate show of courtesy, bowing low to the two arcanists and speaking in an exaggerated formal manner.

"A thousand pardons, gentlemen! Forgive my rudeness in interrupting your arcane discourse, but may be I crass as to borrow your staffs there- just for the briefest of moments?"

Cygnus and Zantac looked at each other, and then back at the lumberjack.

"No mischief intended, good sirs, and I shall have them back in your worthy hands in just a minute!"

"Why?" Cygnus asked.

The man's eyes darted off to the side. It was patently obvious to anyone not sharing this man's drunkenness that he was trying to think up an explanation. His gaze soon returned to the two mages and a self-satisfied smile appeared on his face.

"Instruction."

Cygnus frowned, but saw then that Zantac had bent down and retrieved both quarterstaffs and was holding them out to the man. Cygnus began to protest, but Zantac cut him off.

"Keep calm, Ciggy. How much harm can he do with them? Besides, we need to keep on good terms with the locals."

The tall mage shook his head in disgust, but just sat and watched as the man took the staffs and with much thanks and more bowing, turned and headed back towards the center of the room.

The knot of people there had begun to thin out. There seemed to be one man standing off apart from the group, but there were still too many intervening bodies for the wizard to get a good look at him.

"You tell him, Seward," one of the crowd said to the staff wielder, apparently egging him on in what endeavor he was planning.

Seward walked up to the man standing apart.

A quick sidewise glance at Tojo revealed the samurai staring at this scene with absolute stillness.

Just as someone blocking Cygnus' view moved off, Seward stepped in, so that he was now blocking the wizard's line of sight. Cygnus groaned in frustration and leaned to the side, but still couldn't get a good look at the other person- just a glimpse of leather armor; studded and of a better-looking make than those around it, but not exceptional.

"Here you go, Laertes," Seward proclaimed loudly. Those two wizards that came in tonight wanted you to have these."

He thrust the two staffs at Laertes, who grabbed them out of reflex rather then desire. Laertes stepped back as the crowd around him began to guffaw and Cygnus got his first good look at the commandant's son.

"Two quarterstaffs, Laertes!"Seward all but shouted, his eyes alight with malicious glee._ "A half-staff for a half-orc!"_

Laertes took a step forward.

Although Cygnus had heard the term used as a general insult more often than not, there was no doubt that in this case it was quite literal. Laertes was indeed of orcish descent; perhaps not as obviously as Hogarth in the Willip Wizards' Guild, but there was no doubt about it.

He wasn't very large as half-orcs went; a few inches under six feet and perhaps a hundred eighty pounds. This was probably due to his young age. Orcs aged somewhat faster than humans, so Cygnus wasn't completely sure, but Laertes looked to be only about sixteen in human years. He had the impressive musculature and coarse grayish skin that all the half-orcs Cygnus had ever seen possessed. His shoulders were broad, but his waist was surprisingly small. Most distinctive were the two small tusks that jutted over his upper lip.

Laertes threw the staffs back at Seward, who let them clatter to the floor.

"You take 'em," Laertes growled. "A half-thaff for a half-wit!"

There was laughter, but most of it was directed at Laertes, not Seward. Even from here, Cygnus could make out the lisp that a few unfortunate half-orcs suffered from their tusks while trying to pronounce the Common tongue.

"Aw, lay off him, Seward," Cassius called from his bench.

"Lay off 'em? Jasper got his leg crushed because 'ol Snaggletooth here wasn't doing his job today!" Seward shot back.

"I'm fine," protested Jasper, who seemed eager to stay out of this.

"Only 'cause there was a healer nearby! What about the poor river pig who's out with Clumsy tomorrow? That jam formed in the first place 'cause he wasn't paying attention!"

"Thath not true!" shouted Laertes.

"Oh, ithn't it?" replied Seward, mocking the half-orc's lisp. "We all know it is. What kind of a fool do you take me for?"

"You'd know that better than me."

There was more laughter; this time directed at Seward.

"Your father's not here to protect your ass, Laertes." Seward's eyes narrowed. "I'd tell you to be a man for once, but that's just not possible in your case, is it?'

More laughter, back again at Laertes.

"There's plenty of us what are tired with working with the same enemy that's trying to slaughter us and our families every day!' Seward continued. "You better start showin' some respect for your betters, Laertes. Don't make me get unpleasant!"

"I can't improve on nature."

Again, Laertes drew points from the crowd. Even Cygnus had to smile. Half-orcs were not generally known for their brain, but Laertes seemed to have almost an Argo-type wit.

"I saw the way you were looking at that warthog we saw on the bank right before the logs started backin' up? Hard up, are you, Laertes? We all know you filthy orcs will mate with anythi-"

Cygnus never actually saw Laertes' fist move, but Seward hit the floor with a thud and suddenly there was a mass of people yelling and shoving. Cygnus jumped to his feet, as did his friends, but a voice boomed out from the doorway before he could act.

"_Enough!"_

The scuffling stopped. Quickly.

* * *

The man whom Cygnus assumed was the camp commandant- and Laertes' father- calmly strode into the mess hall. His every step was slow and deliberate. All the men near him stepped out of the path he was taking.

Cygnus glanced over at Zantac, who was frowning in puzzlement at this new arrival. The tall mage could understand his fellow mage's confusion.

For one, Laertes' father had no orcish features at all that Cygnus could discern. This would make Laertes' mother the orc; the reverse of the usual situation, which involved the rape of a human female by a male orc. The man also seemed younger than Cygnus had expected. No more than thirty at the outside. That seemed a bit young to have a son Laertes' age, but given the shorter orc lifespan, not outside the realm of possibility. The newcomer had black, extremely curly hair and light tan skin. Oeridian, at least in part.

The man wore a green tabard over chainmail, but no helm. Both a longsword and a light mace dangled from his weapon's belt, and a small metal kite shield was strapped to his back. As he moved by the two mages without so much as a glance at them, they saw that the shield's surface was decorated in a green-and-yellow diamond pattern.

"Elredd," Zantac said.

"What?"

"That design. It's the device of Elredd. It's a city on the Wild Coast," Zantac explained to Cygnus. "It's as much of a noble crest as anything for the people who live there."

"His name is Sir Corvis."

Both wizards were startled to see Saxmund standing by them. They had not noticed her approach, and still found it hard to take their eyes off the new arrival. When Cygnus did look over at the rogue, he saw that she too was gazing at him, even as she continued to speak to them. Even Tojo was watching.

"I don't know him, but the woodsmen say he arrived yesterday. He's a knight from that area you mentioned- the Wild Coast." She grimaced. "Of course, that means nothing to me."

"So that's not Laertes' father?"

"No."

The others turned. Nesco Cynewine had rejoined them.

"Laertes' father is named Burnwald," the ranger explained. "He's not here; he rarely sups with the others. Laertes is his adopted son. Burnwald rescued his mother from an orc encampment and stayed with her even after she had born the ill fruit of her imprisonment."

"It sounds like you don't care much for orcs, Lady Cynewine." Aelfbi Gemblossom, along with Garoidil, had apparently arrived just in time to catch this.

Nesco sighed, finally dropping her eyes from Sir Corvis to stare at the floor.

"I don't bear the boy any ill-will. He can't help who he is. But when you've fought as many orcs as I have, it's sometimes hard to remain neutral."

She raised her head to look at the half-elf. "It's a weakness I'm still working on."

Aelfbi nodded in understanding.

"So what is this Sir Corvis doing here?" asked Zantac. "He's no lumberjack, that's certain."

"He may not even be a knight," Cygnus said grimly, recalling Lord Dak. "It's an open secret that noble titles are for sale in the Coast."

"Don't pre-judge, Cygnus," warned Gemblossom.

"It saves time," the wizard muttered, and then turned his attention back to Corvis. The knight- real or feigned- had just broken up the scrap between Laertes and Seward and was now admonishing the latter's friends.

"Are you such fools as to be blinded to a person's true worth by their skin?" Corvis asked. His voice was surprisingly melodious, even in rebuke. "I hear tell that Laertes is at the forefront of every battle you've had with the orcs; even more so, since they seek him out to slay with a special ferocity. If your enemy marks this young man as a hated foe, should that not make him your trusted ally?"

The knight shook his head in frustration. "Do I, as a nobleman, look upon others not so fortunate as worthy of ridicule? If I did, I would be a traitor to all the ideals that I hold dear. You people here are no less important. The lumber you ship south from here is invaluable. It may not seem that way to you, cloistered here as you are, but if the logs stopped flowing, you'd hear about it soon enough."

He sighed.

"Take pride in who you are and what you do. And give this same courtesy to those you live and work with. They deserve it as much as you do."

The knight had the entire hall in silence. All eyes were upon him. His expression shifted from solemnity to resignation.

"Speech over. I'm not your Lord. Do as you will. I only came over for a drink."

He began to look around for an empty seat. His dark eyes fell upon the spot where Seward had sat earlier sat and began to move towards it- and then stopped.

The knight's gaze moved from Saxmund to Aelfbi; then to Nesco to Cygnus to Zantac to Tojo.

It stopped on Tojo, and there it stayed.

With the same slow steps with which he had entered the mess hall, Sir Corvis began to walk directly towards Tojo, who stood up with equal slowness and stood facing him.

Cygnus clenched his fists. _Is this going to turn into something ugly?_ he wondered. _After all those high words, is this Corvis just another-_

But now Sir Corvis was bowing deeply.

"Greetings, Master Samurai of Kara-Tur," he exclaimed. "I acknowledge the superior station of an honorable warrior."

Tojo bowed back, though not as low. His violet eyes seemed focused, not on Corvis' face, but on his torso.

Then Cygnus saw the sash Sir Corvis had tied around his waist. It was yellow with black writing upon it. Cygnus could not understand Nipponese, but he knew the language when he saw it. When Tojo rose from his bow however, his gaze now rested on the knight's face. The samurai's own expression was as inscrutable as ever.

"May I join you for a drink, fellow travelers?" asked Sir Corvis. "I believe we share a common cause."

"And what cause is that?" asked Zantac, not quite hiding all the suspicion in his voice.

Corvis smiled.

"Why, to find a certain blue giant, of course…"

* * *

Cygnus had to admit that Zantac had been right. This day was ending on a much better note than it had started.

The Aardian mage's head and stomach had relaxed with some good food, drink and conversation. Zantac, Nesco, Saxmund and Aelfbi also seemed to be enjoying themselves. Only Tojo seemed unable to relax. The samurai rarely did in any case, but his posture remained rigid and he had not uttered a word in several hours.

Sir Corvis was an excellent dinner companion, and it was soon evident to those assembled why the woodsmen here accorded him such respect after only one day. The knight was good-looking in his way, but not exceptionally handsome. His voice added to his charisma, but even so the effect was not nearly as mesmerizing until after one had spoken to him for a while.

In a way, Cygnus thought ruefully and not without a pang of guilt at the idea- Sir Corvis was the polar opposite of Elrohir. Corvis _always_ seemed to know just the right words to say and furthermore, exactly how to say them.

The Elredd knight seemed intensely curious about Cygnus and his friends. This wasn't surprising. Even discarding their Suderham adventure, which was unknown to the populace at large, the owners of the Brass Dragon inn had begun to acquire something of a reputation after several years, even if the rumors turned out to be wildly inaccurate more often than not.

As the eldest member of their group present, Cygnus took the lead in talking about themselves. He was careful not to let slip any mention of The Three Worlds or other potentially dangerous topics, although the wizard had to cut himself off in mid-sentence several times to do so.

Zantac had looked at Cygnus, his expression darkening for a moment, and uttered one word.

"Thellent."

Cygnus understood immediately. The two mages had obtained considerable information from the Suderham sage by plying him with alcohol. Now the roles were reversed, and it suddenly, if belatedly, seemed like a bad idea to be too free with talk with a stranger, even one so apparently so disarming. Cygnus flushed red as he glanced back over at Zantac and then Tojo.

Both of them knew. Both of them had fallen prey to the ruses of doppelgangers.

His head now buzzing lightly, Cygnus attempted to make amends. "But surely we tire you of all this vain chatter about us, good Sir knight! Tell us of yourself!"

Sir Corvis took a small sip from his mug of ale and smiled.

"But of course. I fear my story is not nearly as replete with exciting heroics as yours, but I must not forget my manners."

He leaned back in his chair.

"I know well the reputation my homeland has acquired in this matter, but I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, that my knighthood is genuine." He displayed a signet ring we wore on his right hand, although that meant nothing to Cygnus. He knew such things were easily bought.

"To be truthful though, our holdings are meager. One manor house, plus property, on the outskirts of Elredd. Further, my elder brother shall inherit all when the time comes, so my options were limited. Either become a servitor, join a church, or seek my fortune elsewhere."

He frowned now, although seemingly in response to a memory, not his dinner companions.

"I must admit my father pushed me along that latter path. While I have been told my words sound noble, I must confess that my actions have not always been so moral and blameless. I- got in some trouble in Elredd, so it was suggested that I could find my fortunes elsewhere; perhaps even enough to send some back home and help in the upkeep of my father's lands."

The knight sighed.

"And so I left, with something of a heavy heart. This was some five years ago, and yet it was a blessing from above that I did so, for I soon met Otoki."

The statue that was Yanigasawa Tojo now narrowed his eyes and directed them directly at Sir Corvis. First to his face, and then to his sash.

Corvis noted this and nodded. "Yes, he was from Kara-Tur. That much must be obvious to you, Master Samurai. He had been driven into exile- I must beg your pardon here my friends, but I can disclose no particulars here. Otoki swore me into silence on this point."

Nesco, Cygnus and Zantac could not help looking over at Tojo. They saw the samurai swallow hard and look off elsewhere.

About half the occupants of the mess hall had retired for the night and every minute another one or two headed out the door. The open space in the center now hosted the squires and young warriors of the Knights of the Hart doing mock battle with each other with practice swords. Tojo stared at them, but Nesco for one knew he wasn't really seeing them. Her brother Grimdegn was now battling Sir Murtano's newest squire, a youth about his own age. A big lad with red hair. She was pretty sure he was Kiprien, Sir Davos Rahldent's son.

"Well," Sir Corvis continued, "we made quite a team, Otoki and I. We decided to leave the Wild Coast, as gold-making opportunities there tend to be reliant on," he paused, "a certain lack of scruples, shall we say?" He smiled bitterly. "I thought it best not to remain where my morals would be tested so severely."

He took another sip of ale.

"We made some money, here and there. Nothing substantial, though. We eventually made our way to Greyhawk-"

"Greyhawk?" Nesco interrupted. "That's kind of _Out Of The Frying Pan_ for someone trying to stay on the straight and narrow, isn't it?"

Corvis laughed in a self-deprecating manner.

"Indeed so, fair Lady. Otoki warned me about Greyhawk- he'd been there before- but the allure was too strong for me, I confess. I figured in the Jewel of the Flanaess, there had to be _some_ honest gold to be made, right?"

He laughed again, but cut it short. His dark eyes- so deeply brown as to be almost black- went down to his ale mug.

"I forgot that honest money can have as dear a price tag as blood money."

The knight hesitated for a moment and then continued.

"We were at a tavern- the Hanged Man, I think it was- when Agarth strolled in. Tells you about the clientele of this place that he didn't get much of a reaction. Anyway, he heads over to this table packed with, oh, let's call them _adventurers_, shall we?"

He winked at them and went on.

"From what I was able to overhear, Agarth had hired this band to retrieve some items for him from Acheron."

"Acheron?" asked Garoidil, puzzled.

"The Infernal Battlefields," Nesco replied, her own expression grim now. "One of the planes. A place where armies clash forever without victory, respite or even cause."

Cygnus shot a questioning look at the ranger. She smiled thinly back at him.

"Acheron is the home of Hextor, Scourge of Battle and half-brother to Heironeous the Invincible One. From the dogma I learned as a child before I came to worship Zeus."

"We couldn't see what the items were," Corvis continued. "They were stored in a large chest, but Agarth opened the chest and looked in. Apparently he was satisfied by what he saw because he tossed these people a bag of gold the size of a prize sow, took the chest and disappeared into thin air."

"What are mercanes, anyway? Do you know?" Saxmund asked the knight.

"According to the leader of these men, they're a nomadic race. Not from our Material World. They all belong to large Merchant Houses. Many are also accomplished wizards. Buying, selling and trading magic items is one of their specialties."

Cygnus set his drink aside, folded his hands together in front of his face and peered intently at Sir Corvis. He didn't want to miss this part.

"I couldn't stop blabbing to Otoki. Easy money, I told him! I thought myself a fighting man of no small ability and Otoki had some," he paused again, "skills he'd learned in Kara-Tur. Skills unknown in the Flanaess. Unfortunately for us both, I convinced Otoki against his better judgment."

"How did you get into contact with Agarth?" asked Zantac, but Corvis shook his head in reply.

"We didn't. We introduced ourselves to the men around the table and asked how we could. Their leader- a mage himself," he nodded at the Willip wizard, "said that Agarth had contacted them, and hadn't left means that he could be reached. However, this wizard," here Corvis shrugged again, "I think his name was Morden-something-or-other; said he had a job that he'd gladly contract out to us, if I thought the two of us were up to the task."

Sir Corvis abruptly fell silent for a moment, and then picked up his ale mug, swigged the rest of it and set it back down hard on the table.

"Forgive me," he said, his soothing voice now noticeably harder. "But I don't think I want to go into the rest in detail. Not tonight. In brief, Morden hired us to investigate a place called Maure Castle in the Duchy or Urnst, just east of the Abbor-Alz Hills."

The knight's hands clenched into fists.

"The castle itself was a looted shell, but we found a tunnel leading underground. We didn't get far," he said and gave another self-deprecating laugh. This one however, was without any trace of humor.

"We couldn't get past the first accursed set of doors we came to. Can you imagine that? Couldn't even get past a lousy set of doors! Completely unopenable by any means we could employ. Eventually, we just gave up and turned back."

Corvis' features darkened. "Our first night on the trip home, we were attacked by gnolls. They'd been tracking us, I guess. I killed enough of them to make the rest retreat, but they mortally wounded Otoki."

He dabbed at his eyes. "And the oddest thing was, as I was cursing and howling at the skies above for what a fool I'd been, Otoki grabbed my hand and told me how I'd been right and he'd been wrong! Said it was better to die in a righteous attempt than live a life of safe shame. He made me promise to continue and try to raise the money for my family."

The knight wiped his nose with the back of his forearm, glanced down at his waist and looked up at Tojo.

"He gave me this," he said, touching the silk sash. "Called it an _obi_. I don't know why, but it held some special meaning for him."

Tojo said nothing.

"Otoki gave me much more than that, however," said Sir Corvis. "He taught me many things, including how to use language more effectively than most people can. He had- an appreciation for the beauty of the spoken word."

The knight suddenly took a deep breath and addressed Tojo directly again. When he did, his voice was as entrancing as it had ever been.

"A strong blade.  
Weapon of the samurai.  
Shining in the sun."

Tojo's eyes shot upwards and his mouth opened in astonishment. It only lasted a moment before the samurai recovered himself, but his stony expression could not now conceal the tensing of his jaw.

"Haiku," he said softly.

"What is that?" Nesco asked. "Poetry? It has quite a rhythm to it."

"Poetry of Ni-" Tojo caught himself. "My homerand. It is taught to some members of buke crass. Mastery of it can bring honor."

"Were you taught it, Tojo?" Nesco asked quietly, wondering- perhaps too late- if this question was dangerous.

The samurai glanced at the ranger, said nothing and then slowly settled his gaze on Sir Corvis' face.

Then he spoke.

"Gribness is common-  
Surface of a sharrow pool,  
Refrecting nothing."

The knight chewed his lip for a moment as he regarded Tojo.

Cygnus couldn't help but note that despite this unexpected common ground of Tojo and Corvis, the samurai's expression had, if anything, hardened further. Did Tojo resent this gaijin's use of a Nipponese art form? Or was it something else? And why had Tojo composed a poem about glibness?

Sir Corvis favored the samurai with a tight smile, then looked over towards a wall, his expression suggesting that he was seeing right through it to the cold, rainy evening outside.

"Deep forest is dark  
Chill winds echo through hollows  
Humans sleep at risk."

He cocked an eyebrow at Tojo, who did not hesitate in his reply as he looked over at the mess hall fireplace.

"Soothing rog fires  
Crackring sticks against the frames  
Wrapped up safe and warm."

Cygnus, Nesco and Zantac exchanged glances. Each could see the same realization mirrored in the other two's eyes.

_This isn't just recitation. It's a contest. _

A loud _thunk_ and a groan drew their attention. Kiprien was doubled over in pain from a punishing blow to his midsection. Grimdegn looked over at his sister and smiled.

"Idiot and sword  
Come together in practice  
Need a creric now."

Sir Corvis acknowledged Tojo's latest with a raised eyebrow. The next verse shot from his lips.

"Your predestined fate -  
When rash words precede sound thought  
Cold blanket of dirt."

The samurai's violet eyes narrowed now into slits.

"Diamond pattern of shierd.

Coat of arms of honesty

Once berong to snake."

Corvis' dark eyes blazed, but then the knight gave a deep sigh and inclined his head towards Tojo.

"I am clearly but a poser. I acknowledge your superiority once again, Master Samurai. Please forgive your humble servant."

Tojo gave a barely-perceptible nod. All those present relaxed.

"I was recently blessed to be able to afford a divination," Sir Corvis was now resuming his earlier line of conversation as if the haiku duel had never happened. "It told me Agarth was in this area. Whatever this mercane's faults may be, he's a cunning merchant and appraiser, I'm sure. That tells me that whatever he's after is worth the effort of finding and retrieving it. Whether I'll wind up working for or against him I don't know yet, but I'm willing to put everything on the line to get a piece of it. Even my life."

The knight looked around at each of his dinner companions in turn.

"I'm sadder but wiser these days. I'll need help. That much I'm certain of, and more than just one person's aid this time. That Morden wizard had six allies around his table, and I just happen to count six of you. What do you say, good people? Will we work together, with an equal share for all?"

"There are more than six of us," Saxmund said. "Four more are still two days ride away."

"And our leader is among them," added Cygnus.

Saxmund scowled at the tall mage. "That's not what I-"

"In any case," Cygnus cut off the rogue while still addressing the knight. "Time is against us. Agarth probably reached Ironstead tonight. Tomorrow morning he's sure to begin acting on whatever information he's acquired."

"And we're still a day from Ironstead," Nesco offered, her face sour. "That gives him a big head start."

Sir Corvis seemed to consider.

"Then let us postpone this question. I ask only to accompany you when you leave tomorrow morning. The talk is here that no portion of the Forest Road is safe from orc ambush these days."

"We would be delighted to share your company, noble Sir Corvis!" Aelfbi Gemblossom said with a wide smile and an encompassing gesture.

_We? You got a familiar in your pocket? _Cygnus' sulkiness was caught by Zantac's eye. The red-robed wizard gave his peer a commiserating look and then shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Agreed, then." Cygnus rose to his feet, and the others followed, heeding the mage's unspoken signal that it was time to turn in.

As they were leaving the mess hall, Nesco leaned in close to Cygnus.

"I think Talat is staying at Ironstead. At least she was as of a week ago. She's in disguise; blonde hair and such. They call her Hilda, but I'm sure it's her."

Cygnus took a deep breath. What with everything that had happened tonight, he'd completely forgotten about Talat, but now the cold knot reformed in the magic-user's stomach.

"Makes sense. She'd not get a very warm reception if they knew she was Nodyath's consort- and a former priestess of Hextor to boot." He frowned. "Hilda. That's the pseudonym Talass chose for herself when we were in disguise ourselves in Suderham, wasn't it?"

Lady Cynewine nodded. "Talass told me Hilda was the name of a childhood friend of hers."

"Then she was probably Talat's friend, as well. You're right, Nesco. That's got to be her." Cygnus could feel the anger slowly building in him again as he thought of Talat; of Nodyath. Images flashed his mind's eye. Writhing on the ground in agony. His son, bruised and crying-

"Cygnus."

He looked over. Nesco had laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Remember your promise to Aslan."

The mage took a deep breath.

"I will, Nesco." He gave a short, humorless chuckle. "You know what the most ironic thing about all this is?"

The ranger shook her head.

"My counterpart, Kingus. When we first met him, he was brooding on thoughts of vengeance, too. His younger sister had been murdered."

Nesco nodded. "Saxmund told me."

Her green eyes were full of sadness- and caring.

"Don't forget how that turned out, Cygnus."

* * *

Cygnus couldn't sleep.

The mage turned his thoughts over and over, throwing them out into the near-total darkness.

He was laying on the top cot of a bunk bed in one Laurellinn's long houses. Several families shared each one. Almost two dozen people were sharing the cramped confines of this one. The barest glimmer of light came from the dark woods through a small windowpane- less than a candle's worth.

Cygnus listened to the steady patter of the rain on the cabin's roof, felt the bunk bed shift as Zantac tossed and turned on the cot beneath him. The Willip wizard's sleep might be fitful, Cygnus thought, but at least it was real.

The mage's brain felt like it was spinning around inside his skull. He'd had too much to drink- and too much to think about. Studying to replace spells was out of the question.

What was he doing here? In theory, he was doing all this for Thorin, but tonight his son seemed as far away as he had ever been. He began to wonder if he should have come here at all.

Cygnus heard the front door open. Slowly. Then he heard it close in the same manner.

The wizard frowned. Everyone who lived here and their current guests were already inside. Furthermore, he heard no movement from any of the other bunks. Apparently, everyone was asleep but him.

He suddenly wished Tojo was here, but the samurai had chosen to sleep outside in a one-man tent. The he relaxed. This probably _was_ Tojo, come to tell him something and reluctant to wake up anyone else. He knew how silent the samurai could be when he wished. With some difficulty, he rolled over on his right side so he could see the approach of his friend.

A monstrous face was staring up at him, only inches away.

* * *

A hairy hand shot up and clamped down over the wizard's mouth.

"Thygnuth!" a rough voice whispered. "Thygnuth! Pleathe don't thrcream! It'th only me- Laerteth!"

It took a moment to register. It _was_ the half-orc youth. Although Cygnus was not proud to admit it, Laertes looked a lot uglier this close to him. The mage could see the grayish skin, the unruly hair, the jutting tusks. Even his breath was unpleasant; perilously close to foul, in fact.

Cygnus nodded to show his understanding and Laertes removed his hand.

"I'm thorry," the half-orc replied, looking down at the floor now and twisting his hands together. "I didn't mean to thcare you. I know how ugly I am- I juth wanted to talk to you alone. If I can."

Suddenly, Laertes looked and sounded a lot closer to Thorin- or to Tad- than anyone else. A burning shame rose in the mage's chest.

"Of course you can, Laertes. I'm sorry. You just startled me, that's all."

Laertes looked up at the wizard with an expression that indicated he knew that wasn't all it was, but his next words were on a completely different topic.

"You and your friendth- you're leaving for Ironthead in the morning, right? Going after Agarth?"

There wasn't any point in denying that. Half of Laurellinn probably knew it by now. Cygnus nodded silently.

Laertes hesitated, and then asked. "Can I come with you?"

Cygnus blinked in surprise.

"Why?"

"Well," Laertes said, shuffling his feet. The teenager looked embarrassed, but he also seemed to be trying to choose his words with care.

Words that would not highlight his dreaded lisp.

"The woman with red hair," he began. "When they were here in Goodmonth, at Ironthead, I thaw her. Her, the man, the half-elf and…"

"The other human woman?'

Silently, Laertes nodded.

"Why were you at Ironstead?"

"I go there a lot," Laertes replied. "Every tho often, they capture an orc near there. Thome of them don't know Common, or don't thpeak it very well. Like me."

He shrugged, wiped his eyes and continued. "I'd been helping them interrogate an orc. I don't remember exactly when, but thomhow the converthation got around to- Hilda."

"Hilda?" Cygnus repeated in astonishment. Below him, Zantac grunted and shifted again in his too-small cot.

"Hilda?" Cygnus whispered the name this time. "Are you sure?"

The half-orc nodded. "Yeth. The orc said hith tribe had been promithed much gold if they could kidnap her and bring her back alive to their lair."

Cygnus felt his throat go dry.

"Promised by whom?"

Laertes shook his head. "The orc didn't know hith name. Thaid he was a human, that wath it. He thaid the orcth called him Devil Chimeth."

_Devil Chimes?_ thought Cygnus. _What in Valhalla did that mean?_

"According to orc, human told hith chief that Hilda wath a very bad woman."

The youth's brown-grey eyes abruptly looked in Cygnus' face.

"Hilda is heavy with child, you know."

He nodded. "I know."

"Orc thay human want to take Hilda away. Thaid her baby muth be taken from her when it ith born."

Cygnus closed his eyes. _By the All-Father, _he thought as his stomach tightened up still further into painful lumps. He could feel a cold sweat form on the palms of his hands and he wiped them off on his sheet.

_Could this be Nodyath? And if it is, what happens if we run into him before Aslan's back with us?_

"According to prithoner, orc chief not care about Hilda, but Devil Chimeth give him thome gold and tell him he get much more if they bring Hilda to him. Other thingth, too, like magic itemth."

Laertes looked down at the floor again, apparently finished.

Cygnus tried to think. A _charm_ spell would certainly loosen this orc's tongue. "Do you think the Ironstead commander would let us speak to this orc prisoner, Laertes?"

Laertes hesitated before replying. "He dead by now. People here not like orcth."

The teenager's voice caught in his throat. "But you already thee that tonight."

There was silence in the cabin, except for a brief sniffling from the half-orc.

Cygnus tried to slow it all down. His mind, his breathing; everything was happening just too fast-

"Laertes," he suddenly found himself saying. "I would be very honored if you would accompany us to Ironstead tomorrow."

A wide smile came over the boy's face.

"Thank you, Thygnuth. Thank you."

He turned to leave, but Cygnus reached out and put a hand on Laertes' shoulder. The youth turned to look back at the mage.

"Laertes," Cygnus asked. "You still haven't told me. Exactly why do you want to go?"

The half-orc hesitated. "I think Hilda in great danger. Hope maybe you can help protect her."

Cygnus could never have imagined anything throwing his mind into even greater chaos than it already was, but this did.

_Protect Talat?_ he wanted to scream at the boy. _Do you know who this woman really is, Laertes? Do you know what she's done? Done to boys not much younger than yourself? Done to her own family? To my own counterpart? If you knew, you wouldn't want to protect her. In fact, you'd be helping the orcs to-_

Cygnus heard the sound of muffled crying and closed his eyes, suddenly wishing that Laertes would go away, wishing he hadn't agreed to-

Then Cygnus felt the tears well up behind his closed eyelids.

Laertes wasn't crying. He was.

Everything seemed to drain away from the mage. Right then, Cygnus wanted to do nothing more than sleep. He didn't want to think or feel about anything anymore.

If Laertes had noticed Cygnus' tears, he said nothing. He seemed to be peering around the cabin, avoiding the wizard's gaze.

Cygnus took one more deep breath. He had just one more question and then he would everything go until morning, hoping to the very gods themselves that some of this would make sense under the morning light.

"Laertes," he asked. "Why do you want to protect Hilda? You don't even know her."

Laertes looked back up at him, and now tears were in the half-orc's eyes as well.

"Hilda wath very kind to me. We would thit and talk thometimeth. Thee know orc language. Not afraid to thpeak it with me tho I not have to hear mythelf lithp."

He shrugged helplessly.

"I juth think- I think Hilda not a bad woman. I think- think thee may be a very good perthon after all."

* * *

Sleep still wouldn't come to Cygnus, even after Laertes had crept back out of the cabin. The wizard knew now he wasn't going to get any sleep at all tonight, and prayed that he'd be able to make it up on the two-day journey to Ironstead. Prayed that the orcs or whatever fell forces laired in the nearby forest would leave them alone just this once.

Prayed that, when the time came, he would know whom to trust.

Who could he trust? Sir Corvis? Laertes? Hilda?

Didn't these people know how much trusting the wrong person could hurt you?

Cygnus felt his heart pound like a hammer in his chest as he waited for the first rays of morning light.

And the very worst thing about the idea of trust these days, he thought to himself with a sickening lurch that made him want to vomit…

The very worst thing of all was that Cygnus didn't even know if he could trust himself.


	202. Information At Ironstead

**7****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Ironstead, Furyondy**

"We're almost there."

It was Saxmund, riding at the fore of the group, who made the announcement, but to Lady Cynewine it was unnecessary. She'd been to Ironstead more times than the two (now three) times the rogue had, and knew this road as well as anyone present. The twists and turns of the surrounding forest landscape told the ranger their position as well as the lights and voices now becoming discernable just ahead did.

She and Laertes were riding abreast just behind the red-haired woman and Cygnus. The young half-orc had halted his impromptu attempts to teach Nesco several phrases in orcish when Saxmund has spoken up; the first thing she had said since sunset. Laertes immediately fell silent. It was easy for Nesco to see that the teenager was nervous, although she wasn't sure why.

Lady Cynewine had found Laertes a surprisingly pleasant riding companion; more so than she had expected. The youth had confessed that he had heard rumors about the ranger's resignation from the Azure Order, and had made a mumbled, almost inaudible comment about "outcasts" needing to band together.

One conversation with Laertes that Nesco had overheard had been that same morning, when the eight individuals had set out from Laurellinn. She'd seen Cygnus take the young half-orc aside. It was obvious to her that the mage did not wish to be overheard, and that puzzled Nesco. She didn't know what the tall mage might want to keep from everyone else. To be sure, Cygnus had a reputation for secrecy, if not downright paranoia, but Nesco still found herself irritated at the idea of being kept in the dark.

Several moments later, she also found herself behind a tree about twenty feet from the two.

"_I don't want you saying anything to anyone else about what you heard from that orc. About Devil Chimes, or the fact that the orcs may be looking for Hilda now."_

_Laertes looked confused. "But why not?_

"_I have my reasons," Cygnus stated bluntly, "and if you want us to help Hilda, you're just going have to trust me on this, Laertes."_

_The half-orc had glumly looked down at the forest floor and sighed. "All right, Thygnuth. I pro- I won't tell anyone."_

Cygnus had nodded and looked satisfied. Nesco however, was now burning with curiosity. Devil Chimes? Who or what in blazes was that?

Unfortunately, Nesco knew she'd have to live with what she'd heard. She'd never confront Cygnus about it- the last thing Nesco wanted was to be the cause of any more party friction.

And so she'd concentrated on spending time with Laertes, careful to avoid bringing up any awkward subjects, such as the orcs of the Vesve.

By far the most surprising thing that she did discover was that Laertes worshipped the Olympians. Less surprising was the identity of the person who had introduced the worship of these ancient deities to him.

_He'd nodded. "It wath Thir Damothene. I'd never had a problem with worthipping The Invinthible One, but other people," and here he gave a shrug, "they made me feel guilty about it. Like- like I wathn't clean enough to worthip a human god."_

_Nesco had been silent. As a teenager, she too had listened to Damoscene spin tales of the Olympians many a time. It had been her inner nature, rather than Laertes' outer appearance, that had finally led her to pledge her soul to the gods of Mount Olympus, but the heart of the matter remained the same._

_Inside, Nesco Cynewine had always felt- different._

"_So," she had asked. "Is there one in particular that appeals to you?"_

_Shyness never looked like a good fit on a half-orc's face- they didn't blush well-, but Laertes still managed it with his grin. "Hephaestus."_

_That surprised Nesco even more. "The God of the Forge?"_

_The youth had nodded and shown her a tattoo on his upper sword arm. It wasn't very well done- Nesco had earlier mistaken it for a battle scar- but now that the ranger looked closely there was a definite resemblance to the outline of a hammer and anvil._

"_Why so?" Lady Cynewine was curious to know. "Do you aspire to become a smith?"_

_Laertes shook his head. "He'th ugly like me, but everyone honorth him for hith thkill. Damothene told me that in olden timeth, clericth of Hephaestus would hold a theremony to welcome young children into the community. They would help prepare them to become apprentitheth."_

_Nesco had gone silent again. Her instinctual response- to tell Laertes he wasn't that ugly at all- would have been quickly seen as the patronizing gesture that it was. And it was quickly observant to the ranger that the boy's devotion to the god Hephaestus had not been completely ignored._

_The name of that deity was the one word that the half-orc pronounced without a lisp of any kind._

"_And bethideth," Laertes had smiled again at winked at Nesco, "look who he'th married to!"_

* * *

Behind them, Aelfbi Gemblossom and Yanigasawa Tojo rode silently on.

The samurai had generally taken little notice of the half-elf. The sole exception was when they had started out from Laurellinn. Sir Damoscene, his knights and followers were leaving with them, but their armor and heavy gear would force their mounts to move at a slower gait. The Ranger Lord had again warned them to be vigilant. Although there was a fair amount of traffic on this stretch of the Forest Road, the patrols couldn't be everywhere. Orcs and sometimes worse were known to have it under observation at all times.

Gemblossom had sighed and opened the straps of the saddlebag currently attached to his horse.

_Tojo's eyebrows rose in wonder. It looked for all the world like the saddlebag was full to bursting with autumn leaves. A riot of gold, yellow, orange and red. The priest of Lady Goldenheart had quickly plunged his hands into the mass of leaves. Tojo assumed that he was reaching for some object hidden inside. Perhaps Aelfbi had merely used the leaves as packing material- that seemed in character for him- but then the cleric had pulled out the leaves themselves._

_Not one scattered._

_To the samurai's astonishment, Aelfbi pulled out leggings, arm coverings, pauldrons and all the pieces of a suit of armor, complete with darkwood studs. Yet the entire suit itself was composed of- leaves._

_Tojo had to consciously will himself not to gape as he watched Saxmund help her friend into the armor. Perhaps the leaves had been ensorcelled to have the same consistency as firm but supple leather hide._

_Aelfbi had noticed him watching. "Leafweave armor," he commented with a small smile. "Alchemically treated. I don't enjoy wearing it, but those who serve Hanali Celani are not such fools as some humans seem to think."_

_Tojo had swallowed hard. This was craftsmanship such as he had never heard of- he doubted even the legendary Rosuko Mitsune could have constructed such a suit of armor. The honor accruing to any samurai deemed worthy to wear such a suit would be equally legendary._

_He had eventually found his voice. _

"_Most impressive. Such armor- common to your peoper?"_

"_No," Aelfbi had replied, shaking his head. He now seemed unusually taciturn. "No."_

_Tojo felt a burning pain within his chest. To the half-elf, this masterpiece of armory was nothing more than a burden- a reminder of imminent danger. But to him, samurai of the Yanigasawa, it reminded him of-_

_Tojo had said little more during the ride. Aelfbi had initially tried various topics of small talk and then eventually gave up. The cleric occupied his time by whittling a tree branch into what looked like it was going to be a flute._

* * *

In the rear rode Zantac and Sir Corvis.

After they had started out, the knight had entertained the Willip wizard with more examples of haiku for a while and then settled into a kind of pleasant, sparse conversation.

Until one question had nearly made Zantac fall off his horse.

"_So how do you intend to move the steelsphere, Zantac?"_

_The red-robed mage had gawked at his fellow rider, but Corvis offered only an easy smile in return._

"_Naturally, I spoke with Saxmund before we left. She gave me the bare facts."_

"_Willingly?"_

_Sir Corvis eyed Zantac. He was now frowning._

"_And why would she not?"_

"_Let me rephrase that. Knowingly?"_

_The knight raised an eyebrow. His smile returned._

"_I'm no wizard like you, Zantac. I have no power to compel people against their will."_

"_Maybe not, but from what I've seen from riding with her these past few days, getting information out of Saxmund is like trying to talk a dragon out of its hoard."_

_To Zantac's surprise, Sir Corvis looked thoughtful. "I've never tried that," he mused, seemingly to himself, his voice soft. "I wonder…"_

_He then looked back over at Zantac and smiled._

"_She didn't think it any great breach of confidentiality. Besides, when she, Aelfbi and their friend Garoidil first arrived here months ago, there were some to whom she told more of their story to others. Some of those so entrusted remained quiet, but others…"_

_And here he shrugged._

_Zantac chewed his lip as he considered how to respond. What does Corvis know? Does he know about the Mary Celestial? The Three Worlds? And dare I ask him? If he doesn't know, I might pique his curiosity enough to try and get the rest of the story out of me. I like this Sir Corvis, but…_

_The mage took a deep breath, tried to adjust his position on his saddle to make it more comfortable- a maneuver that had yet to work even once- and decided to just answer the knight's initial query. After all, the answer to that one was simple enough._

"_I have no idea, Sir Corvis. To move that sphere would take spells far beyond my knowledge."_

"_But I'm sure you've been thinking about it," he pressed. "Mulling ideas over in your mind."_

"_Sure," Zantac conceded. "But I've yet to pull forth a solution. If one does exist, I'm suspecting it will involve teams of draft animals and a cart or sled built for the task, not magecraft."_

_Sir Corvis seemed to digest that. "And what of the ownership controversy?"_

"_What of it?"_

"_If it should be ruled that the sphere does not belong to Saxmund, will you assist her in claiming it nonetheless?"_

_Zantac had thought he had acclimated to the knight's questions, but the leaden feeling in his chest told him that he had not._

"_You're a curiosity, Sir Corvis." When at last Zantac felt able to speak, he decided to choose his words with extreme care. Looking at the knight only out of the corner of his eye now, Zantac continued. "I haven't met many knights who would advocate resistance to legitimate authority."_

"_Ignorance can be dangerous, Zantac." Corvis was not smiling now. "If there is still magic to be uncovered in this sphere, who would be more qualified to possess it than those who already had? Or skillful wizards such as yourself?"_

_Zantac hadn't been able to come up with an answer to that question that he liked, so he produced only a shrug of his own in reply. Sir Corvis said no more on the topic, but his smile had returned as he looked away, gazing into the forest._

* * *

Cygnus and Saxmund watched as a patrol passed them going in the opposite direction, marching from Ironstead south to Laurellinn.

They were impressive. Twenty infantrymen, clad in splint mail, which essentially consisted of iron strips, beaten thin and riveted onto a suit of leather armor. Over these, they wore tabards emblazoned with the national crest of Furyondy. Most carried kite shields. Some carried halberds, some longbows and some longswords.

A knight commander on horseback led the group. He nodded tersely at the group as he led his men past.

"Elite infantry," Saxmund had remarked to Cygnus after the soldiers had gone by. "The best this kingdom has to offer, from what I've heard. I wouldn't want to tangle with them."

"Neither would Hilda," Cygnus said.

Saxmund narrowed her eyes at the mage, but said nothing.

Cygnus could feel the anger; try as he might to tamp it down, it was starting to build within him again.

"I know that's Talat, Saxmund," he hissed at her, softly enough so that Nesco and Laertes behind them could not overhear. "I also know she'd be arrested on the spot if they found out her true identity. You're putting yourself in great danger by concealing her in this fashion."

He paused. "And by extension, us as well. Unlike you, we've sworn oaths of fealty to the king here."

The rogue seemed unperturbed. "There'll be no problem unless you make one. Talat is smart enough to say nothing incriminating, and with any luck, we'll all be gone soon enough, anyway."

Cygnus raised an eyebrow.

"We? If you can actually pull this off and get back to the _Mary Celestial_, Talat's not coming with you to Rolex, is she?"

Saxmund looked at the wizard with some surprise.

"Of course she is. I assumed you knew that."

"Why would I?" asked Cygnus gruffly. "She's native to this world. Why would she want to leave it again, especially considering how disastrous her last journey into the astral was?"

Saxmund chewed her lip before replying, her green eyes looking away from Cygnus as she did so.

"She wants to protect her child. She says there's no place on Oerth that Nodyath won't be able to find them, so she has to leave."

Cygnus suddenly couldn't find any words. He was glad Saxmund wasn't looking at him at the moment, for it gave the mage time to hide his own grief-stricken face from her.

_By the All-Father_, the magic-user thought. _Talat's doing what I want to do for Thorin and myself! She's doing exactly what I would be doing!_

Not only did Cygnus not know what to say; now he didn't even know what to think.

* * *

The general layout of Ironstead was similar to Laurellinn, although the party was able to see the outpost at a greater distance than they had the logging camp. For one, Ironstead was situated on a plateau and was also surrounded by a large cleared area in which various crop fields lay. They produced enough food here, Nesco knew, not only to feed themselves, but to supply Laurellinn with grains and vegetables as well.

The wooden stockade wall surrounding Ironstead was also taller and sported many more watchtowers than did Laurellinn's. Torches and continual flames could be seen inside the towers, illuminating the stern faces of the night guards who peered into the dark recesses of the surrounding Vesve for any sign of trouble.

Nesco had sent a scout on ahead to inform the Commander, a man named Major Standish, that she and her allies needed to speak with him upon their arrival, despite the late hour. Now, as the octet rode their horses inside the large wooden gates, she saw the scout standing about twenty yards off to their right. He nodded at her, signifying that her request had been granted.

Of course, that didn't mean Major Standish might not be in a foul mood for being disturbed.

As they dismounted and handed their steeds over to arriving stable boys, Nesco saw Zantac gazing wistfully off to their left, where Ironstead's inn, _King Belvor's Arms,_ lay invitingly open.

"After we meet with the major, Zantac," she told him. "You'll be on your own if it's drinking you want, though, I want nothing so much right now as a warm bed."

The red-robed wizard gave the ranger a smile that she thought was tired, sad and naughty all at the same time.

"Don't we all, Lady Cynewine?"

She smiled at him and together, they walked through the scattered buildings towards the Garrison headquarters. Tojo, Sir Corvis, Aelfbi and Laertes followed.

* * *

Saxmund, who had been moving off in a different direction, suddenly felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder.

A hand with more than enough strength to stop her in her tracks.

The rogue turned quickly, one hand already reaching for a dagger, but then she saw that the hand belonged to Cygnus.

Given the expression on the tall mage's face however, Saxmund did not relax.

"I'm coming with you, Saxmund," Cygnus stated flatly as he removed his hand. "I'll not have you warning _Hilda _beforehand."

Saxmund glared at him. "You also won't be laying a hand on her, Cygnus," she shot back. "Aslan told me you swore not to-"

"I swore not to harm her," the Aardian wizard growled. "But she _will_ speak to me, Saxmund, and on my terms, not hers. And if she refuses, I'll be all too happy to inform the garrison here of their true identity. It'll be them harming her then, not me."

Saxmund tried to keep staring at Cygnus, but the rogue just couldn't and dropped her gaze.

Cygnus knew why. Saxmund just couldn't keep looking that closely at the counterpart to the man she'd loved.

_And the heavens be damned if I'm not going to use that against her any time I need to,_ thought the wizard.

"Now who's splitting hairs?" Saxmund muttered, but she moved on towards a darker section of buildings. Personal residences starting to close down for the night. Cygnus followed.

* * *

Major's Standish's office consisted of two connected wooden cabins, one larger than the other. Nesco, taking the lead as they approached, turned to face the others.

"Please, everyone be careful with what you say. Because you're with me, we'll all be considered representatives of Furyondy. I want to feel out the woodsmen's position on this matter before we go making any requests."

Zantac looked confused. "I'm sorry, Nesco. I don't understand. Aren't we still in Furyondy? Doesn't everyone here serve King Belvor?"

Nesco sighed. "Yes and no, Zantac. In the Vesve, Furyondan territory only extends along the Forest Road and then only up until here, Ironstead. The woodsmen and others who live in the southern Vesve are independent. Now they're always been strong supporters of the Royal Court, but they dislike having their service being taken for granted. Major Standish, the infantry guard," and here she pointed at several soldiers heading towards the garrison, "and many others are Furyondan natives, but many others are not. I'm just asking you to think before you speak, that's all."

Zantac shrugged. "Argo's not here, so there shouldn't be a problem."

Nesco was about to reply that it was not always Bigfellow's tongue that had gotten them into trouble, but the sight of Laertes pointing wide-eyed towards Standish's cabin stopped her.

"What ith _that?"_ asked the young half-orc, his face wide with wonder.

Sitting outside the closed door of the cabin was a great dire cat. Even resting on its haunches, the top of its head was level with Gemblossom's. It was a tawny yellow in color and had smooth, sleek fur except around its head and neck. These sported a wild and unkempt mane of long hair.

"It's a lion," said Aelfbi, as if he didn't quite believe it himself. "I've seen them on the great plains of southern Weralt. They're hunting cats; predators." The half-elf frowned. "From what I saw though, they prefer climes much warmer than this."

"Maybe it's some great wizard's pet," offered Sir Corvis. The knight had his arms crossed across his chest, and seemed to find the sight of the lion as much amusing as amazing.

"If so, he'd better get his money back," Zantac said, peering intently at the creature. "I think it's dead."

The creature did not move a muscle even as they slowly approached it. It stared blankly ahead. As they drew nearer, the party could see bony protrusions around the lion's eyes and shoulders. At all its joints the creatures hide seemed to be bunched up in a way that didn't look quite- right. There were slits in the cat's skin at these bunches, but no sign of blood on any of them- dried or otherwise.

Zantac stared into the lion's eyes. They were dull, black and (it seemed to the wizard) glassy. It certainly didn't seem to be aware of him.

Nesco was tentatively reaching forward to touch the great cat's fur when she heard someone call her name.

The ranger looked up to see one of the king's infantrymen approaching.

"The Major is waiting for you inside," he said, with the unmistakable air in his manner that indicated Major Standish did not like to be kept waiting.

Lady Cynewine nodded and motioned to the others. Sir Corvis, the closest to the door, reached out to pull it open.

"Stop!" the soldier said harshly. Corvis froze in mid-gesture.

"The door is magically trapped. Only those with a password may enter." He rapped on the door with his gauntlet. "Major?" he called out. "Lady Cynewine and her companions are here."

Even from the other side of the stout oaken door, the Major's sigh was audible. There was the sound of creaking wood, then footsteps, and then the door was opened a crack.

"Come on in," a gruff voice said. There followed the sounds of footsteps heading back into the room's interior.

* * *

The Major's office was not posh by any means. From the light of a hanging lantern, the party could see a large wooden desk and chair that took up the center of the room, which was no more than twenty-five feet to a side. Three of the four walls were decorated with large tapestries. One contained the three-crown/crescent moon standard of Furyondy. Another showed two crossed hammers on a white background above green waves. This was the crest of the Barony of Littleberg, the Furyondan province they were currently in. The third tapestry showed a fist clenching a lightning bolt; the symbol of Heironeous.

Several large vellum maps of the Vesve were spread out on the desk. A rather worn chair sat behind it. A cot lay pushed up against one wall. A chest of drawers was situated against another. Several bottles of various liquors were on top of it. Most were half-empty.

Major Standish was currently easing back down into his chair behind the desk. He appeared about forty or so, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair and matching goatee. The major wore a grayish, loose shirt, fastened on the front with ties. His boots looked to be of good quality- leather, dyed back and rising half-way to his knees, but his leather breeches looked in need of repair. A longsword in its scabbard rested against the side of the desk.

The major finished rubbing his eyes and looked up at the six people currently entering his office. His expression was tired and although he didn't actually look angry, Standish also didn't look like a man who got a lot of good news, and certainly wasn't expecting any at this time of night.

His tan eyes, somewhat bloodshot, alighted on Nesco Cynewine. A grimace that might be mistaken for a faint smile at a distance flit across his face. He raised his fist in salute.

"Cold iron avail you, Lady Cynewine."

She returned the gesture in kind. Zantac had heard the phrase often since they had entered the Vesve, and presumed it to be a reference to the alleged weakness of many of Iuz's servants.

Nesco made the introductions. The major nodded at them all.

"Laertes. Good to see you again." His voice was cordial but neutral.

The half-orc, who had backed up against a wall upon entering, nodded respectfully but said nothing.

The major turned his attention to the half-elf.

"Aelfbi Gemblossom. I had not expected you to return here so soon. And what of your friends, Saxmund and Garoidil? Are they here?"

"They're well," Aelfbi replied with a smile. "Saxmund has turned in for the night and Garoidil should be joining us in several days."

"Are you intending to sign up again?" Standish asked, standing up. "You're more than welcome to do so. Especially you, Gemblossom. We're in constant need of healers. Seems like things are getting worse every day." He began to shift through the maps on his desk, revealing papers underneath. "I have a contract under here somewhere…"

The priest hesitated and looked over at Nesco. She understood and, reluctantly, decided that she should take the lead.

"Actually, Major, our primary purpose here concerns the steelsphere."

Major Standish looked up at Nesco, sighed heavily again and sat back down.

"I was afraid you'd say that. Are you with that blasted blue giant?"

"Agarth?" asked Zantac.

"Do you know any other giants?" Standish suddenly snapped. The officer's right hand clenched and unclenched as he spoke. When he looked over at Nesco again, his face was tight with tension.

"Let me tell you something, Lady Cynewine. That metal sphere's been nothing but a giant headache to me. We've yet to get any useful benefit from it, and it could very well wind up hurting us severely in the long haul!"

Nesco tried on her best diplomatic voice. "Forgive me, Major. While I know about Aelfbi and her friends' journey here in the sphere, I know very little of what's happened since then. If you could explain the situation to us, I think we may be able to help you."

Major Standish stared at her for a moment, opened a drawer in his desk, took a mug from it, got up again, walked over to the cabinet and poured himself a drink from one of the bottles before returning with it to his desk and sitting down again.

He took a large gulp from it, looked for an open spot on the desk, found none, then shrugged and put it back in the drawer. He did not offer any to the party.

"All right," he said, his voice a touch thicker now. He pointed at one of the maps on his desk. "This area here is where the damn thing landed."

Nesco considered. "About fifteen leagues from here. Almost due west."

Standish grunted. "Took us a while to find it. Since Aelfbi and his friends here aren't from the Flanaess, they weren't able to give us a very good description. Once we'd found it and sent word down south, I received a message from the Royal Court, stating that we were to keep the sphere out of unfriendly hands until the Master Elementalist mages from Chendl could come here and take it away."

"Well," he continued, his anger now visible. "That was months ago, and there always seems to be something more important for Karzalin and his fellow mages to be involved in than taking care of this business!" He picked up the mug and drained it. "Damn all wizards, anyway."

Zantac cleared his throat. "Present company excepted, I hope?" he asked with a weak smile.

Standish glanced at Zantac, seemed to just realize he was an arcanist and grunted something in the affirmative.

"I'm sorry, major," Nesco said, as sympathetically as she could. "I still don't understand. Why is the steelsphere such a headache to you?"

"Because," Standish replied wearily, "I have to have guards posted at that thing day and night. The main problem is secrecy. Even though I doubt they'd be able to move it any more than we can, if orcs- and I'm talking about those in service to the Old One- found it, they'd launch a never-ending series of raids to take possession of it, and the location where it landed is closer to their base of operations than ours. We'd never be able to hold it."

"How have you been able to hide it from them?" Laertes asked, his voice filled with wonder.

The major allowed himself a grim smile. "I've decided, on my own authority, to construct a sled onsite to bring that thing back here. Damn thing weighs over 8 tons from what I've been told. We had our strongest warrior out there, _strength_ potion and all, trying to get that thing rolling. All he got for his trouble was a hernia." He rummaged through the papers and pulled out one that showed an architect's drawing of a sled. He tossed it to them, Nesco barely catching it.

The ranger looked. The picture showed a large platform on top of wooden logs used as rollers, attached to eight teams of draft horses. Mobile pulleys, with attached hooks, formed a framework around the sled. Nesco was no engineer, but it looked feasible.

"Seems like a good idea," she said as she passed the picture around to the others.

"Fenlun designed it. Said it should work," Standish replied with a shrug. Nesco didn't know who Fenlun was, but she didn't want to ask and disrupt the major's chain of thought.

"The problem is," he said, rubbing his eyes again in weariness. He yawned and continued. "As I said, secrecy. All the people at the crash site need to be kept supplied, and even orcs, stupid as they are, would soon come across a trail that long and be able to follow it back to the sphere."

Laertes frowned and stared at the floor.

"So we've been taking extraordinary measures," Standish continued. "No horses are allowed out there, and all parties going out or coming back must cover their tracks as they go. I've had druids as I can spare them removing signs of passage as I can, but it's too big an area for that to be absolutely foolproof."

"Fifteen leagues- that's almost the distance from Laurellinn to here," Sir Corvis commented. "If you're hiding all traces of a supply trail as you claim, how do you ensure no one gets lost on the way? Maps?"

Zantac was impressed. This was the first thing Corvis had said since the introductions, and it was a good question. The only thing Zantac hated worse than wandering around in the wilderness was wandering around in the wilderness, lost.

For answer though, Major Standish merely looked over to Nesco.

"No. Maps can fall into the hands of raiders. Trail signs," she explained. "The rangers here can leave innocuous signs- stones, branches and so forth- to indicate a message."

"According to Sir Damoscene, you were always very good at that," Standish said as Nesco blushed. "He's due to arrive here tomorrow to take over the position of Patrol Leader for a while. If any of you are going to sign up-"

"Forgive our rudeness," Sir Corvis said smoothly, "but we don't want to take up any more of your time tonight than we have to. Let us finish our discussion quickly. I believe you were referring to the mercane, Agarth?"

Nesco hesitated, wondering if Standish would get angry for being interrupted, but the major seemed not to mind.

"Polite enough he was, I suppose." The major scowled at the memory. "For a giant, anyway. Pretty sly, anyway. Trying to pry information out of me- didn't get far, though," he finished with a self-satisfied expression.

Zantac caught Nesco's eye and saw his own skepticism about the major's last statement mirrored there.

"Did you allow him to travel to the site?' asked Lady Cynewine, turning back to the base commander.

Major Standish threw his hands up in the air in disgust. "Of course I did! What blasted choice did I have?"

"What?" exclaimed Zantac. "Did he threaten-"

But Standish was shaking his head. "You don't understand how it works here," he said, and then took another deep breath and rubbed his eyes again. Just as Zantac was about to ask for an explanation with less courtesy than he should have used, the major spoke up again.

"It's this way, see," he explained, again gesturing to the maps in front of him. "That sphere came down here." He pointed again at a spot in the forest. "That's beyond the kingdom's boundaries. Now the Royal Court has made it clear that they consider this object the property of the king- whenever they finally decide to come up here and claim it," he added with a snort. "But since it's currently lying in the forest I have no authority to stop anyone from going there, as long as they follow my security procedures."

"What do the woodsmen here have to say about that?" asked Sir Corvis.

Standish made a gesture of helplessness. "They're not organized like we are. There is no central authority figure to make a case to the Court. They're trying to elect one now, but the woodsmen move even slower than the Royal Court does in matters of politics. Of course, all this means I have to use my own men. Not only for guard duty, but for supplies as well. Thus, my headache. We've got orcs, goblinoids, gnolls and worse around here, and not nearly enough manpower to keep them at bay all the time. Every sword arm is worth its weight in platinum to me."

"You do remember," Aelfbi said quietly, "that Saxmund has claimed salvager's rights on the steelsphere."

"She can have the blasted thing for all I care!" Standish shot back. "But it's out of my hands! You'll have to petition the king!"

He turned to address Nesco again. "Of course, they've probably got a good chance with you pleading for them, Lady Cynewine. The word of an Azure Order member goes far."

Nesco went pale. _He doesn't know! Word hasn't reached here yet!_

Keenly aware that everyone was watching her, Lady Cynewine settled for what she was sure was a very bad attempt at a smile. She was glad that she had left her current shield with her horse.

"When did Agarth leave?" asked Sir Corvis, redirecting the subject again.

"This morning," came the reply. "Had three bodyguards with him. They wanted to use their horses, but I turned them down flat. They weren't very happy about that." Standish chuckled mirthlessly. "Serves 'em right! Hope the whole lot of 'em gets lost en route!"

"On foot and covering their tracks," murmured Sir Corvis, looking at Nesco.

The ranger quickly realized where the knight was heading and turned back to address the major.

"These mercenaries. What kind of armor were they wearing?"

"Chain."

Nesco did some calculating in her head. That would slow them down still more.

"About a league and a half per day," she estimated aloud. "A good week and a half to get there. If we leave tomorrow morning-" Zantac began, but Corvis interrupted him.

"We'll still get there a day behind them. Lady Cynewine and I wear the same chainmail and I daresay neither one of us wishes to forego that protection."

"We're in no condition to leave tonight and force march it," protested Nesco, shaking her head. "We'd be in no shape to fight off any ambush."

"Need horses. Must go mounted. Must beat Agarth to sphere."

Everyone in the office turned to look at Yanigasawa Tojo.

The samurai, who had not said a word all evening, was now gazing calmly at Sir Corvis.

"Impossible!" said Standish. "I told you that already!"

But Tojo did not appear to be listening to the major. His violet eyes were locked upon the face of the Elredd knight.

Sir Corvis stared back at Tojo. The knight's lips were pressed together, and his entire bearing seemed tense and rigid. After a moment, he took a deep breath and walked over to Major Standish.

"My good sir," he said, putting an arm around the major's shoulders and steering him away to a far corner of the room. "A private moment of your time, if I may…"

Corvis' voice faded into indistinctiveness. Standish was still protesting, but soon his words were lost to hearing as well.

No one moved.

Zantac walked over to Tojo.

"Something you're not telling us, Tojo?"

The samurai's eyes were dancing now, unwilling to alight on the mage's face. That alone gave Zantac his answer.

"Not certain yet, Zantac-san." Tojo rarely whispered, but he was doing so now. "Have onry theory, but-"

"All right, all right!"

Standish had turned around and was now addressing all of them. Corvis unobtrusively slipped to a far corner.

"You can have your horses, now that I realize how important this matter is. You should have just told me straight off," the major grunted, then looked at them all severely. "But that makes it even more imperative that you cover your tracks! Lady Cynewine, as a ranger, I'm counting on you!"

Nesco was bewildered but still managed to nod. "Um, yes, major. Thank you sir. We all appreciate it."

And at that point, there was a cry of pain from beyond the office's other door. It was followed by an exclamation, but not in the human tongue.

Nesco drew Sundancer, but Major Standish held up his hands.

"At ease, Lady Cynewine! That's only Fenlun Herlendal! He's a mage from Highfolk who's volunteered to examine this matter. Fenlun! You all right in there?"

"Sweet as cider," came a voice from without. It was slightly high-pitched; not very loud, but the sarcasm it carried was evident. "Just cut my finger is all. Send the flowers to my family, will you?"

The major gave an exasperated sigh. "He's already been out to the sphere and now he's examining the remains of that golem you destroyed," he finished, looking over at Aelfbi Gemblossom.

The half-elf's eyes widened. "It's here?"

"The pieces are. Fenlun!" the officer shouted. "A group of travelers are here! Can they talk with you?"

"Exactly what did I say that sounded like _Yes, I'd love to be disturbed for no good reason?"_

"One of them is Aelfbi Gemblossom. He's one of the three that came down in the steelsphere."

There was a pause.

"Send them in."

The major gestured to the group and then added, "I'm turning in for the night, Fenlun! See that everything is secure when you leave, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Sleep tight, major. Don't let the ankhegs bite."

Major Standish rolled his eyes and stomped out of the office, muttering an indistinct password just before he yanked the door open. His parting words came back to the party just before he slammed the door shut behind him.

"Damn all wizards, anyway."

* * *

The rear room was more dimly lit than they had been expecting. Aelfbi didn't seem to mind, but the others blinked, taking a few moments to let their eyes adjust to the reduced light.

This room- normally a conference room of some kind, Nesco knew- had been converted into a makeshift engineer's lab. Three long tables, twenty feet long each, took up most of the room's space. They lay parallel to each other, with their long axis facing the party.

As best as they could see, the tables, each covered with a white linen cloth, were covered in metal pieces. Some were no larger than a man's thumb, but others were the size of a metal shield.

If this golem that Aelfbi and his companions had defeated had been humanoid, it didn't look it. Towards the back of one of the tables, they could see a metallic head, but it looked like it was wearing some kind of great helm, with a horizontal black slit serving as a visor. On another table two severed metallic tentacles lay, as if they had been cut from the shoulders of an iron displacer beast. Each ended in a pincer claw, and between the pincers was what looked like a silver nozzle.

"Those were gas dischargers," murmured Aelfbi to Zantac, who nodded, impressed at the golem's construction.

"Look at that," whispered Laertes, poking his arm from behind Sir Corvis, where he almost seemed to be hiding.

On the same table that held the creature's head a space had been cleared for several scales, measuring sticks and materials designed to gauge the hardness of test materials. Those Zantac recognized, but there were other instruments whose functions he couldn't even guess at.

In the midst of these a hawk sat. This was what the young half-orc was pointing at.

It looked to be made of copper, and was clearly mechanical in origin. About the size of an owl, the hawk's beak appeared to glow very dimly, as if it had just swallowed a candle flame.

The bird tilted its head. It flapped its wings with a mechanical clatter and then resumed its silent vigil, keeping an eye on the party.

Nesco Cynewine had given all of this no more than a momentary glimpse. She was looking for the one thing she had expected this room to have, which it apparently did not.

An occupant.

The middle table, or at least the half closest to the door, seemed to be mostly taken up with the sphere golem's torso, which was laying on its side. It was impossible to see more, because at the very end of the table was a large-brimmed, brown leather hat. All they could see of it was the top, as it was propped up on its side. It seemed oddly- _organic_- compared with everything else in this room.

Nesco cleared her throat. "Hello?" she called out.

"No need to shout, longshanks," replied the hat. "I'm right here."

The hat tilted up. Nesco drew in a breath of surprise as she saw two eyes regarding her.

There was a gnome under the hat.

* * *

They hadn't noticed him immediately because the gnome had been laying on his side, apparently tinkering with the golem torso's interior. Now he straightened up with a sigh, stretched his arms, cracked his knuckles and sat there, legs dangling off the side of the table like a child, looking at them.

Just under three-and-a-half feet tall and weighing maybe forty pounds or so, Fenlun Herlendal sported a full beard, dark brown in color; somewhat rare among his kind. His skin was a shade of brown only slightly lighter than his hair, and that was almost exactly the same shade of brown as his outfit.

Fenlun was clad head to foot in brown leather. It might function as crude armor, Nesco thought, but its real purpose seemed to be more for function than for combat. His leather jacket was absolutely covered with sewn-on leather loops, each designed to hold a small instrument. Even the upper arms of his sleeves were covered with these loops, each holding a delicate if indeterminate tool of some kind. The inside lining of his brown leather cloak contained several pockets as well, doubtless holding still more small gadgets.

Nesco was about to make the introductions when Sir Corvis, arms crossed again and sporting an easy smile, spoke up first.

"Don't you get hot in all that?"

Fenlun returned the smile.

"Not according to any woman I know. I think I've got some kobold blood in me somewhere down the line."

The gnome reached to his side and turned up the flame on the hooded lantern which sat on the table beside him. There were some groans from the party, who now had to re-acclimate their eyes. A slight chuckle from Herlendal told them that the gnome was very aware of that fact.

Nesco now made the introductions. The gnome responded by sweeping off his hat and bowing.

"Fenlun Barlun Urlan Effigist Zimbalist Herlendal," at your service!" he exclaimed grandly.

Zantac spoke up sharply at that.

"Effigist? You mean-?"

The gnome smiled and gestured towards the remains of the golem. "Quite so, Zantac. Are you familiar with the art of effigies?"

"I've read a little about them, and heard a lot more, but mostly in rumors, and you know how accurate they are. I wasn't sure how much of it was real."

Fenlun smiled again. Mischief was in his eyes now.

"Goli!" he shouted, turning around. "Show the mage how real you are!"

The copper hawk immediately took off with a loud clatter of metal wings. It swooped towards the party and started circling above them. Then its metal beak opened and a shower of sparks rained out and down upon Zantac, who protested loudly and swept his arms around to keep them off. Goli flew down and landed next to Fenlun, who shifted his position to make room for its arrival.

"Fascinating," said Sir Corvis. "I've heard of golems made of iron- according to what I've been told, a particularly terrible one lies inside the Castle Maure- but I've never seen anything like that before."

"Would you care to explain, Zantac, or shall I?' asked Herlendal.

The Willip wizard, still somewhat annoyed from his spark shower, gestured at the gnome. "You're the expert."

"I'm hardly an effigy master, but I'll give it a whirl," Fenlun replied with a modesty that seemed patently false. He then sat up as straight as he could and cleared his throat. "Take notes, class- there'll be a quiz afterwards."

"So much for the stereotype of the Annoying Gnome being a myth," Zantac whispered to Nesco, who smiled but said nothing.

"Golems," began Fenlun, "are constructs, but they're animated by elemental spirits, called forth from the Inner Planes and bound inside a body of iron, clay, stone or what-have-you by their creator. They're masteries of work- make no mistake- but there's no _animus_ within; the animating spark of life that we all possess. It's not even an attempt at creating one."

"Now Goli here," Fenlun gestured at the copper hawk, "is a true effigy. A spark guardian, to be precise. He's not alive in the sense that you and I are- he has no soul- but he has a simulacrum of the life essence."

Zantac suddenly snapped his fingers. "That cat! That lion! He's yours, isn't he? Another effigy?"

"But why doethn't he move?" asked Laertes.

"Because, you brainless half-orc," Fenlun sighed in exasperation. "I've turned him off."

Nesco took an enraged step towards the gnome.

"Don't you _dare_ insult Laertes, or I'll send all your effigies to the junk pile!" she shouted.

The gnome raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "Sorry, Lady Cynewine. Forgive me."

"Apologize to Laertes. He's the one you insulted," growled Zantac.

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Fenlun bowed again, this time directly to Laertes.

"Forgive me, young Laertes. I spoke from old prejudices of my people. You are clearly as smart as any human."

"Why do I not feel appeased?" murmured Zantac to himself, but Sir Corvis, with his seemingly never-ending supply of diplomatic tact, was now redirecting the gnome back to their original line of questioning.

"This construct," the knight gestured at the golem pieces. "Do you believe it was an effigy, as well?"

"Oh, without a doubt," Herlendal replied. "As to what race created it, I sadly haven't a clue. Planar knowledge is not my forte."

"Perhaps I can help," Aelfbi Gemblossom now spoke up.

And with that, the half-elf cleric related his story, from when he and his two companions had first boarded the _Mary Celestial_ to their final, successful attempt to destroy the golem guarding the wrecked steelsphere.

"I hope you were taking notes," added Zantac when Aelfbi had finished. "There's a quiz afterwards, you know."

The gnome gave the red-robed wizard a sour smile, and then turned back to Gemblossom. "And the effigy- it called itself a what again?"

"A rowbaht," replied Aelfbi. "At least, that's what it sounded like to me. A security and communications rowbaht. It was when we told that to Agarth that he suggested the possibility that the steelsphere might still have some kind of signaling device inside it."

"Well, for one thing, that sphere's not made of steel," Herlendal responded. The gnome seemed lost in thought as his fingers- one still stained with blood- absently stroked the spark guardian Goli's beak. "I suspect it's made of astral driftmetal, though I can't be sure, yet. I didn't have time for a lengthy examination of it."

"Did you _detect_ on it?" asked Zantac.

"No, Zantac," replied Fenlun, his voice again heavy with sarcasm. "Being a wizard, it never occurred to me to check for magical auras."

Zantac was cut off in his retort by the restraining hand of Sir Corvis on his shoulder. "I understand," said the knight. "No auras."

"They could be hidden," Zantac insisted. "Like those on the Chams clothing," he said, turning to Tojo, who nodded silently.

Fenlun's features softened. "Now you're thinking! That's a distinct possibility, and if that's the case, I'm sure I'll be able to eventually breach any wards of non-detection. However," and here the gnome's high voice grew very quiet, "there may be another possibility. Even more remote, but even more fantastic if true."

"What is that?" asked Aelfbi.

"This is harder to explain," Herlendal said, but there was no patronizing or sarcasm in his voice now.

The others stood quietly, waiting until the small wizard had composed his thoughts.

"There are many forces in this universe," the Effigist explained. "Many are magical, but some are not. For instance," and here he removed a small cylindrical object from one of his belt loops, held it in his fingers for a moment and then let it drop to the floor.

"What made that tool fall?' he asked to the group at large.

There was a silence as the sextet looked at each other.

"The force of its own weight," Zantac eventually managed.

"Explain this force to me. From whence does it originate?"

The Willip mage was forced to shrug.

"Exactly. It's not magic- not that any mage I know has ever been able to _detect_- yet it exists. It can even be countered by magic- at least locally- but its own innate nature remains a mystery."

Zantac was silent. Despite his dislike of this gnome, he was curious about what he was saying, so he continued to listen.

"Now we can utilize this force. Even you longshanks can do it." Fenlun reached behind him on the table and set a plane of wood on his lap. "Moving a great weight down this plane is easier than dragging it along the ground. Why? Because you are using the force of the object's weight to assist you. There are other basic forces of this kind; resistance for example."

Herlendal gestured and the image of a small wagon wheel three inches in diameter, appeared on the table top, rolled right through Goli and off into space, where it vanished.

"The wheel works as it does because it slides across the ground. It offers less resistance than other objects and as it turns, it continually offers a new section of its smooth surface to the surface beneath it. There are other basic forces as well. These allow us to use the lever and the pulley. Again, no magic that we can _detect_, but they're real…"

Here the gnome smiled again. "At least as far as you people use that word, but that's another subject entirely."

"I'm not sure I understand," ventured Aelfbi cautiously. "Are you saying these natural forces exist inside these effigies?"

"To a high degree," responded Herlendal. "Movable gears, wheels, axles and countless other mechanisms are present within them. They certainly are in Goli here and Tikklun outside. They're necessary to simulate the movements of muscles. I'm sure they're in this rowbaht of yours as well, but from what I can see they're specialized to such an astonishing degree I'm having difficulty even identifying them, much less gaining useful information about them."

"So what is this other possibility you mentioned?" asked Sir Corvis, frowning.

"I'm getting to that," Fenlun said, waving further questions off. "As I said, any effigy requires magic to give it a semblance of life. Like fuel for a furnace. Either a bound elemental spirit or certain shadow magics to mimic the animus force as we know it. And yet," he hesitated, looked at the group, took a deep breath and continued.

"There are some scholars among my kind- call them mad, call them deluded, just don't call them late for dinner- there are some scholars who say that if the mechanisms of an effigy could be made sophisticated enough, then they could be animated solely by these natural forces of the universe. No magic at all would be required!"

"That's insane!" Zantac blurted out. The gnome's theory was in direct contradiction to everything he'd ever learned about magic.

Surprisingly, Fenlun shrugged, not seeming to take offense. "Very possibly. I couldn't say. This branch of inquiry is known as-" he frowned. "Well, in the Common tongue, the word would be _technomancy_."

Zantac scoffed, but suddenly Yanigasawa Tojo spoke up again with one word.

"Hoos."

Zantac turned to him. "What?"

The samurai looked grim.

"According to Errohir-sama, Venom have arried wizard who herp him buird his dungeon rair. This wizard named Hoos. He use gorems- what gnome here carr effigies- to defend his rair and more. One such effigy a type of caretaker. He rook and tark rike man. I hear Cygnus tark about this mage once. Carr him technomancer."

Now it Fenlun's breath who caught in his throat.

The gnome peered keenly at Tojo. "Are you and your companions from the same lands as Aelfbi, samurai?"

Tojo hesitated a moment before replying. "No."

"I've never heard of these mages you mentioned; Hoos and Venom." He stroked his beard. "I'll have to ask around about them."

It was subtle and indirect, but Nesco for one had no trouble catching the implied threat in Fenlun's voice.

They had information this gnome wizard didn't, and he wanted it.

"I think we've taken up enough of your valuable time, master gnome," Sir Corvis suddenly announced. "Thank you for speaking with us."

"Yeah." Zantac couldn't help himself. "I'll be sure to throw that theory of yours around at my next guild meeting. We could all use a good laugh."

The gnome suddenly smiled wide. "Oh, it's a _laugh_ you want, is it?"

Zantac saw Herlendal gesture, but he saw no obvious effect from it.

Until Nesco Cynewine shrieked.

Zantac looked over at the ranger, but Lady Cynewine was staring in horror at _him._

Or more precisely, at his staff.

Zantac glanced down at his quarterstaff and before he could stop himself, shrieked in surprise himself and dropped it.

Even before it hit the floor, the red-robed wizard was cursing himself. He should have known. Should have known the damn gnome was an illusionist- weren't they all? Should have realized that the texture of his staff had felt no different. That it was all illusion, a glamour.

But all the others watched agape as what looked like a five foot-tall male organ clattered to the floor.

Fenlun lost it.

The gnome rolled over on his back on the table, his tiny legs kicking in the air in merriment as he howled with laughter.

"What's the matter, Zantac?" he gasped out. "Having trouble _getting a grip on yourself?"_

The gnome was lost in more paroxysms of laughter. Zantac scowled, scooped up his staff which thankfully had resumed it's normal appearance and stormed out of the room, the others following.

As he stomped towards King Belvor's Arms, Zantac paid little attention to the rest of his party. He was steaming with an ire that he know only many ales could quench. The only thing that he would remember later was a comment he had overheard Aelfbi make to Sir Corvis.

"Imagine. Imagine if you had all the time you needed- like in the astral, where time almost stands still. If that theory Fenlun talked about was true, why, you could construct effigies; machines with such power and complexity-"

He heard the half-elf's voice catch. It finished with an almost reverent tone.

"You could build an entire civilization on a par with our own- maybe even greater- and use no magic at all."

* * *

Cygnus bent down close right behind Saxmund as the latter opened the door to the small log cabin.

It was dark inside- the only coming from outside, and most of that was blocked by the mage and the rogue's bodies. The cottage sported two windows, but their shades were drawn.

Despite all this, Cygnus instantly saw what he wanted to see.

In the far corner of the room, a female figure sleepily stirred on a cot. It shifted to a half-sitting position and looked at them, one hand held over its eyes, trying to distinguish them.

"Saxmund?" the figure called out. "Is that you?"

Cygnus could swear that he felt his heart stop beating. Despite everything he had anticipated, despite the fact that he never seen or heard this person speak directly before, he was absolutely certain this was indeed none other than Talat.

"It's me," Saxmund replied, stepping inside. Cygnus, still hunched over, was so close behind her he had to concentrate to avoid trodding on the rogue's heels.

The woman sighed with relief. "Thank Forseti you're back and safe! I was getting worried." She then peered at the person behind the rogue and frowned. "Garoidil? Is that you? Where's Aelfbi? Wait…" she fumbled with an oil lamp sitting on an end table by her cot and got it lit. By the time she did, Saxmund and Cygnus were only about five feet away.

"Talat," Saxmund said softly. "I've bought a visitor."

Cygnus stepped out from behind the rogue.

He and Talat/Hilda stared at each other.

The wizard couldn't help but look at her in amazement. He'd been told that Talat was in disguise, but he hadn't imagined that she would dye her hair to the exact same shade of blonde as her older sister.

The hair. Those ice-blue eyes. Talat looked so much like Talass that it was frightening.

Talat kept her blanket pulled up against her body even though Cygnus could tell she was wearing a nightrobe. Even under the bulky woolen blanket, the mage could discern the bulge of Talat's pregnancy. She'd be about two months away from delivery by now, perhaps a little less.

For her part, Talat was staring at Cygnus with a sense of naked wonder. No fear or animosity showed on her face at all.

"Kingus?" she breathed, then looked over at Saxmund. "But how? Were you able to find him and-"

"Guess again," interrupted Cygnus coldly.

Panic flooded throughout the woman's every limb.

Her gaze shot over to the floor by her bed, where her mace lay.

"Don't even think it!" Cygnus roared and lunged at her, but Saxmund grabbed his arm from behind.

"Cygnus, no! You promised!"

The mage tore his arm free with an ease that both surprised and worried the rogue. Cygnus pointed his arm straight at Talat, the tip of his thin index finger only a foot from her terrified face.

"Try anything, and you're ashes!"

Talat glanced down. The tall mage's other hand was already inside his spell component pouch. She had begun to reach forward over the side of her cot but now leaned back, her hands upraised to show her compliance. Her horror-stricken face glanced over to the rogue.

"Saxmund, how could you? Have we come all this way only for you to betray me now?"

"I haven't betrayed you." The red-haired woman's tone was surprisingly even, considering the circumstances. It even sounded a little bit less reedy than normal. "You knew we were going to seek their aid in helping us secure the steelsphere."

"You never said anything about bringing them _here!"_ Talat's protest ended in a shriek. "You know what they'll do to me!"

"If you were listening, you heard her mention a promise," Cygnus growled at the former priestess while jerking a thumb towards Saxmund. "I and Elrohir in particular, the ones with the most just cause to see your neck in the hangman's noose, swore to Aslan we would not harm you, and we won't. As long as you don't make me." The mage finished up by paraphrasing what Nodyath had said to him those long months ago.

"Unlike you, I keep my promises."

Talat didn't say anything. She just sat there, breathing heavily.

"He threatened to reveal your identity if he could not accompany me to see you," Saxmund told her.

Talat took several more deep breaths, trying to calm down. She began shivering violently.

Cygnus walked over to the dark fireplace and began to toss logs from the pile stored next to it into it.

"Get her dressed, Saxmund. I saw a table over there. Pull up some chairs and drinks if you have them."

He gritted his teeth. "We're all going to have a nice, cozy chat."

* * *

The three people stared at each other across the table.

Saxmund seemed to be the least involved, or perhaps she was just exhausted. The rogue sipped at her mug of tea without even appearing to taste it and yawned with a semi-regularity. For the most part, her emerald green eyes kept wandering back to the flames flickering in the fireplace.

Talat was now wearing a loose wool tunic, with her blanket draped over her shoulders and trailing down to the floor. She kept her bare feet submerged in a bucket of water which she had heated up by the fire, saying that they were paining her.

The ex-cleric was slowly marshalling her reserves. Cygnus didn't know if she wasn't as weak as she had originally appeared to be, or just didn't want Cygnus to think she was. Either way, her blue eyes were now seeking out the wizard's face more and more. Her breathing had stabilized, and her jaw was set. She looked almost defiant. Even as she sipped her tea with hands that still trembled, Talat was starting to remind Cygnus of Talass more and more.

Cygnus himself had been starting to slip into lethargy. He was absolutely fatigued; there was no question about it. He'd been about to abort this discussion and reschedule it for the morning, but seeing what looked like Talass eyeing him coldly began to stoke the fires of rage within the tall wizard again. He set his mug of tea down, squared his shoulders and broke the silence.

"Nice dye job on your hair, Talat. You've got some gall, trying to look even more like your sister."

Talat looked at him. She looked puzzled for a moment, but when she spoke, her voice was unexpectedly soft.

"Cygnus, the Fruztii do not have black hair. This is my natural color. It was always dyed black before."

The magic-user bit his lip. Having no good retort for that, he moved on.

"Tell me why we shouldn't turn you over to Major Standish. Explain what you've done to us, Talat. Explain the noble, secret reason behind the atrocities you've committed."

Cygnus' eyes abruptly welled up with her tears as he thought of his son. Of Tadoa.

"_Explain it, damn you!"_ he shouted.

"Cygnus-" began Saxmund, but Talat cut her off by placing her hand on the rogue's arm.

"It's all right, Saxmund. I'll tell him."

"This should be good," mumbled Cygnus. He tried to cross him arms defiantly, but kept having to wipe his eyes clear.

"Listen to me now, Cygnus of Aarde," Talat said, sounding now exactly like Talass. Cygnus drummed the fingers of one hand on the table and made an impatient gesture with the other.

"I'm no saint in disguise, Cygnus. You wouldn't believe me if I told you otherwise, so I won't. I've made bad choices in my life since I was a youth, and in time I intend to pay for them."

"In time?" interrupted Cygnus, but Talat gave him such a re-creation of Talass' icy stare that the wizard said nothing more.

"Yes. In time. Hear me out." She took a sip of her tea, set the mug down and continued. "My troubles have always stemmed from my listening to a lonely heart. Mine, " she added with a self-mocking laugh.

"You see, Cygnus, in many ways I'm still that little girl who just wants to be loved. I never got that from my father. The Fruztii High Priest of the Justice Bringer had plenty of time for justice, but no time left over for love. Ask my sister- she'll tell you."

"That," the mage said slowly, "might be difficult."

Talat, hearing something beneath the surface of his words, tilted her head at Cygnus.

So Cygnus told her. He told her everything he knew of Talass' vision, from when he had first heard about it to the day it had driven her from her husband's arms, and their company, for what he was sure was forever.

Talat's façade cracked, but did not break. She sat in silence for nearly a minute after Cygnus had finished her account.

"So," she finally muttered, more to herself than the other two. "My sister has finally gone home." The former priestess smiled, but there was nothing behind it. "More than I'll ever be able to do."

"Tell it to a bard and put it to music," Cygnus snapped. "I have no sympathy for you. Just get on with it."

Talat considered that and continued. "Because he gave me a reason not to have to return to my unhappy home, I loved Nitch Redarm. So much so that I embraced his god just so my affections would be returned, and they were. I know the Heironeous worshippers all around us would consider it blasphemy, but even worshippers of the Scourge of Battle can love, Cygnus. It's true."

She took another deep breath and another swallow of tea. "After Nitch died, my attempts to get him raised ended up with myself stranded on the _Mary Celestial. _And there I met Nodyath."

"And no one lived happily ever after."

Despite herself, Talat smiled at Cygnus' jibe. "Who can say why we fall in love with who we do, Cygnus? You were married, were you not?"

Cygnus, breathing heavily, gripped the edge of the wooden table so hard all three people heard it start to crack.

"Thank you, Talat," the mage ground out through tight lips. "Thank you for bringing up the only tragedy of my life you weren't involved in. Now I _really_ feel like singing!" He slammed his fist down on the table.

"Cygnus, please," said Saxmund wearily.

"How did you feel when you were in love, Cygnus?" Talat pressed, standing up enough for the blanket to slip off her shoulders. "Wasn't it wonderful? Wasn't it a power beyond any magic you're ever learned? Wouldn't you have done anything to keep that love, Cygnus? You're no holy priest! You're no paladin! Look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't cross any boundary for that one special love! Look at me and tell me that!"

Silence descended again, broken only by the breathing of three people.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cygnus saw Saxmund looking at him. He turned to face her.

Tears were running down the rogue's face.

"I would have, Cygnus. I gave up my entire world to stay with him. I know there's something of Kingus in you, Cygnus. At least enough for you to understand what love is worth. Enough for it to- to break my heart whenever I look at-"

She broke down, sobbing, her head falling down on the table.

Cygnus finished his tea, if only to give him a few more seconds to think. The mage rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath and finally looked squarely back at both women. First at Talat and then at Saxmund, who was just starting to regain control.

"I don't know, ladies. That's the honest truth. I loved Hyzenthlay with all my heart and soul, but I don't know what line I would have crossed for it. I know I have a reputation as a manipulative man, but- I just don't know."

He gave Saxmund a half-hearted smile.

"At least I can understand your case, Saxmund. After all, Kingus was a pretty good-looking guy."

The rogue laughed, but the action brought fresh tears to her eyes.

"I blinded myself to Nodyath's cruelty, Cygnus," Talat said. "I'm not proud of it, but that's the truth and I will always consider myself beholden to the truth. An inescapable vestige of my upbringing, I suppose."

Cygnus tried to steady his nerves. "You were an accomplice to Nodyath's crimes, Talat. That's how the law will view it, and if you still hold justice to have any value, then you will surrender yourself to face it."

Talat stood up fully now and pointed to her stomach.

"Not yet."

"Talat, that's-"

"Nodyath wants this child, Cygnus! He told me that! He's always wanted children, more than anything! Riches and material comforts were his for the taking with his Talent, especially after he left Rolex! Only siring children was beyond his sole reach!"

"Why did he leave Rolex?" asked Cygnus. He knew it wasn't directly related to what they were talking about, but it was something he'd wanted to know ever since they learned of his existence.

"Nodyath hailed from a land on Rolex called Eschtren. It was and is a terrible place by his account. The Devastation wreaked a holocaust there. Uncontaminated food and water were the greatest treasures one could ever hope to find. When Nodyath finally learned about Weralt, on the other side of the world, he teleported there with some of his followers, but some of them eventually betrayed him, telling all the authorities they could about Nodyath and his Talent. Eventually he decided to leave Rolex altogether. I think he was originally planning to go elsewhere on the Great Wheel- I know he mentioned a place called Sigil once- but he wound up on the _Mary Celestial_, and then…" she shrugged, and then looked back at the magic-user.

"Nodyath loved children, Cygnus. I know that seems impossible for you to believe, but it's the truth. Even back on Rolex, he would never allow a child to come to harm. All he wanted was to have, and to love, one for his own."

"If Nodyath ever loved children, Talat, he left that behind when he came to Oerth," Cygnus said firmly. "I suspect if he wants one, it's not for the same reasons you do."

Talat was silent for a moment and then looked down at the table, unable to meet the mage's gaze.

"Yes," she whispered. "He changed. Why, or how, I don't know. He was cruel before, but that was because he had always needed that strength to survive. But after we settled in Willip and he started working for the Emerald Serpent…" she broke off again.

"Talat." Cygnus had another question he wanted to ask. "Did Nodyath ever mention anyone, a group of people called the Hierarchs?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"What about a man known as Devil Chimes?"

"No. Who in the name of Bifrost is that?"

Cygnus explained what Laertes had told him.

"Laertes," Talat said softly, nodding as if to herself. "He's a good lad. He has a pure heart."

"Or a naive one. He told me you were kind to him."

Talat shrugged. "I met lots of half-orcs when I went to the Bone March, Cygnus. I quickly learned there were good ones and bad ones; same as with humans, or any of the common races, for that matter. Haven't you learned to look beneath the surface by now?"

"Don't lecture me, Talat," Cygnus said, his eyes narrow and his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not in the mood and if you make me angry enough to break my vow, I'll gladly die to send your soul down to Niflheim."

Talat backed down, although her face still bore the marks of frustration." I don't know who Devil Chimes is, Cygnus. What else can I say?"

"You think it might be Nodyath?" the mage asked, but Talat shook her head.

"It wouldn't make sense. Nodyath is the ultimate spy. If he knew I was in this area, he'd be able to find word of me by going to Laurellinn, or here, or Flameflower and asking questions while in disguise, or just using his _helm of telepathy_. He certainly wouldn't bother hiring orcs to try and kidnap me."

"Then who would? This Devil Chimes knows you're pregnant."

"Kind of hard to disguise that," she responded with a weak smile while patting her stomach.

Cygnus grunted an acknowledgement and leaned back in his chair. There were too many problems, too many questions and not enough time to deal with them all…

"Cygnus."

The Aardian mage looked up to see a single tear trickling down Talat's cheek.

"I'm sorry about your son, Cygnus. I never wanted that to happen. And I am so very sorry about Tadoa. He didn't deserve what happened to him. I'm sorry," she sobbed, covering her crying face in her hand. "I wish I could repair what I've done, but I can't. I can't…"

"Aelfbi has said there is one thing you can do," Saxmund said quietly. "You can start by repenting."

"I don't know if I can!" cried Talat.

"Why not?" yelled Cygnus. "Seems like a damn good first step to me!"

Talat surprised him with her reaction. She turned her hands, bent into claws, towards her own face.

"My soul!" she shouted! "It's infested. Tainted! Unclean! I _do_ want to repent. Please believe me! I don't know why I can't! Words of atonement stall in my throat- they sound false even in my own mind! I've just done too much evil! I've hurt too many people!"

Suddenly, Cygnus was very far away. Remembering another woman crying. A very different woman and very different circumstances, but perhaps in the end…

"Argoria." The name seemed to pass through the mage's lips without his consent.

"Who?" asked Talat, still sniffling. "Did you say Argo?"

"Argoria," Cygnus whispered. "Argoria Bigfellow. Argos' sister."

"I didn't know he had one," said Talat. She began to ask something else, but Cygnus held up a hand to stop her.

"No. That's not my tale to tell and to be honest with you, Talat-"

The wizard's face told her as much as his words did.

"It didn't have a happy ending."

There was another minute of silence, punctuated by sniffles, labored breathing and the crackling of logs in the fireplace.

"Let's settle this," Talat announced abruptly, rising to his feet. Cygnus followed by sheer instinct- Saxmund was several seconds late responding- but the mage saw there was no threat.

"Here is my proposal to you, Cygnus. Keep my secret and help Saxmund, Garoidil and myself get back to the _Mary Celestial._ If we make it back to Rolex and my baby is born safely and at that time you still burn for my blood, then-"

She hesitated.

"Then I will come back with you here to Oerth, stand trial where and when you wish and embrace my execution without protest. You can even kill me yourself if you want."

"What will become of your child?"

In response, the former cleric gestured to Saxmund. "She and Aelfbi will bring it to Shelem Forest in Weralt, if it wasn't born there already. His father's people- the elves- will care for it and love it as one of their own."

Cygnus couldn't help but draw a deep intake of breath. An image of Thorin dwelling with the elves of Hidden Jewel in Welkwood came to him.

And as much as Cygnus wanted to take his son and leave with him, there was no doubt that the boy had been safe there. Safe; protected; loved.

The magic-user mulled this over, then looked back at Talat and crossed his arms across his chest.

"And what if Agarth is wrong and the steelsphere proves to be a dead end, Talat? What if it proves impossible for you to return to Rolex? Lancoastes can still _plane shift_ Saxmund, Aelfbi and Garoidil home if they're willing to give up those six hundred years, but he won't do it for you if he learns of your true identity, and I won't lie to him for you. Our own interests are at stake here, too."

Talat took a deep breath, and Cygnus could see she had already considered that possibility. Once again, she seemed almost a clone of Talass as she replied, steely fire in her voice.

"Then Nodyath must die. I will kill him myself, or die in the attempt."

This time, the silence seemed to last a very long time.

Cygnus now wished his other friends were here. Wished he hadn't rushed this. Certainly Elrohir, Aslan and Argo, but even Nesco and Tojo. He could go get them of course, but he didn't want to have to run through all this all over again.

He stared at Talat again.

Trust.

Could he trust her?

And even if he could, did she deserve it?

Children crying. Redemption. Manipulative plans. Betrayals.

_Lord Odin, show me the way. Forseti, Bringer of Justice, what should I do?_

Cygnus frowned.

_Forseti?_

He thought back to when he and Saxmund had first entered the cabin. What had Talat said when she realized Saxmund had returned?

_Thank Forseti you're back and safe!_

And when Talat had said that, she had not yet known that Cygnus was there.

_May all the Aesir help us_, he thought and decided.

"I only speak for myself, Talat," the mage told her, now pointing at her again. "Elrohir is our team leader and if he says no, then anything I say here is null and void. Understand?"

Talat nodded. Her eyes seemed just a little bit brighter.

"Once Elrohir and the others rejoin us, we'll be heading out to the crash site. I'm going to have Laertes stay here with you. I-"

The words actually caught in his throat, but with a mighty effort Cygnus shook them free.

"I'm going to try and help you, Talat."


	203. Of Logic And Logistics

**8****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**King Belvor's Arms, Ironstead, Furyondy**

Cygnus took another sip of tea and tried to focus again on his figures, but the image of Talat kept intruding on his mind.

He still couldn't believe what he had agreed to. And he hadn't been alone. He could still recall the reactions of his friends. Nesco had looked taken aback, Tojo had raised both eyebrows- that was practically hysterics for the samurai- and Zantac had calmly asked Cygnus just what kind of pipe weed he'd started smoking and why hadn't he offered his fellow wizard any.

The tall mage hadn't bothered to explain. He'd been too tired then; too ready to turn in and go to bed in his inn room. And in truth Cygnus didn't think for a moment that Elrohir was going to go along with it, so it wasn't going to matter anyway.

Now Cygnus, Saxmund, Laertes and Zantac sat at the breakfast table in the common room of King Belvor's Arms, eating quail eggs, garlic-hashed potatoes and drinking tea. Sir Corvis had left early to take care of an errand Cygnus had assigned to him. Aelfbi Gemblossom was breakfasting with Hilda, and Nesco Cynewine had bunked at the garrison headquarters and had not yet arrived to meet them.

Cygnus was trying to keep his concentration on the parchment map on the table in front of him. He was drawing lines, figures and scribbles on it, adding figures and making measurements. The map was a poor one- of little use for navigation, but it was enough for Cygnus' purposes.

A few fitful hours of sleep had done nothing to ease the arcanist's frame of mind. Even more so than the previous evening, Cygnus wished the others were here. They had always led before, and Cygnus had no desire to take that position now. He was already in unfamiliar- and uncomfortable- territory enough as it was.

But the results he kept getting back from the calculations he was doing were telling the mage that he might be stranded in that selfsame territory for some time.

* * *

Nesco Cynewine was hurrying more than she wanted to admit as she came into King Belvor's Arms.

Her former Order members had naturally assumed she would be staying over at the garrison, just as she had done every other time she had stayed over at Ironstead.

Of course, that was before she resigned her commission and turned her back on her king, her country and her fellow warriors.

It had been awkward and embarrassing, made all the worse by Nesco's reluctance not to go into details. The invitation for Lady Cynewine to bunk at the garrison had been made before her startling revelation, so to withdraw it would have been improper.

To refuse it, however, would have been more improper still, so Nesco had accepted. At least she did have guest chamber to herself, whereas the others at Belvor's Arms were bunking at least three to a room.

But she had not lingered after rising, enduring only several strained good-byes before almost dashing out of the barracks.

It was amazing, Nesco thought as she hurried across the compound of Ironstead, which was already becoming alive with the sights, sounds and smells of a new day.

_A year ago, the Azure Order was the only place where I felt comfortable; the only place I was accepted. Now it's the place where I feel the worst._

Nesco was trying to consider exactly where it was that she felt the best, but now she had arrived at the inn door and was out of time. The ranger approached her companions and allowed Cygnus to beckon her to an empty seat at the table.

"We're just waiting for the others to arrive, Nesco. It shouldn't take long."

The ranger nodded. "I was thinking, Cygnus, about how we could best utilize the time we have until Aslan and the others re-"

But Cygnus silenced her with a shake of his head. Frowning and feeling a little uneasy, Nesco fell silent.

Now Aelfbi Gemblossom had entered. "Hilda is doing well," he announced with a smile.

Everyone stared stone-faced in silence at the half-elf.

"If anyone cares, that is," the priest of Lady Goldenheart mumbled as he sat down, shaking his head in disappointment. Lady Cynewine was wondering whether to try and cheer up Gemblossom when the inn door opened again and Sir Corvis crossed the threshold and crossed to the table. The knight leaned forward, palms down on the table and looked around at all assembled. His expression was grim.

"It's as Cygnus here thought. They hired a guide to take them to the crash site. His name is Golatunt."

Cygnus sighed in disappointment.

"Golatunt?" Laertes piped up. "I know him!"

"So do we," added Saxmund, looking somber as Sir Corvis sat down next to her. "He's one of the local woodsmen. Went out with me, Aelfbi and Garoidil on patrol several times. Good man, but a bit on the greedy side. Was always trying to negotiate a better price for his services."

"I've heard people call him Gold Up Front," Laertes added.

"Is he a ranger?" asked Zantac.

"No," said Nesco, shaking her head. "Golatunt has no reverence for the land. Mark me, he's a competent scout- I'm sure he'll be able to get Agarth and his men to the sphere- but he's no ranger. To him, the forest is just where he happens to work."

"So where does this leave us?" asked Sir Corvis, directing his attention back to Cygnus.

Cygnus swallowed the last of his tea, took a deep breath, and motioned for everyone to lean forward and look at the map and jumbles of scrawled figures that were spread out in front of him.

"The gist of it, ladies and gentlemen," the wizard began, "is that I don't know if we can wait for Elrohir and the others to catch up with us. We may have to go catch Agarth on our own."

This pronouncement caused several people to start talking all at once. Cygnus threw up his hands.

"Wait! Wait! I'll explain it all to you, just quiet down for a moment!"

"I don't understand, Cygnus." Saxmund apparently couldn't help but voice the question the entire assemblage had in common. "We'll have horses when we set out, thanks to Sir Corvis. We should easily be able to overtake Agarth, even if we wait for Garoidil and your friends. They're only, what- two days away now?"

"Closer to two-and-a-half," responded Cygnus, "but the logistics are far more complicated than you think. Consider: Agarth and the others should make a little over a league per day through the Vesve-"

"What if they push themselves?" asked Zantac. "You know, force march it. Now that they don't have to worry about getting lost-"

"They're not going to-" Cygnus cut sharply back across his fellow mage. "It's potentially hostile territory for one, and for two there's no reason to assume Agarth should suspect anyone is dogging his heels. Am I right in assuming he didn't mention that to anyone here before he and his men set out, Corvis?"

The knight shook his head. "Not that anyone told me. That's what I've been doing," he explained to the company at large. "Finding out all I could about what anyone saw or heard from Agarth from when he got here until he left yesterday morning."

"As I was saying," Cygnus continued, glaring around now as if daring anyone to interrupt him, "They'll make a league and a third or so per day-"

"We use miles on Rolex, Cygnus," Aelfbi broke in as softly as he dared. "I'm sorry, but I just want to make sure I understand this."

Cygnus stifled an impulse to cut off a scream by thrusting his fist into his mouth- or worse, the half-elf's mouth.

"Fine. Doesn't matter. Miles it is, then. I'll call it about four miles per day that they'll be making,, being that they'll be covering their tracks. Now that-"

"Wait a moment," Lady Cynewine had spoken aloud before she could catch herself. The ranger saw the tall mage's face turning redder by the minute. It was almost as if Cygnus had gotten burned again.

"I'm sorry, Cygnus," Nesco added meekly, "but it just occurred to me. At that rate of travel, Agarth and his men are looking at," she glanced at the magic-user's figures, "eleven days of travel at the least. They'll have to forage, and that will slow them down even more. Trail rations and such doesn't amount to all that, but eleven days worth of water is a tremendous weight to carry. A good ninety pounds per person, at least. That'd slow them down as much as foraging for food and water would anyway, at least at first." She glanced over at the knight. "Sir Corvis, did Agarth, Golatunt and the sellswords provision themselves before they left? In particular, with lots of waterskins?"

Cygnus rolled his eyes and motioned a serving girl for another drink.

"Now there's the puzzle, Lady Cynewine," Corvis replied. "They did indeed purchase extra rations and waterskins, but every person I've talked to who actually saw the five of them head out into the forest swore they weren't carrying a single waterskin."

"Do you think there could be magic involved here?" Saxmund looked over to Zantac.

The Willip wizard shrugged. "Possibly, if this mercane is indeed a wizard. He might have used a spell similar to the one Wimpell Frump had; something to temporarily shrink the waterskins down in size. Or perhaps he hired someone here to cast it. That good-for-nothing-gnome Fenlun would do it. I'd bet he'd sell his own mother's bones for a share of some new knowledge, and I'm not assuming she'd be dead at the time, either."

"Then who would recast the spell after they had ended it that first night, so they could drink from the skins?"

Zantac glanced over at Cygnus, and then a sheepish expression came over the older mage's face.

"Oh, yeah. That's right. Well, if you've got some ideas Cygnus, spit 'em out! Don't just sit there like a bump on a log!"

The tall wizard closed his eyes. Zantac couldn't read lips, but it looked like Cygnus was counting to ten in his head.

"I'm going to go on the assumption that Agarth's group is not going to have to forage." Cygnus said when he started speaking again. "It's better to assume the worst. It'll only work out better for us if they're moving slower than I've figured, but let's say they're not."

"Okay, they're not," acquiesced Saxmund. "How does that affect us?"

Cygnus stabbed down at his map again. "Like I've been trying to say for the past five minutes, if we wait for Elrohir and the others to rejoin us, we won't be setting out after Agarth and his buddies until early evening of the 10th at the earliest. This means," he added before anyone could interrupt," that in theory we would overtake our quarry around sunset of the 12th, when we'd both be about eight lea- I mean, twenty-four miles west of here."

He paused.

"Isn't anyone going to ask me, _so what's the problem?"_ the tall mage growled.

"I think they're thcared," Laertes offered.

"They should be. Maybe now I can talk in peace," Cygnus snapped. "Our problem is our own food and water. Once Elrohir and the others link back up with us, they'll be a dozen of us. Twelve men and more importantly, twelve riding horses. Carrying that much feed and water with us would be a logistical nightmare. We'd need at least one extra pack horse and-"

"What are you talking about? Aelfbi can supply us with food and water!" Saxmund interrupted, jerking a thumb over at the cleric sitting next to her. "He always does!"

Cygnus bent his head down and cradled his head in his hand.

"Would you care to answer her, Gemblossom?" he mumbled through his fingers as the mage's other hand sought out the ale mug that had just been deposited on the table.

"Saxmund," the half-elf explained, placing his hand over hers. "It's always just been the-" he hesitated, "the four of us before. With one prayer, I could indeed supply all our needs. Two prayers if we were mounted. But with twelve people and thirteen horses, every blessed prayer I could muster wouldn't be enough."

"Aren't all prayerth blethed?" asked Laertes.

"Wise-ass," said Nesco, but she was smiling at him as she said it.

"We would still be left with needing food for five people, two horses and water for six people," Aelfbi went on. "According to what Cygnus has written here, that's nearly four hundred extra pounds of weight, at least at the start." The priest shook his head. "That would leave me with no healing available for any of you for the entire trip without losing even more food and water, and I don't like that. We shouldn't be forced to rely on Aslan alone."

"Couldn't we just forage on the way, then?" asked Zantac impatiently. "That'd save us all this bother!"

"Except that then we're travelling no faster than the people we're trying to catch," Cygnus replied.

There was a moment of silence.

"So what's the alternative?" Saxmund eventually asked.

"We leave this morning," Cygnus said. "You, me, Zantac, Tojo, Aelfbi, Nesco and Sir Corvis. Seven people, seven horses. We leave Laertes here to look after Hilda and to tell Elrohir everything we've learned when he and the others arrive. As far as ourselves are concerned, Gemblossom's two most powerful prayers will leave us with only one person in need of food and water; easily carried. Even covering our tracks, we should make 12 miles per day through the forest. We'll overtake our giant friend before sunset tonight."

"And then what?" asked Sir Corvis. "I hate to play archdevil's advocate, but if Agarth decides not to brook any rivals, can we defeat him and his mercenary guards, or for that matter even be able to defend ourselves? We lack enough information about mercanes in general, and this one in particular, for me to be comfortable sallying forth so recklessly."

"It's a point," Cygnus conceded, "but the decision doesn't rest with me, anyway."

Sir Corvis frowned. "Who does it rest with, then?"

"I think we should-" Saxmund began, but Cygnus cut her off.

"Not you either, Saxmund."

The rogue looked surprised and then angry.

"What? Well, who then? Who do you think is most qualified to make this one decision that could affect all our lives?"

By way of reply, Cygnus merely looked over at Tojo. "Tell her," he said.

"Him?" gasped Saxmund. "Are you-"

But now the Yanigasawa samurai was speaking.

"Onry one person here aber to read signs and guide us to sphere. Onry one person here aber to cover our tracks. Onry one person here aber to speak with infruence with sordiers guarding sphere."

Nesco went pale as every face at the table turned her way.

* * *

Staring in shock at Tojo- at all of them- the words of her father Alexor suddenly flashed through the ranger's brain.

_In the right situation, such as in a small group of irregulars, you would flourish in a leadership role._

At this moment though, Nesco Cynewine didn't feel like flourishing. She felt like vomiting.

Still, she had to admit this motley and dysfunctional group before her was nothing if not "irregular."

Nesco looked at the others again. Saxmund, who commanded her small band, was gazing patiently back at her. The rogue did not look pleased, but it was clear that she was going to defer to Lady Cynewine's decision, whatever that might be.

Sir Corvis looked polite and deferential.

What would be the logical decision?

Cygnus raised an eyebrow.

"Well, Lady Cynewine?"

Lady Nesco Cynewine took a deep breath while trying not to appear like she was trying to take a deep breath, attempted and miserably failed to put a look of confidence on her face and spoke up.

"Pack up, people. We're leaving."

* * *

The group had left the inn and was beginning to fan out as the individuals left for various destinations in the outpost for final supply-gathering.

Cygnus, near the rear, saw Sir Corvis turning and heading off towards the stables.

Zantac, Tojo and Aelfbi, as a group, followed him.

Cygnus frowned. _What the-_

Then he saw the three stop.

Sir Corvis disappeared into the stables. The impromptu trio appeared to be discussing something. In fact, they almost appeared to be arguing.

It must be something important to them, Cygnus realized as he strode up to them. Even Tojo seemed unaware of his approach.

Suddenly, Cygnus understood. Call it wizard's instinct.

"So, gentlemen," he asked, causing the three to start. "What did your covert scan reveal? Care to share?"

Tojo resumed his impassive demeanor. Aelfbi looked guilty but Zantac defiantly stared back at his fellow mage.

"We're taking precautions, that's all. You of all people should appreciate that."

"Precautions against… Sir Corvis?"

"Tojo's had some doubts," Zantac explained. "So I thought it prudent to ask Gemblossom here to see if our knightly friend was as benevolent as he seems."

"_Detect evil?"_

Still looking abashed, Aelfbi gave him a weak smile. "If you'll recall, Cygnus, I did the same to you and your companions when we first met."

"You didn't do it behind our backs, Aelfbi," the tall wizard responded.

The cleric merely sighed and continued to look chastened.

Cygnus considered. This was actually something he would have done, or at least authorized under most circumstances. Certainly Cygnus of Aarde, the master manipulator, would have no qualms about covertly scanning anyone he was suspicious of. And with Aslan not being here, Gemblossom was their only means to do so.

It was just that Cygnus did not feel suspicious of Sir Corvis.

"And?" he asked.

There was silence for a few moments. The half-elf bit his lip. "Nothing."

"Shood have checked for magic too, Aerfbi-san," Tojo said, his face darkening just a touch.

Zantac shook his head. "There, even I have to agree with Gemblossom, Tojo. If the man is not evil, scanning him for magic items is tasteless at best and offensive at worst. It's what a band of thieves would do if they could, to look for choice targets. It's none of our business what magic Corvis might be carrying on him. It's not like we've told him anything about all the items we possess."

"Evir take many forms, Zantac-sama," Tojo said. "Doppergangers not show up to Asran as evir."

"You're saying you think Sir Corvis is a doppelganger, Tojo?" asked Cygnus.

The samurai sighed. "No, Cygnus-sama. Not think that. It just-"

He gestured helplessly and then let his arms drop to his side.

"To fawsry accuse is dishonoraber. I think more on this matter before I speak again. There certain regends in Nippon. Onry wish I knew about regends of Kara-tur."

"What kind of legends, Tojo?" asked Cygnus quietly.

Perhaps too quietly. The samurai had already moved off, and it was possible that he simply hadn't heard the mage's question.

But given what Cygnus knew about Tojo's hearing, he doubted it.

* * *

It was an axiom of Nesco's tutor Sir Damoscene that no plan survived contact with the enemy.

In the case of Lady Cynewine and her friends, it didn't even last one hour.

* * *

Nesco uttered an expletive and deftly swung herself off her horse. Cygnus, riding behind her, halted his own steed and motioned for the others to do likewise.

The mage frowned. Nesco had dismounted a number of times already since they'd started on their journey in order to examine trail signs left by the rangers and woodsmen. She'd ordered every person in their riding line to notify her at once when they saw any of their horses defecate. The ranger would instantly jump down and dispose of the droppings by burying them. At other times, she would erase hoof prints or other signs of their passage when it was impossible to lead their horses over the firmer ground and leaf cover that she was picking their way through.

However, she'd never just cursed and leapt down like that with no explanation. In fact, as far as Cygnus could recollect, Nesco Cynewine hardly cursed at all.

But now the ranger was down on one knee about five yards to the right of where their party was passing. Nesco threw her head up and uttered a wordless yell of frustration.

"What?" Cygnus asked, concerned. "What is it?"

By way of reply, Nesco pointed down at the forest floor in front of her.

Clearly visible even to their untrained eyes was the footprint of a gigantic boot.

"But how could Golatunt have missed that?" wondered Aelfbi.

"He didn't," Nesco gritted through her teeth as she wiped out all trace of the print, looked around for others and then walked back to her horse and remounted. She then turned around to regard the rest of the group.

"Apparently Agarth doesn't intend to waste any time. They're not covering their tracks," she said. "They're not even trying."


	204. The Mercane Explains

**9****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Vesve Forest**

**(About 24 miles west of Ironstead)**

Nesco abruptly reined her horse to a stop.

"Cygnus!" she ordered. "Cover your light! Tojo, Aelfbi- up here! No noise from anyone!"

The dark of a Vesve night closed in around the septet as Cygnus slid shut the lid of the tiny wooden box that was attached to a chain around his neck. The _continual light_ cast on the pebble inside was covered up.

Nesco looked behind her. Her party was visible only as little more than mounted silhouettes standing in a sea of black pillars that had been trees in daylight.

The sound of hooves moving amongst a carpet of fallen leaves- noisier than Nesco wished- melded with the sounds of crickets and night peepers. An owl hooted off in the distance as two dark shapes the ranger knew were a human samurai and a half-elven cleric came up on either side of her.

"I thought I saw the light from a fire up ahead," Lady Cynewine said quietly," but it went out as soon as I noticed it. You two have the best eyes and ears here. Anything?"

Nesco tried to keep her horse silent and still while her two companions examined the forest in front of them. Forest that looked exactly the same as the woods they had been traversing for the past thirty-six hours.

"Someone there." Tojo's voice was a harsh whisper. "Heard footsteps."

"I saw undergrowth moving," added Aelfbi quietly. "More than this slight breeze would allow. It's stopped now. If I had to guess, I'd say they're hiding."

"Preparing an ambush?" Nesco asked.

The samurai shrugged.

"Cannot say. That for you to decide, Nesco-sama."

The ranger groaned to herself. _Nesco Cynewine decides again. _In her recent experience, that never seemed to turn out well.

She considered. If her party had been detected first, Golatunt wouldn't attack them without confirming that they were hostiles first. The problem was, if this was _not_ Agarth, Golatunt and the sellswords ahead of them, then announcing their presence would give their unknown foes the first strike.

While Nesco would later berate herself for not acting more quickly, the decision was nonetheless made for her. A voice from ahead cut through the dark.

"You're at bow point! Advance and identify yourselves!"

Nesco relaxed, at least partially. Golatunt.

On an impulse, she decided to take a chance. If they didn't know yet in Ironstead, Golatunt wouldn't know.

"Lady Cynewine, Ranger of the Azure Order!" she called out. "Show yourself, Golatunt, and those with you!"

There was a short pause.

"Very well," came the voice of the scout. "Advance likewise and be recognized."

"Bring the light back out, Cygnus," Nesco said to the mage, then added to all present. "I'll go first, just to make sure."

Saxmund and Tojo already had their bows out and arrows notched. The rogue nodded.

"We'll cover you."

First one and then two torches sputtered to life about seventy feet ahead of the ranger as she eased her horse ahead at a slow walk. One torch bent down and Nesco saw a hurriedly-extinguished campfire slowly come to life again.

Golatunt's face was illuminated from below as the woodsman straightened up. He was tall and lanky, with a face partially surrounded by a bristly mane of hair with too much gray for his mid-thirties age. The scout sheathed the sword he held in his right hand as he peered at the ranger who came to a stop ten yards away.

Nesco saw three men in chainmail nearby. All were partially hidden behind trees. Not for total concealment- their posture indicated a deterrent more than an ambush- but it would make them harder to hit from afar. She could see little than their coifs- and the longbows with their arrows aimed squarely at her.

There was no sign of any blue giant.

Nesco crossed her arms and looked down at the scout.

"You disappoint me, Golatunt. I did not think that gold alone would suffice to lead you to desert your sworn duty and place the king's men at the crash site in jeopardy."

An oily grin appeared on the man's features. He rubbed his stubbly chin as he replied.

"I know not what you mean, Lady Cynewine."

"Don't play the fool," Nesco growled. "You're making no effort to hide your trail in order to make better time to the steelsphere."

Golatunt gave a look of wounded pride that reminded Nesco of Argo.

"Not so, my Lady. I have made every effort to conceal any signs of our passage. If I have failed, it was only because a superior tracker such as yourself was able to find any minute sign I might not have completely erased. Surely the orcs here have no trackers on a par with yourself. I think we can agree on that."

"I'm not buying, Golatunt," Nesco replied as she swung down off her horse and approached the woodsman.

The three sellswords kept their bows pointed at her.

"You're making far too good time to be covering your tracks. In fact, I'd say if you are covering them as you claim, it hasn't slowed you down _at all_. I think Major Standish would agree, don't you?"

Golatunt frowned and licked his lips, but then a smirk came over the scout's face as his gaze settled on her horse.

"And has the Major rescinded his orders of no mounts on this trail?" he asked snidely. "I was told _no exceptions."_

_Crap! I didn't think of that!_

"Our mission is of the highest urgency," Nesco said after a moment's hesitation. "Major Standish has authorized them for us and us alone."

Golatunt did not seem deterred. "And how will the urgency of your mission save the lives of the soldiers guarding the sphere when an entire tribe of orcs tracks you to their locale?' he inquired. "You know as well as I do how hard it is to conceal a mounted party's passage in here, Lady Cynewine."

Nesco gave him a hard smile.

"Well then, since we're both heading in the same direction and we're traveling faster than you, I expect you to cover both your own tracks and any _minute sign_ that I might miss as my band and I move on."

The scout's face lost it's faux friendliness.

"I do not take your orders, Lady Cynewine, nor do I from any of the king's men. Our relationship is based on mutual advantage and mutual protection. Abuse that and you lose our trust."

Nesco was about to reply when she heard two sounds. One was the sound of hoof beats which signaled the rest of her party advancing up to her position.

The second was the sound of one of the mercenaries sucking in his breath in surprise. The man stepped out from behind his cover.

* * *

He seemed about thirty to Nesco. She noticed several unruly curls of blond hair peeking out from underneath his chainmail coif. His right cheek sported a large, faded scar. His expression was that of a seasoned warrior, but he wasn't staring at Nesco anymore.

The ranger looked over her shoulder and saw that the sellsword was gazing at Tojo.

And Tojo was returning the stare.

Suddenly, the samurai leapt down off his horse in a single move. Nesco tensed, but Tojo merely faced the man and- to her astonishment- gave him a slight bow.

When Tojo straightened up, a rare smile graced his features.

"Greetings, Quthfor-san. It is good to see you again."

* * *

"The Journeymen?" Nesco had asked Tojo several minutes later after all weapons had been put away. "The ones who accompanied you into Bellicose's lair? The ones who helped Aslan slay Chic? These are the Journeymen of Hardby?"

"You sound disappointed, Lady Cynewine," Quthfor commented, eyeing her closely. "I hope your companions were not telling you tall tales."

"No." Nesco shook her head. "I just didn't expect to find you this far north, that's all."

"We go wherever the gold leads, my Lady. Such is the life of a sellsword."

"You could sign up at Ironstead," Cygnus suggested. "They're in desperate need of men there."

Quthfor nodded. "We hadn't known previously; this is our first foray into the Vesve. When our current assignment is over, we may well take that route."

"Speaking of which," added Saxmund, frowning as she looked in a circle around the campsite. "Where is your current employer? Is he going to skulk around in the undergrowth all night? Admittedly, that's quite a feat for someone his size, but-"

"It's all right, Agarth!" Quthfor called out. "There is no danger here!"

The words had not yet died off before the mercane appeared out of thin air in their midst.

* * *

It was all Nesco could do not to gasp. Only in height and skin color was there a resemblance to Blackthorn, but it was a strong enough instinctual reaction that the ranger had to force herself not to draw Sundancer.

Agarth's head long and thin; more so than a human's by proportion. The mercane's eyes were a pale green behind a pair of simple round spectacles and his ears, heavily studded with rings, were elven in nature. Small tusks, like those of Laertes, jutted from his lower lip. An elaborate hat, something like a turban but with the horns like a giant ram, was perched on top of his hairless head. His neck was completely covered by a thick, dark blue ring of fabric.

The mercane wore voluminous dark blue robes, similar to the type many modern human wizards wore. The sleeves were large, and the giant kept pushing them back up to his elbows as he moved. His boots were of the traditional Baklunish style; curving upwards at the tip. Agarth wore enough gold rings, bracelets and other jewelry to make sure no one could miss them. A huge, forest green cloak swirled around him.

Agarth's eyes found Saxmund and Aelfbi, and his brow furrowed.

Sir Corvis stepped forward and bowed.

"We will arrive at the sphere first, master mercane. As an associate of mine once asked me, shall we embark upon this enterprise as allies, or rivals?"

The planar merchant stood motionless for a moment. Then, one long arm languidly moved. Double-jointed, thin fingers pointed at the campsite.

"Sit," Agarth said.

* * *

A dozen individuals sat around the campfire. Agarth and Tojo were in the lotus position, while the others made themselves as comfortable as possible.

While Nesco distributed the food and water that Aelfbi Gemblossom had created for them, Cygnus watched as Agarth conjured up a teak wood chest with a wave of his hand.

About three feet by two by two, the chest sported fittings and nails crafted from platinum. With spider-like grace, Agarth pulled a long key from within his robes and used it to open a lock on the chest. The mercane swung the hinged lid open and began to pull food and waterskins out of the chest.

Far more than should have been able to fit in it.

_One mystery solved_, thought Cygnus as the mercane handed what looked like a roasted pheasant to Golatunt, who tore it into pieces and distributed it. Several bottles of what might have been wine followed and also shared amongst Agarth's party.

The wizard's stomach grumbled at the thought of bland food and plain water.

In the meantime, Sir Corvis took the lead in the conversation.

"I know that you were not able to come to an agreement with Saxmund and her allies back in Chendl," the knight said. "However, this might be a good time to reconsider your position. Certainly a share of this find is preferable to none."

The mercane wiped his mouth with an enormous handkerchief, which he carefully folded up and placed in a pouch on the inside lining of his cloak.

"Getting to the pod first will avail you little," Agarth said calmly. "Your lack of knowledge will set you back far more than our lack of mounts."

"Pod?" queried Zantac, frowning. "Is that what you call the sphere?"

"Your question only confirms your ignorance," the mercane answered, a smug expression settling on that angular face.

Zantac flushed red, but Cygnus stepped in first. "We're not nearly as ignorant as you think. My friend Tojo and I have also been on board the _Mary Celestial, _an experience you have yet to enjoy. If we are able to summon the astral ship to this world, I dare say we'll be able to utilize it faster and more efficiently than you will."

Agarth removed his spectacles, wiped them on his sleeve, replaced them on his long face and peered down at the wizard.

Cygnus returned his gaze, but said nothing. Eventually, Agarth seemed to come to a decision.

"We will share information," the blue giant said. "You first."

The wizard hesitated and looked over at Nesco.

The ranger could feel a knot tightening up in the pit of her stomach. _How am I supposed to decide? I know nothing of either magic or planar matters!_

But then she realized that this decision really wasn't about either. It was about reading the otherworldly merchant. Judging his character. His truthfulness.

Nesco stared at Agarth for a few seconds, and then turned and nodded at Cygnus.

* * *

The Aardian wizard gave a reasonably accurate account of his and Tojo's experience on the _Mary Celestial_. The others listened, enthralled. Even Zantac and Nesco had not known the details of this particular adventure.

Cygnus had sidestepped from the matter of where he and Tojo had actually come from, but when he had finished his tale, there was a thoughtful expression on the mercane's face that he did not like.

"So," the giant mused aloud. "An astralship specifically designed for an alternate Material route. That is very rare. Difficult to navigate."

"Wait a minute," Cygnus protested. "I didn't say anything about other Material worlds!"

Agarth's smug smile returned.

"You did not have to. It is obvious to me you are not from this world. Neither are those two," he said, indicating Saxmund and Aelfbi with a lazy wave of his hand. "This is no surprise."

_Damn it_, thought Cygnus. _I hope I didn't give too much away_. "Now you," he said brusquely.

"Very well," agreed the mercane. He finished off one of his bottles of wine and then looked around at the entire group arrayed around the campfire.

"What do you know of The Great Wheel?"

"Only that we're a small cog in it," quipped Zantac.

"Small perhaps, but not insignificant." The mercane leaned over and began to draw a diagram with his finger in the dirt around the campfire that had been cleared of leaves and other detritus.

"This circle," Agarth indicated, "is your Material world." He then drew a much larger circle around the first one. "The astral. The timeless void between the planes. Portals to any other plane may be found there, if one knows where to look. And that," the mercane finished by leaning back and fastidiously wiping off his finger with his handkerchief, "is where the Observatorium comes in."

"The what?" asked Cygnus.

"The Observatorium," repeated Agarth, his voice carrying a faint but unmistakable condescending air, "is a secret to all but the most learned planar scholars."

"So how'd _you_ find out? You stole the secret from one of them?" jeered Saxmund.

The mercane gave the rogue a cold eye and returned his gaze to Cygnus. "I am under no obligation to repeat myself, so I will not. Listen carefully. The Observatorium exists in a private universe of its own; a demiplane enterable from only one portal in the astral. A portal whose location is lost to history."

"But what is this Observatorium?" Zantac wanted to know. "Some kind of observatory?"

The mercane's mouth curled up in a thin U-shape. It was very disquieting to witness.

"You may think of it as the Archetype Observatory. A huge, spherical construct with the ability to peer into any plane, any realm. Even the gods themselves cannot shut the unblinking eye of the Observatorium."

Everyone as silent.

_The possibilities_, Cygnus thought. _The possibilities._

"And you hope to use the _Mary Celestial_ to find the portal that leads to this Observatorium?" the mage asked. "I don't see how one follows the other."

"But it does," replied the giant. "I think it likely that the unknown creators of the _Mary Celestial_ and the Observatorium are one and the same."

More silence.

"How can you be sure of this?" asked Aelfbi quietly.

Agarth shrugged. "I am not. It is my pet theory only, but I am not, unlike you, without knowledge in these matters. I have compared accounts of the Observatorium with your descriptions of the astralship. I sense too many similarities for it to be a coincidence in my view."

"And what exactly are you hoping to view with the Observatorium?"

The mercane eyed Cygnus coldly.

"That," he said, "is beyond our exchange of information."

"Which leads us back to our underlying problem," stated Sir Corvis. "As of right now, none of us have legal claim to this pod."

"I will secure it," Agarth proclaimed confidently, now looking at Nesco, "from your Royal Court. That pod is a liability to your settlement at Ironstead for as long as it remains where it is. I can arrange to have the pod transported to a more secure location. Your king will accept certainty in gold over vague promises of a flying ship."

"We'll see about that," said Nesco, who squared her shoulders with a confidence that she did not feel at all. "If the Royal Court is informed that a certain blue giant should not be trusted with the _Mary Celestial_, then you will not end up with this pod at all."

"And who would tell them such a falsehood, Lady Cynewine?" rumbled Agarth. "I have been upfront in all my dealings and as honest as good business practice will allow. I have no hidden, sinister agenda."

"Says you," muttered Zantac.

"May I suggest a compromise?" Aelfbi broke in. "Let us pool our resources to obtain this pod. My companion Saxmund, myself and two others have need of the Mary Celestial, but only for a single trip. After that, and an opportunity for Cygnus and his allies to go where they will if they wish it, we'll turn the _Celestial_ over to you, Agarth. You can then search for this Observatorium to your heart's content. What do you say?"

"I'm sorry, Aelfbi," Nesco interrupted before the mercane could respond. "That's beyond what I can agree to without Aslan and the others being present."

"Then we are at an impasse," Agarth stated without further ado, rising to his feet. "Golatunt," he turned to the scout. "Pitch camp and set your watches."

The planar merchant reached into his chest and pulled out a huge mass of fabric and poles that under his nimble fingers quickly resolved itself into a one-giant tent. He moved off to edge of their clearing and began to set it up.

Nesco and her friends might never have existed for all the notice Agarth took of them now.

The ranger felt Cygnus sidle up to her as Saxmund, Tojo and Sir Corvis began setting up their own camp on the other side of the clearing.

"What do you think?' the mage asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Lady Cynewine slowly turned to meet the wizard's gaze.

"We should have two days with this pod before Agarth catches up to us." Nesco's tone was slow but deliberate. "If there are any secrets left in that sphere, I think we'd better discover them before then."


	205. Fenlun's Tracks

**10****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**King Belvor's Arms **

**Ironstead, Furyondy**

Elrohir slammed his fist down on the bar and jumped to his feet.

"_What?"_ he yelled.

Few people had ever seen the half-orc known as Laertes cower in fear, but all the patrons of the Ironstead inn saw just that now as the youth cringed at the bigger human's rage.

"Hilda- thee's gone! Juth now! Thee wath there only a few minuth ago when I came to meet you! I think thee… thee-

"She what?" roared Elrohir. "Spit it out, man!"

"I think he just did," remarked Argo dryly, wiping his face with a bar towel.

"Laertes," Lady Bigfellow said gently, "Please. If you're hiding Hilda, you can tell her she has nothing to fear from us."

"Oh, no?" The party leader whirled on Caroline. "I'd say she has quite a bit to fear from me!"

"Then why are you so surprised she's scampered?' asked Garoidil. "You think she wasn't on the alert for when we showed up? Your friend Cygnus told her we were coming!"

"I'm not hiding her!" Laertes protested. "I'm telling you the truth!"

"Elrohir," Aslan reminded his friend. "You promised that-"

But the ranger cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"I don't have to hurt Talat to make her afraid of me, Aslan."

"And I'm sure she knows that, Elrohir," responded the paladin. "Thus, her flight."

"And does she think any agreement she and Cygnus might have made is still going to be valid if I have to hunt her down?" Elrohir shook his head in disgust. "I still can't believe Cygnus would have entered into any kind of bargain with Talat! _She kidnapped his son,_ for Asgard's sake!"

"Nodyath did that, Elrohir." Aslan's voice was steady. "Not Talat. We are seeking justice, not vengeance."

The paladin got to his feet and eyed his team leader and friend steadily.

"I will not have it any other way."

Elrohir bit his lip and seemed literally trying to swallow his rage. After several seconds, he broke his gaze at Aslan and turned back to the half-orc.

"Laertes," he said. "Take me to her cabin." He then looked back at Aslan. "I assume it's morally acceptable if I try to find her, Aslan? A lone pregnant female, after all! If she's left Ironstead and run off into the woods at night, she could be in grave danger."

"I suspect the Vesve is not Talat's greatest peril at the moment, Elrohir," the paladin said, his eyes narrowing. "However, your point is sound. We'll all go together, though."

* * *

Clouds covered the stars overhead. Only the scattered torches gave light, and the hour was late enough that lantern boys were beginning to put all the non-essential ones out for the night. Still, there was enough illumination for Elrohir and the others to follow the running half-orc back to the cabin of Talat/Hilda, where he stood just outside and waited nervously.

Caroline, unencumbered by plate mail, reached the open door of the cabin first. The young woman stuck her inside, and then looked back at her arriving companions.

"Fire still going. Meal on the table. She left in a hurry, all right."

"You can say that again, love," Argo Bigfellow Junior added, laboriously getting down on his knees to examine the packed earth outside the cabin. He pointed. "It's very faint, but see? Here and here. The outline of bare feet. She didn't even wait to put on shoes."

Elrohir swallowed hard again. A dream. _Bare feet in the forest._

"The tracks lead that way," said Argo, rising back to his feet and pointing to the west. "Let's go!"

* * *

Leaving Laertes at the cabin with instructions to notify them _immediately_ if Talat returned, Elrohir and his companions followed the tracks about two hundred feet, passing to the rear of the carpentry workshops, now all closed down for the night, and were approaching the western outpost wall.

"She couldn't have climbed it," Garoidil said, looking up in disbelief at the giant logs that composed the stockade wall.

"No, she didn't," Elrohir answered him. "Look at this."

On the ground, Talat's tracks had been intercepted by another set of tracks.

Tracks that were, even to Garoidil's untrained eye, clearly that of an animal of some kind.

A large one.

"Look at the stride," Argo said, pointing out the procession of prints. "Both right feet in synch, and then both left feet."

Elrohir nodded. "Feline. A giant cat of some sort."

Bigfellow frowned. "Manticore, maybe? Could have flown in for a midnight snack."

His wife covered her hands with her mouth. "That's horrible! You mean- you mean," her eyes were wide, "that Talat was _eaten?"_

Elrohir shook his head. "I don't think so."

"But her tracks stop where they intercept these," Garoidil pointed at the giant cat's footprints.

"No blood, no sign of a struggle," Elrohir responded. "Besides, someone would have heard her screams."

Bigfellow looked chagrined. "Didn't think of that. One for you, Elrohir."

"But what did happen?" the party leader mused, looking around for he wasn't sure what.

There was silence for a few seconds.

"Could she have- ridden away on the cat?" asked Caroline tentatively, as if she thought the idea was a foolish one.

Argo got down on one knee again and examined the tracks closely.

"Hard to tell," he eventually said. "There should be a deepening of the prints from this point on, due to the increased weight the cat would be carrying. I don't see any sign of that, but the ground here is pretty hard. I could just be missing-"

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

Four men and one woman pivoted to stare at the gnome addressing them.

* * *

Clad completely in brown leather, including a wide-brimmed hat which he now swept off his head and pressed to his chest, the small demi-human standing at about twenty yards distance addressed his human audience. A light clearly magical in nature emanated from a feather stuck into the brim of his hat.

"Fenlun Barlun Urlan Effigist Zimbalist Herlendal, at your service!" he stated officiously. "Welcome to Ironstead. May I be of service this evening?"

"Possibly," Elrohir said at length. "Have you seen the human woman Hilda?"

"Oh, I have indeed, good sir," replied Fenlun, replacing his hat on his head and smiling merrily at all of them.

Elrohir waited.

And waited.

"Well?" he finally blurted out. "Where is she?"

The gnome pointed in the direction of Talat's cabin, his face serious again. "Just entering her residence that way."

"Wait a minute." Aslan said, suspicion in his voice. "When was this?"

Herlendal considered. "Oh, about two days ago, I think it was."

"_I mean, have you seen her recently?"_ Elrohir exploded.

Fenlun tilted his head up at the ranger.

"You really should say what you mean right at the start, longshanks. It'd save you an awful lot of frustration."

The corner of the gnome's mouth turned upwards in a smile.

His own face a mixture of astonishment and fury, Elrohir turned to his friends.

"I'm going to get down on my knees and punch him in the nose!"

"How rude," sniffed Herlendal.

Argo laid a hand on Elrohir's shoulder. The big ranger looked as if he was trying hard not to smile in deference to his friend's anger.

"Let me handle this, Elrohir."

The party leader looked over to Aslan, who merely shook his head.

"Don't look at me," the paladin grimaced. "I have no interest in taking on a pint-sized Unru."

"Fine," groused Elrohir.

"Be careful, love," Caroline warned her husband, indicating the gnome's _light._ "He's clearly a wizard of some sort."

"That's all right. I'm clearly a wise-ass of some sort. That's gotta be worth something."

As Argo stepped forward, Elrohir nudged Aslan.

"Come on. While they're talking, I want to follow those cat tracks."

* * *

Bigfellow saw the gnome's dark eyes follow Elrohir, Aslan and Garoidil as the three warriors slowly moved on past. A quick glance behind Argo showed Caroline watching him, her hands wringing together, her face tense.

Argo put on his best pained smile, approached Herlendal and squatted down on his haunches. Fenlun regarded him with a quizzical look, but said nothing.

The ranger spoke first, his voice quiet.

"What do you want in exchange for telling us where Hilda is?"

"Oh, ho," the gnome replied in an equally soft voice. "The human has a brain, after all. Tell me, why are you flying solo here?"

"My friend Elrohir is a bit touchy these days where Hilda is concerned," Argo said. "The last thing we want here is needless violence."

"Too true," Fenlun nodded sagely. "That would leave no room for all the necessary violence."

A mechanical flapping noise sounded behind Bigfellow. He looked over his shoulder to see a metallic hawk land on the corner of the nearest building and peer down at him. Its beak opened, and a pale red glow came from within.

_So much for the myth of the Harmless Gnome, _thought Argo to himself. Caroline was frantically motioning for him to retreat, but her shook his head at her and returned his attention to Herlendal.

"I'm no threat to you."

"Trust me, longshanks. I already knew that."

_Arrogant little prick, isn't he?_

"You haven't answered my first question," the ranger persisted.

"Hmm." Fenlun stroked his beard and spoke, seemingly to himself. "What would I want in exchange for giving up Hilda?" He shook his head. "I don't know now. Poor woman was frantic when I found her. Seemed to think her life was in danger, so, being the gnomemanitarian that I am, I had a friend give her a lift. She was so grateful, she didn't mind answering a few trifling questions."

"About what?" Bigfellow asked. He felt like a lead weight was slowly being lowered into his stomach.

"Oh, this and that," the gnome replied airily. "Just some general questions about the world we live in."

His eyes slyly darted over to meet Argo's.

"And some others," he finished.

Bigfellow felt he was stepping through a field of caltrops.

"The steelsphere is no big secret."

"On the contrary, longshanks," Herlendal said. "I think it's holding some tremendous secrets. Some of which lie across my particular field of study. Your friends Cygnus, Zantac Aelfbi, Sir Corvis and that samurai fellow came to see me three nights ago, and we all had a most delightful chat about that serene lady of the astral plane, the _Mary Celestial." _

Argo tried to keep his voice casual. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Of course, all that really did was to whet my appetite for more. And then, by the grace of Garl Glittergold, who do I happen across not more than thirty minutes ago, running across the compound in mortal terror? Yet _another_ planar traveler and former passenger on the _Celestial."_

"Hilda told you that?"

"Hilda most certainly did not," replied Fenlun, his expression settling into a grin that Bigfellow found unnerving, "but _Talat_ did."

Argo took a deep breath and closed his eyes. This damn gnome was holding all the cards.

When he opened them again, Herlendal was still looking right at him.

_All right,_ Argo thought. _All right._

"You're a wizard, and you want this information for the sake of your craft, correct?" he asked.

"Correct." The gnome was peering at him suspiciously now. "Why do you ask?"

The ranger answered Fenlun's question with another of his own. "Who would you tell anything that I confide to you in these matters?"

"No one here, if that's what's worrying you," Herlendal replied. "The study of effigies is my life's work, and I'm not about to part with what might be the greatest effilogical discovery since the invention of the automaton."

Argo had little idea of the specifics the gnome was talking about, but he knew how jealously some wizards- especially those not connected with a guild, like Cygnus- guarded their arcane knowledge.

"All right, Shorty," he said, smiling and standing up. "Let's talk."

* * *

Elrohir cursed again, looking at the windswept dirt before him.

"How could a breeze that strong have hit this particular area where the tracks were?"

"I don't think you really need to ask that, Elrohir," Aslan said, laying a hand on the ranger's shoulder.

Elrohir took a deep breath, but it wasn't one designed to calm. It was intended to get his body ready for combat.

"No," he admitted. "I guess I don't."

His hand went to Gokasillion's hilt.

"When I'm done with that blasted gnome, they'll need to sop up what's left of his body with a sponge!" he seethed, turning back the way they had come.

"Elrohir, wait!" said Aslan. "Look!"

The ranger followed the paladin's pointing hand and saw Argo and Caroline Bigfellow walking towards them.

"Argo?" Elrohir said as he jogged up to the pair and halted, Aslan and Garoidil right behind him. "What happened? Did you find out anything?"

Bigfellow nodded. "Fenlun- the gnome- is hiding Talat in a secret cache-hole he has here," he explained. "He says he'll take us to her as long as both sides agree beforehand there'll be no violence."

"That's fine," Elrohir said brusquely. "I've already agreed to that a dozen times over." He then peered at his fellow ranger, his eyes narrowing. "How did you convince him to tell you where she was?"

Argos' auburn eyes were shining as the big ranger gave his friend a magnificently fake smile.

"Nothing at all to worry about, Elrohir," he said. "You know how tight-fisted wizards are with knowledge. He was on the right path, anyway. I just told him where the caravan was."

There was a long silence. Then Elrohir slowly shook his friend.

"I've gotta tell you, Argo," he said. "I've gone to bed with happier thoughts."


	206. Rashlot

**12****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Vesve Forest**

**(About 45 miles west of Ironstead)**

_Nothing._

"Dammit!" Zantac yelled, followed by words of a far stronger hue.

He grabbed the orange chapeau off his head in frustration and hurled it against the interior wall of the pod.

The arcanist had just used his third- and last- _dispel magic_ spell for the day and followed up with yet another _detect_, trying to determine if he had been able to dispel any non-detection wards that might have been active on the pod.

There was still nothing. Either the Willip wizard had been unable to dispel the spell that was cloaking any auras present, or (and he considered this more and more likely with each passing minute) there was simply nothing to dispel. The entire steelsphere carried the same amount of magic as a plate of bacon.

Which meant this was all a colossal waste of time.

Zantac was currently lying on his side on the bottom of the pod, facing the underside of one of the eight metal benches that had been welded right into the steelsphere's frame itself. Each bench was encased in a strong but plush fabric of an unknown make. Someone had sliced this particular covering open with a sword. The inside seemed to consist entirely of a yellow, sponge-like material that pulled apart easily, but offered no clues as to its origin.

Belts with elaborate clasps on them were also attached to each bench. According to Cygnus, they were used to strap the pod's passengers into their berths for the traumatic descent and landing of the pod onto whatever world was its destination.

Underneath (a term only applicable on the Material world, for in the astral _up_ and _down_ were meaningless) the bench was a series of four small holes in a square pattern, each about the width of Zantac's pinky. They were only about a half-inch deep and seemed to serve no purpose. Underneath that was a series of symbols painted onto the hull of the sphere. Consisting of a mixture of geometric shapes and unknown symbols, Zantac knew that when he originally encountered them, Elrohir had been able to decipher these writings, which were present not only on this pod, but throughout the _Mary Celestial_ itself, with his _helm of comprehending languages._

While Elrohir was not here, Zantac's sorcery was at least up to this task.

But while the words were translatable, the meaning was less clear

**RECHARGING STATION**

_Recharging for what? _Zantac thought. Wands of some kind? The "rowbaht" currently laying in pieces back at Ironstead? The pod itself?

The red-robed wizard gave up on this for now, crawled over to where his hat lay and jammed it back on his head. He then sat up and looked around him again.

The sphere itself was about thirty feet in diameter, about twice the size a _shelterdome_ would be if one were to conjure one up on the astral plane. It was a silvery-grey in color and devoid of any obvious interior features other than the berths. Near what one would currently call the "roof" of this pod was set a circular door, constructed of the same metal the sphere was made of- what Fenlun had called astral driftmetal. The door opened outwards by means of a circular bar of metal set into the center of the door that turned to unlock the door's hidden hinges. It was currently propped open, the door itself resting on the sphere's outside hull. A rope ladder- a recent addition- hung down from the opening to the pod's "floor."

This door provided the only means of egress from the sphere, for while the landing had dented the bottom of the pod, it was still quite intact. Zantac wondered how one was supposed to get out of this thing if poor luck had wound up planting the door face down into the dirt when the pod landed.

There was one window, also circular and only about two feet across. Zantac would have called the window's transparent material glass affected by a _glassteel_ spell, except that it could not be dispelled and of course, radiated no magic in the first place.

Currently, the view showed only brown dirt. The wall of the forty-foot deep crater the pod had created on impact with the forest floor. Zantac tried to imagine what that must have felt like for the sphere's passengers and involuntarily winced. Padding or no, that was one sensation he had no intention of experiencing.

Slowly getting to his feet, Zantac grabbed his quarterstaff, currently propped up against the nearest berth. The tip of the staff was currently imbued with _light_, but as Zantac stood up, it suddenly went out.

Zantac frowned with sudden realization. Knowing his cantrip's duration, he had been here almost an hour now. It hadn't seemed that long, but it was noticeably darker inside the pod now than it was when he had first entered.

He looked up. The miniscule patch of blue sky visible through the hatch had deepened noticeably. It must be almost sunset by now.

Grumbling at his lack of useful findings, Zantac grabbed the rope ladder and began to climb out of the sphere.

* * *

As the crow flies, Cygnus had been standing about fifty-five feet from where Zantac had been when the latter wizard had uttered his latest stream of expletives, but he had still heard them just fine.

He couldn't begrudge his fellow mage his frustration. Cygnus himself had fared no better with his own explorations of the sphere earlier in the day. It was still nothing more than an eight ton metal enigma. The wizard sighed and looked around him.

The area of forest that had been cleared was a rough ovoid shape, oriented along a north-south axis, perhaps two hundred and fifty feet long and half that at its widest point. Most of the northern portion was occupied by the impact crater itself. The other half contained the sled, the site's lone building- a small barracks- and a fire pit, latrine ditches and so forth. Stumps from cleared trees dotted the clearing. With the exception of a few trees on the perimeter, all the wood and undergrowth had been removed from the clearing for firewood over the past eight months or so. Nesco could see that even some of the smaller trees in the woods just outside the clearing had been cut down.

_Wayne would foam at the mouth if he saw this_, the ranger guessed. It was small wonder that Major Standish was having a hard time finding druids to help conceal this site.

He looked down towards the southwest. Just outside the barracks, Sir Corvis and one of the soldiers were helping Sergeant Tolan, the garrison's ranking officer, into his full plate armor. Nearby, Saxmund was helping one of the site's two hunters load a freshly killed wild boar onto a spit over a fire pit. A little ways further west, Aelfbi was conjuring water into a latrine ditch that he had converted into a watering trough for their horses and exhorting the steeds to drink, which they did with little hesitation.

Cygnus himself was currently standing on the southeast lip of the crater. Satisfied from the vibrations of the rope ladder (and the sounds of labored breathing) that Zantac would soon be rejoining them, he walked over about fifteen feet to the south, where the partially constructed giant sled sat.

A dozen huge tree trunks, shaved of bark and polished as smooth as conditions allowed, lay on the ground side-by-side. A foot-wide hole had been bored through each trunk lengthwise- no mean feat- and what were basically wooden dowels inserted through these holes, nailed to shorter, flexible pieces of wood that connected with hooks that attached to the sides of the sled platform, which was basically a wooden raft, thirty-five feet square, that sat on top of the logs. This arrangement meant that, once the sled was being pulled, the logs would constantly roll underneath the platform without the arduous task of constantly having to take the rear log, bringing it around to the front and placing it underneath the front of the sled.

Smaller trunks had been pounded upright into the platform, forming a loose fence on three sides. Ropes and pulleys would secure the pod in place. Only the front section, where the drivers would sit and the harnesses to secure the draft team in place, were not yet complete.

It was an impressive design. Cygnus had not met the gnome Fenlun Herlendal that the others told of, but he certainly seemed to be as talented as they related.

And curious. Cygnus frowned. Too curious for his tastes. Fenlun already knew more about the _Mary Celestial_ and related matters than the tall wizard was comfortable with. Dealing with Agarth was bad enough. He certainly didn't need any more complications in this matter.

One of the lumberjacks passed nearby, carrying an armful of firewood from the forest's edge. Cygnus smiled at him, but the man pointedly turned away as he walked off towards the fire pit.

Cygnus sighed. This man's attitude was not unique but once again, it was a complication that could not be helped.

_Their arrival at the site on horseback had been met with less than total enthusiasm by the ten men currently stationed here. At first, they had assumed that the party's horses were the draft team that were to be attached to their sled, and they loudly protested that the completion of the sled and subsequent loading of the steelsphere onto it were still scheduled for nearly three weeks away._

_Unfortunately, upon explanation that these mounts were for the arriving party's personal use only, the soldiers' attitude went from put-upon to downright unfriendly. Believing themselves now in greater jeopardy from orc attack, it had taken both another of Nesco's lies about still being in the Azure Order and all of Sir Corvis' considerable talents at diplomatic finesse to smooth things over. At the knight's suggestion, Aelfbi and the mages had used some of their precious spells and prayers to help these men by creating water, light and so forth. This had mollified them somewhat (particularly the two lumberjacks, who were charged with the daily task of hauling water from the closest stream), but relations were still closer to frosty than toasty._

Cygnus wondered if Agarth had anything in that special chest of his with which to bribe these men further against them.

That was a sour thought, but it all might turn out to be a moot point anyway. They were nearing the end of their first full day at the crash site. The mercane and his party shouldn't be here until this same time tomorrow, but Cygnus couldn't imagine his party finding anything then that they hadn't been able to today. He was seriously considering asking Lady Cynewine if they just shouldn't pack up tomorrow at sunrise and start the trek back to Ironstead. That way, they wouldn't have to endure more than a few snide comments from Agarth as they passed each other on the forest trail. Talat would be disappointed- not to mention Saxmund and her allies- but to Cygnus it seemed as if the _Mary Celestial_ was going to remain forever out of their reach.

And that meant he was going to have to find another way to keep himself and his son safe.

* * *

Nesco Cynewine stood on the far side of the crater from Cygnus, lost in thought.

The ranger was not learned in magic, but she was pretty sure the efforts of her two arcanist friends had thus far netted nothing but a goose egg. If it had been otherwise, they surely would have notified her. This expedition was looking more and more like a lost cause.

So now what?

Well, she'd lead her team back to Ironstead. They'd leave the day after tomorrow, or even sooner if the mages didn't think it worth the wait. The garrison here certainly wouldn't miss them, and Nesco could only grimace to herself at all the non-existent weight she'd been throwing around at Furyondan soldiers this past week.

She knew that sooner or later that was going to come back to haunt her, but her name was already mud to those who knew the truth. What was one more embarrassment to the Knights of Furyondy; that elite group she'd wanted to join so badly as an adolescent that the ache of longing had kept her awake at night?

Among other aches.

Nesco shook her head to try and clear it of those thoughts. She was wondering how Joseph, Grimdegn and the others were going to react when they finally received word of her fruitless journey here when she saw Tojo walking towards her. Relieved for the distraction, she smiled and bowed at him.

He returned the bow, the corners of his mouth twitching in the briefest shadow of a smile. Nesco remembered Jeffers doing that whenever she or Bretagne had made the butler force to repress his merriment at their childish antics whenever Gella was around.

"Hello, Tojo-sama," Lady Cynewine said, again trying to ditch persistent memories.

"Greetings, Nesco-sama," the samurai replied. He said nothing else; merely stood beside her, arms crossed, gazing at the forest around them.

Nesco waited. If only a little, she knew some of Tojo's mannerisms by now.

After a minute or so of silence, Tojo spoke, his eyes still focused on the woods.

"Cygnus and Zantac not find anything in sphere, do they?"

"It doesn't look like it," she replied.

The samurai's mouth tightened, but there was no other visible reaction. After a bit, he spoke again.

"Saxmund and others not be aber to return to Rorex; to their own time."

"No," said Nesco softly.

_And a certain Yanigasawa samurai will not be able to return to Aarde; to his own time._

She wondered what Tojo wanted back there. From the bits and pieces she'd accumulated from the others, she knew the samurai had been driven from his homeland in disgrace, never to return until he had regained his honor. He certainly hadn't done that as of yet, so why did he seem-

Nesco looked at Tojo out of the corner of her eye. The samurai was still looking at the forest, but his face, was still neutral, and seemed less focused. Those violet eyes were not seeing the Vesve, they were seeing-

_By the gods_, Nesco realized. _He's homesick._

A loud squawking diverted her attention. A number of birds- thrushes, sparrows, and a cardinal- flew up from the trees and away.

_A raptor_, Nesco thought, but then dismissed that thought. The birds would all take wing opposite from where a bird of prey would be coming from. These had spread out in all directions. Whatever had scared them was from below.

She glanced over at Tojo. The samurai was back in focus. In fact, he was more than that. Nesco saw the tensing of his body.

Lady Cynewine watched as Tojo took his composite bow off his shoulder. His face was now tense with concentration.

"Nesco-sama," the samurai whispered harshly. "Do you hear sound?"

Nesco cocked her ear and listened.

From somewhere ahead of them in the woods, she heard a voice.

The ranger couldn't make it out, though. It was just too distant to catch the words, even if the speaker was using Common.

Then there were other sounds. Sounds growing louder.

Something moving fast through the leaves.

The sound of wind.

And then she could see them.

And then there was heart-stopping terror.

* * *

With blinding speed, small winged humanoid figures burst through the edge of the woods perhaps thirty feet to their west. Flying at perhaps ten feet off the ground, they were hovering near the ranger and the samurai in an instant.

No, they weren't flying. It almost seemed as if the air itself was _pushing_ them along; bearing them aloft. Their maneuverability put any bird to shame.

All three were different in every way but their size; four feet or so in height. Except for its wings, the first looked to Nesco like a picture of a djinn she had seen in a storybook once. The creature was the white of puffy clouds, and seemed little more solid. The lower half of its torso disappeared into a miniature whirlwind. A wide smile was on its face.

The second had grey skin which seemed to be flaking off its body like dust. Unlike its companion, this creature had a sorrowful expression on its face as it looked at the two humans before it.

The third creature resembled nothing so much as a miniature human carved out of solid ice, covered by a thin layer of snow. The beating of its wings as it hovered produced a continuous sound of ice cracking. This being looked neither happy nor sad; in fact, its face seemed carved into an immutable, aloof expression.

The split-second of fear was just starting to wane in Lady Cynewine when the three creatures were already moving again.

The cloud creature was suddenly enveloped in fog and vapor that swirled around it ceaselessly. It was almost impossible to discern the thing within. Similarly, the dust imp (for Nesco was sure that they could be nothing but fiends) was hidden within a plume of dirt and leaves sucked up from the ground.

The ice creature however, merely extended its arm and pointed at Nesco.

The ranger gasped as her chainmail armor turned white from an instantaneous frost. Biting cold poured into her frame. While it was not nearly as severe as the deadly blast of Blackthorn's _cold of cone_ that she had twice been exposed to, this freezing sensation did not appear to be abating, either.

"Nesco-sama!" she heard Tojo yell. "Purr back!"

An arrow whizzed by, narrowly missing the ice creature. Glancing behind her, Nesco saw Saxmund already reaching over her shoulder to draw another arrow from her quiver. The ranger couldn't help but be impressed. The rogue was at least fifty yards back, if not more. She was a better shot than Nesco had guessed.

As for her own situation, "pulling back" was a lot easier said than done. The northwestern lip of the crater was less than ten feet behind the ranger. Through chattering teeth, Lady Cynewine grabbed her own bow off her shoulder and prepared to notch an arrow, grateful that neither one was made of metal. At this close range, she should be able to-

"Tojo!" she suddenly screamed. "Look out!"

The samurai had already seen, but it was no use. Two blue-white streaks had shot out from the ice creature's outstretched fingertips and unerringly zoomed in on Tojo, his impressive attempt at dodging notwithstanding. The missiles vanished into the samurai's right shoulder and neck, and Nesco could see the skin where they had hit instantly turn a hard bluish black from severe frostbite, the very skin dying. Tojo grimaced in pain, but otherwise stayed upright and focused.

"Me!" Nesco screamed at the ice demon. "Take me on instead! Are you afraid of a woman, you overgrown snowball? Why don't you-"

From the clouds of air and dust came blizzards of wind and grit.

Nesco threw up her arm and turned her face away. Stinging particles slammed into her at high speed, but it was over in an instant. It had hurt, to be sure, but it was nothing she couldn't deal with.

Assuming of course, that she could deal with the situation.

Wiping a layer of dust off her face, the ranger could see that Tojo too had weathered the brief storm.

Another arrow- this one courtesy of Sir Corvis- flew by, but this one wasn't as close as Saxmund's had been.

Spasms of cold wracked Nesco's body. It seemed like her armor was getting still colder. Somewhere, out of the corner of her eye, she now saw flame, and the very idea of warmth helped her to bring her body back under control.

Then she saw where the fire was coming from.

Three more small winged devils were flying out of the forest towards her and Tojo.

One was the classic image of a demon- a small creature wreathed in red and orange flames, cackling a loud laugh as it approached.

The other looked similar to the magman she encountered back in Suderham- a small humanoid seemingly made of molten lava- except this one was thinner, and winged.

The third looked at first like an odd cross between the air and dust demons- a pale humanoid covered in vapor- but as it drew nearer Nesco could see that the vapor was in fact steam. Boiling drops of water constantly dripped off the creature's skin and sizzled on the ground.

Unlike the first three attackers, these three landed on the ground to the north of Nesco and Tojo. She saw the fire creature point at Tojo-

The idea occurred to Nesco so rapidly it never crystallized into words, or even a coherent thought. Her muscles acted on it before her brain did.

"Hey, flame brain!" she screamed at the blazing imp. "Over here! Fire doesn't bother me, Tindertwig! Why don't you go back to-"

The arm turned to point directly at Nesco. She heard Tojo yell, but the heat was already flooding into her.

Or more accurately, into the metal links of her chainmail armor.

And then both heat and cold were gone.

Lady Cynewine had guessed right. The two creature's attacks had negated each other.

And the fire devil was no longer smiling and laughing.

"You _are_ stupid, aren't you?" Nesco asked.

_These aren't fiends, _she thought. _They're elementals of some sort! And from what I remember from Karzalin saying once, elementals aren't usually very bright. Maybe we can-_

Molten rocks shot forth from the magma elemental's mouth at Nesco.

The ranger again cried out and shielded her face. It wasn't as bad as she'd feared. Only bits and pieces of magma- but the one that hit hurt.

But Lady Cynewine was getting used to getting hurt.

A quick glance showed the steam creature surrounding itself in a blur of vapor, like its air and dust cousins had.

_Too many targets_, thought Nesco as she readied her arrow to fire, _and not enough time. I wonder how many shots I'll get before they take me down._

"Purr back, Nesco-sama!" Tojo yelled at her again. "Spread out- force them to do same!"

Backing away rapidly to the southwest, Tojo reached the very edge of the forest before he let his first arrow fly. The shaft sped right at the ice elemental- Nesco wasn't surprised- and punched a hole right _through_ the creature, leaving a fist-sized gap in its chest.

Its expression of disdain finally vanishing, the ice elemental roared in pain, its voice the sound of a cold wind- just in time for three white streaks coming from above and behind Nesco to strike the creature. Cracks appeared on the thing's icy skin from the impact points, which spread throughout its entire body in the wink of an eye.

And then, like a snowman destroyed by a child, the ice demon fell apart into piles of ice and slushy snow.

Looking back towards the crater, Nesco could see Zantac, perched somewhat precariously on top of the sphere, raise his fist in triumph.

Yes! Nesco had forgotten about their two wizards. Surely these fiends or elementals or whatever they were couldn't stand up to their magic. Even as she turned back and let an arrow fly at the magma monster, Nesco knew that things were looking better.

* * *

_This looks bad_, thought Cygnus.

Both mages had memorized as many divination spells as possible in order to maximize their examination of the pod. This, combined with utilitarian spells designed to help ingratiate themselves with the garrison, had left little room for offensive magics, let alone for their most powerful ones.

_Work with what you've got_, Cygnus thought to himself and grimaced. If their group was ever to have a team slogan, that would most likely be it. They never seemed to face enemies when they were best prepared for them.

And certainly not enemies like these. Both he and Zantac had assumed that a band of orcs or something similar would be their most likely foes if combat did break out here at the encampment and so had chosen their limited remaining spells accordingly. Still, it was comforting to see that _magic missiles_ seemed effective, and Cygnus had that spell- what Zantac always jokingly called "a classic," currently memorized.

But which one?

One of the three blurring themselves, the tall mage decided without conscious thought. They'd be the hardest for archers to hit.

Cygnus incanted and let fly. Four missiles streaked from his outstretched fingertips and struck the air creature dead-on, which dissipated into a puff of vapor. Not even taking the time to savor his triumph, Cygnus began jogging westwards, skirting the southern edge of the crater.

"Zantac!" he yelled as he ran. "What in the Nine Hells are those things?"

"Wrong plane, scatterbrain!" the Willip wizard shouted back. "They're mephits- elemental creatures! If you'd joined the goddamn guild like I begged you to, you could have read about them in our library!"

"So what in the Inner Planes are they doing here?" Cygnus wanted to know. "Your precious library have an answer for that?"

Zantac merely shrugged and looked around him. The red-robed wizard's current position made him a sitting duck if any of these mephits decided to fly over and attack him. There was another rope ladder that hung down from the hatchway and down along the sphere's outer shell to the crater's bottom, but Zantac would no longer have line of sight to where the battle was currently taking place if he used it, as it hung down to the southeast. At least where he was, he had the option of ducking back into the pod and closing the door behind him.

Cygnus knew however, that Zantac would not do that. Not when the lives of his friends were at stake. The Aardian magic-user gritted his teeth and felt in his spell component pouch for the small paper packet that contained a tiny amount of sand.

* * *

Nesco's arrow missed the magma mephit, sailing by an inch over the creature's right shoulder.

The ranger's jaw dropped open. How had she missed? _The damn thing couldn't be more than twelve feet from her! _Was there fell magic at work here, making her hand tremble?

No. She couldn't blame outside forces when none existed. If her aim had been off, if her hand had shook as she released the shaft, it was no one's fault but her own. As she cursed herself for her cowardice, preparing to draw another arrow, more came flying by from the two hunters near the barracks, but their shots didn't even come close.

Major Tolan was screaming at the soldier who was helping him don his field plate, exhorting him to hurry up. The other soldiers were still inside the barracks, but their presence gave Nesco no comfort. They had been off-duty, and if they were to don their plate mail, the battle would long be over before they were finished.

And if they were to rush out unarmored, they'd wind up being more of a liability than an asset.

Saxmund was running full-tilt towards the battle now, bow in one hand, and an arrow in the other. Corvis, moving slower due to his heavier chain, followed behind.

The dust mephit caught up to Tojo in the blink of an eye, settled down on the grass next to him, and attacked the samurai in a whirl of claws, but Tojo adroitly avoided them and with a bloodcurdling cry that Lady Cynewine knew all too well, dropped his bow, drew his katana as fast as any mephit could act and attacked, all in one fluid motion.

His first strike missed, lost in the _blur_ effect of the mephit's concealing cloud, but the second hit and sliced the creature's left arm cleanly off. A piercing scream erupted from the elemental.

* * *

_Uh, oh,_ Nesco thought as the fire mephit pointed at her again. There was no more ice mephit around to counteract the effect.

But it was worse. A thin but brilliant ray of fire shot out from the creature's hand and struck the ranger full-on, tracing a course over her form as the mephit gestured.

This was worse than everything she had suffered so far combined. Her bow caught alight, and the ranger dropped it. She was sure she was being burnt alive, even as she screamed and tried to beat out the flames with her gauntleted hands. The heat singed Nesco's eyebrows, and vision was momentarily lost to her as she struggled to regain her bearings.

When she opened her eyes again, the magma mephit was upon her.

More heat. And more. Nesco weaved and dodged with all her might as the creature's molten claws passed within inches of her skin. She saw the steam mephit take wing and braced for who-knows-what, but the creature flew southeast, over the crater.

It was heading directly for Zantac.

* * *

That fact was not lost on the red-robed wizard as he watched the cloud of steam that he knew contained the elemental swiftly grow larger as it approached.

He heard Cygnus scream out a curse, and looked to his left. The tall mage had just finished casting a spell, and from the position of his arms and hands, Zantac could guess which one.

"I could have told you _sleep_ wouldn't work!" he shouted at Cygnus.

"Then why didn't you?"

"I didn't know you needed your hand held!" Zantac yelled back.

"Then what _will_ work?"

"I don't know- I didn't specialize in these blasted things! Try anything! I'm about to die here!" Zantac frantically dug in his own spell component pouch as he spoke and came up with his own pinch of sand. But unlike Cygnus', this sand was colored red, blue and yellow. Knowing he needed to close the range, the Willip wizard ran forward, hurling the sand up and away and casting as he did so, praying that his version would be more effective than Lamonsten's.

Brilliant cones of red, blue and yellow shot forth from Zantac's hand as the _color spray_ struck the steam mephit inside its vapor cloud.

The creature stopped dead, and began to fall.

Unfortunately, so did Zantac.

Panicked, the mage looked down to see his feet sliding forward as the surface of the sphere curved away beneath him. He'd run too far forward in order to catch the elemental in his area of effect. Zantac pinwheeled his arms frantically to try and regain his balance, but it was no use. His body pitched ahead of his legs and he toppled forward, slamming into the pod's hull on the way down.

_I wonder_, he managed to think during his painful descent, _which of us will hit first._

* * *

"Hang on, Lady Cynewine! I'm coming!"

A quick glance behind her showed Aelfbi Gemblossom, currently surrounded by an aura of multi-colored lights that Nesco had never seen before, running full-tilt towards her. The half-elf was still a good hundred feet to her south, though, so whatever he was planning, Nesco couldn't wait for it. Not with the magma creature reaching for her again.

She drew Sundancer and attacked, cutting a gash across the monster's chest. Lava oozed out, and it roared and fell back. Nesco was afraid that Sundancer would melt as her stolen sword had done from impact with the magman, but as she shook her longsword clear, the blade showed no damage at all.

More arrows from approaching hunters and lumberjacks whizzed by, aimed at the fire mephit, but all went wide.

Sergeant Tolan yelled with frustration as his aide finished adjusting the last strap. The officer grabbed his great helm with its T-shaped eye slit, jammed it over his head, drew his longsword and began lumbering- not forward, but westward, to where the horses still stood by the trough, whinnying nervously at the battle taking place to the north. Tolan looked back to see, as he had expected, five men clad only in woolen long johns emerge from behind the barracks, light crossbows in hand.

"Keep back from melee!" he roared at them. "Line formation! Stagger your bolts, and only take clear shots! We can't afford friendly fire!"

* * *

More noises came from the forest.

"By The Thunderer!" Lady Cynewine cried out in frustration. _"How many of these damn things are there?"_

Two more mephits came flying out from the trees. One looked like a winged, hairless dwarf made of earth and stone. The other was slender, with crystalline flesh and bleary red eyes. The former settled to earth ten feet to Nesco's left, while the latter landed just behind and to the left of the dust mephit.

Instantly, the Yanigasawa samurai felt an agonizing pain over his entire body. As he stared in disbelief, sweat was pulled through all the pores of his skin, only to fly off and towards the new arrival. Fortunately, the effect was short-lived, but Tojo now felt extraordinarily thirsty, even in the midst of battle. His mouth felt like it was filled with sand.

Nesco had been too busy to see this, as the ranger continued to avoid the magma creature's attacks. She risked a glance over at the earth mephit, to be on her guard in case the two elementals tried a flanking maneuver.

She blinked in surprise. A moment ago, the earth creature had been no taller than any of its fellow mephits. Now it was a good foot and-a-half taller than Nesco. Its rough-hewn hands curled into powerful-looking fists.

_I've had better days_, Lady Cynewine thought as she swung Sundancer again.

* * *

Saxmund finally drew first blood- or more accurately, first stone- when her next arrow struck the newly-grown earth mephit full in the chest. The creature however, merely yanked the shaft out, ignoring the dribble of stones and dirt that trickled out of the wound.

The dust mephit, now minus one limb, rose into the air and backed away from Tojo. A roiling cloud of dust sprang up in front of the samurai. Dirt and mud rose up a good thirty feet into the air, more than three times the height of the hovering elemental itself. The wall of wind swiftly curled into a rough square shape, enclosing both the steam and salt mephits inside it. Realizing that arrows could not penetrate the cloud, Tojo cursed in Nipponese as much as his coughing and choking on dust would allow.

Sir Corvis, approaching but still lagging behind, fired off another arrow at either the fire or the earth mephit. Nesco couldn't tell which one, because the missile sailed between the two. The ranger dodged again as fire spewed forth from the former's mouth at her. She avoided the worst of it, but Nesco could feel her body start to weaken. The chill of her chainmail now seemed a long-ago, almost fond memory as burns sprouted up all over the exposed skin on her face and arms. At least she was able to keep avoiding the magma creature's claws while looking for the best opening to attack.

A stream of salt crystals shot forth at Tojo, passing right through the _wind wall_ without hindrance. The samurai weaved and twisted, avoiding all but a few crystals. Those that did hit raised several angry-looking welts.

Tojo paid them no heed. The samurai was already in motion again. Unlike its dust cousin, the salt elemental was still on the ground, and Tojo was on it in an instant, charging through the wall of dust and slicing at the elemental in a style known as _kesagiri._

The katana cut into the salt creature at the left shoulder and continued diagonally downwards, the blade continuing to move through salt only by the virtue of the samurai's skill and strength, before exiting at the monster's right hip.

Like a sliced apple, the top portion of the salt mephit slid off the lower torso to land on the ground. An instant later, nothing was left of the monster but two piles of salt, which were quickly sucked up and incorporated into the dust mephit's _wind wall._

_

* * *

_

The steam mephit slammed into the crater floor with a puff of steam and a whistling noise that sounded like a tea kettle come to boil. The creature, blinded and stunned from the _color spray_, could do little but snarl and hiss. It took some comfort in hearing the scream of the falling human, although it did seem to be getting rather louder-

Zantac landed directly on top of it.

What was left of the elemental before Zantac's weight crushed it out of existence didn't cushion his impact much, being composed of little more than steam. Pain exploded in the magic-user's brain as his head and then the rest of him struck. Too winded even to cry out, he could only lie there, his lungs trying in irregular spurts to draw oxygen into his body. Zantac's lower body spasmed and twitched, and he could feel blood pooling under his left ear, which was currently pressed hard into the unforgiving dirt.

* * *

Nesco knew she was in trouble. The magma monster was occupying all her attention while the fire mephit looked like it was getting ready to breathe flame on her again. She knew she wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer against this kind of-

A white hemisphere suddenly hid the fire elemental from view.

Knowing what she'd see, Lady Cynewine nevertheless risked a quick glance behind her. As expected, she saw Cygnus, still moving westwards along the crater's edge, catch her gaze and offer her a smile.

_His wall of ice,_ she thought. _That thing will burn through it, but it gives us some time, and that's what I need the most of right now._

Then she heard the mage yell.

"Aelfbi! Help Zantac! He's hurt!"

Despite her burns and the proximity of the molten monster, a cold chill ran through Nesco. She did not welcome it.

* * *

Aelfbi Gemblossom turned at the sound of Cygnus' command and ran towards the lip of the crater. Not bothering to run to the southeastern section where the wooden ladder was propped up, the half-elf dove over the edge of the crater, landing on his stomach on the steep southwestern slope. The priest's leafweave armor protected him at first as he slid down the side of the crater, but the angle of the crater wall increased rapidly, flipping Aelfbi head over heels and sending him tumbling down the last twenty feet to land with a resounding _thud._

Zantac, lying about twenty feet from Gemblossom's current position, forgot his own pain as he watched the half-elf slowly raise a hand to his lip and draw it away, now covered in blood.

"And you're the combat medic?" the mage asked, his voice weak. "Cleric, heal thyself."

Aelfbi slowly rose to his knees and stretched his back, wincing as he did so. He then shot a wry look over at Zantac.

"If I'd had known you were still in a shape to crack wise, I'd have taken a slower boat."

"Sorry," was as far as Zantac got before a wracking cough overtook him and he curled up in a fetal position, every muscle he could feel screaming out in protest.

The priest headed over to him.

* * *

Another earth mephit, this one already _enlarged_ to gnoll size, burst out from the trees and lumbered towards Nesco.

The ranger felt another stab of fear run through her, even as she stabbed the magma mephit again. _Great Zeus,_ she thought. _What if some kind of dimensional portal has opened back there in the forest? Will these things keep coming forever?_

Then she heard the shout.

"No! I won't let you!"

And a man ran out of the woods after the mephit.

* * *

As far as Nesco could see, the newcomer was encased from head to toe in full plate armor that although ornate and covered in design work, looked as if it had seen better days. It was dirty and sported numerous dents, scratches and burn marks. He was swinging a heavy flail as he came and continued to scream at the earth elemental. Although the mephit was faster than its human pursuer, it suddenly stopped and swung a heavy, if clumsy, fist at the man, who managed to dodge despite his heavy armor.

"I won't let you harm them!" the unknown warrior shouted again. His face was hidden behind a full visor, but his voice was charged and full of passion.

Then, incredibly, the being he was fighting replied.

Nesco did not know that these creatures could understand the Common tongue, let alone speak it. The earth mephit's voice was gravelly in the most literal sense, sounding like rocks grating together that somehow still managed an approximation of a human speaking. Oddly though, the mephit's voice seemed aloof and unemotional.

"You should not have brought your curse among them," it said to the man.

* * *

Saxmund, now perhaps only thirty feet or so from Nesco, fired another arrow at the first earth mephit. The creature pulled out the arrow that penetrated partially into its chest and snapped it in two.

The dust mephit blew a stream of stinging particles at Tojo, but the samurai was already moving back outside the creature's _wind wall_, resheathing his katana and picking up his bow again.

Sir Corvis, still advancing, fired off another arrow but hit nothing.

Nesco could see a faint glow on the inside side of Cygnus' translucent dome of ice where the fire mephit had moved to attack the wall, but there was no immediate sign of any ice melting.

Suddenly, the magma mephit stopped trying to claw Nesco and smiled at her, stepping back a pace.

The ranger tightened her grip on her sword.

And a sound that mixed bubbling, boiling liquid and fire came from the lava creature's mouth, which was lit from within by an intense orange glow.

Somehow, the thing made words.

"Look at bright colors," it said.

The thing's skin suddenly bubbled madly as if multiple objects were about to burst right out of it.

And Lady Cynewine threw her arm across her eyes as a more intense display of pyrotechnics than she ever could have imagined existed ignited right in front of her.

An instant too late.

* * *

The light was so bright, the ranger couldn't even scream. The colors were so intense that they literally paralyzed her. Nesco's eyes were closed now, but still all she could see was white, orange, red and yellow. It was just as bad as the trap she had triggered back at Markessa's stockade.

Somewhere, she heard Saxmund scream. Or perhaps Nesco had found her own voice now. She wasn't sure- the brightness was so intense, it seemed to have somehow shut down all of the ranger's senses.

Then battle instinct took over again and Lady Cynewine felt herself stepping backwards, swinging Sundancer in multiple arcs before her, certain that the magma mephit would be attacking again with its claws, thinking to melt and tear Nesco's skin from her bones.

And now they were very likely to hit.

* * *

Cygnus kept on running.

His eyes were burning, but the wizard, at over one hundred feet from the magma mephit, had managed to turn away just in time from the awesome but brief display of lights that had erupted from the elemental. He was moving northwest now and approaching Sir Corvis, who had likewise been spared the effects of the mephit's power.

"That thing has _got_ to go," the knight growled, one hand still shielding his eyes as Cygnus pulled up next to him.

"My thoughts exactly," the mage replied, pulling his trusty piece of fleece out of his spell component pouch and casting. From his vantage point, Lady Cynewine was standing directly between him and the magma monster, but that did not deter the magic-user.

He was going for something a bit more subtle.

The lava creature suddenly began swaying wildly on its feet.

_Yes!_

Cygnus punched the air in triumph. "At him!" the magic-user shouted to everybody- or at least to anybody who might be able to respond.

* * *

Although they had seen the _pyrotechnics_ display streak across the sky above them, Zantac and Gemblossom had not had a line of sight to the magma mephit itself when it had utilized its ability, and so had been spared the possibility of blindness.

The half-elf healed Zantac. Only a lingering earache remained.

"Thanks, Aelfbi. Take care of yourself," the Willip wizard said as he bolted towards the southeastern side of the crater, where the wood ladder stood, attached by barbed rungs to the dirt walls of the huge pit.

* * *

Nesco Cynewine didn't dare retreat any further. She knew the edge of the crater was nearby. All she could do was pull her shield from her back, hold her ground and try to act totally on the defensive. The ranger tried to pinpoint where the magma mephit was, but the combined screams and shouts of the blinded- which she belatedly realized probably included the entire garrison- was making it nearly impossible. All Nesco could do was pray that her blindness was temporary.

Because she knew if it wasn't, her life was going to be.

Now she could hear footsteps approaching from her left. They sounded heavier, heavier than the lava creature. Were they-

_Blast,_ she thought, as a new wave of fear washed over her. _The earth creature!_

She turned towards the new threat just as a mountain struck her in the head.

* * *

Sergeant Tolan, now moving towards the battle on a light warhorse, screamed with impotent rage as he watched the earth elemental battering the helpless Lady Cynewine. There was no one else who could come to her aid as far as he could see. All the soldiers, hunters and lumberjacks in front of him were clutching at their eyes and staggering around. Worse, this horse was not bred for carrying such weight as a warrior in full field plate, so he was not moving as fast as he would have wished. He couldn't get the damn thing beyond a cantor.

All the officer could do was try and pick out a path northwards that wouldn't involve him trying to trample any of his own men and keep on going.

* * *

Yanigasawa Tojo was paying no attention to the newcomer battling the second earth mephit, or the imprisoned fire mephit, or anything else for that matter.

When the first earth creature had attacked Nesco, the samurai had roared with rage, dropped his bow again and drew his katana with lightning speed.

Then he noticed the dust mephit fly directly at and crash into Saxmund, who was standing about twenty-five feet east from Tojo, on the very edge of the impact crater, trying to get her eyes working again. It was clearly trying to bull rush her into the pit.

Unfortunately for the elemental, not only was it smaller than the rogue, its dust form couldn't have weighed more than two pounds, compared with Saxmund's one hundred or so. The creature bounced off her, and the rogue dropped her bow, drew her short sword and started swinging it wildly in the direction she had been hit from. She in fact came close, but her opponent was able to reorient itself and avoid her attacks.

Tojo looked from Nesco to Saxmund. Which one?

He took less than an instant to decide.

And now it was the earth mephit who reacted an instant too late.

The creature's head flew right over Nesco- who of course couldn't see it- landed on the grass and rolled over the edge of the crater. The elemental's decapitated body instantly crumbled into a pile of rocks and dirt.

Blood streaming from her ears and forehead, Nesco Cynewine nevertheless managed a smile even as she struggled to find her voice.

"Thank you, Tojo," she said. "I knew you'd find me."

"That," the samurai replied, his breath coming in great heaving gasps, "is what friends are for, Nesco-sama."

* * *

Sir Corvis advanced again and fired off an arrow at the dust mephit, but missed again.

Water began running down the side of the ice shell where the fire mephit was standing.

The magma mephit stopped swaying, now freed from Cygnus' spell.

* * *

The tall mage kept up alongside Sir Corvis.

"I hope you're better with that sword or with that mace than you are with that bow!" he snapped at the knight.

Corvis scowled at the wizard, but he was no longer paying attention. His hand had once again come up from his component pouch, this time cradling three small walnut shells, which he rolled around in his fist even as he cast again.

_Daze monster was just a test,_ he thought. _Now that I know you've got a mind I can affect, it's time I seriously affected it!_

* * *

Zantac was scrambling up the narrow ladder as fast as he could, Aelfbi right behind him.

His steed weaving between blinded men, Sergeant Tolan jumped his mount over intervening tree stumps and pulled up alongside Saxmund and the dust mephit. The fighter swung at the elemental, but it was still surrounded by its personal dust cloud and Tolan missed.

The mephit took a step back and blew its cone of stinging dust at both rider and steed. The effect was minimal, and Tolan kept control of the animal.

"Saxmund!" the officer yelled. "Give me your hand!"

The rogue obeyed and with a grunt, Sergeant Tolan swung her up and onto the horse behind him.

The unknown man in plate armor continued to battle the second earth mephit. Neither had yet made a damaging strike upon the other.

* * *

Cursing, Sir Corvis flung down his bow, drew his longsword and charged the dust mephit.

_Hmm,_ Cygnus thought as he watched the impaled elemental shriek and then dissolve into a pile of dust on the end of Corvis' sword. _He is better at melee, after all. I guess I owe him an apology._

* * *

The ice shell was clearly grower thinner now in one spot, the orange glow within becoming more distinct.

The magma mephit hesitated for a moment. Its glowing eyes blinked once, and it seemed to be deciding what to do.

Then it suddenly attacked Nesco again.

"_No! Dammit!"_ screamed Cygnus.

But the ranger had already fallen.

* * *

Tojo feinted with his katana and then cleaved directly down, splitting the lava creature's head in two. He yanked it free as Cygnus ran up and began dragging Nesco away from the small pool of magma that the mephit had turned into upon death.

The tall mage silently berated himself over and over again. This was the first time he had ever cast the spell called _confusion_, and he hadn't known all of its possible outcomes. He had been certain that the befuddled mephit would have left Lady Cynewine alone.

Obviously, he had been wrong.

"Come on, Nesco," the mage pleaded as he brushed off any remaining fragments of molten rock and began trying to revive her. "I'm the only one here who's allowed to get burnt, remember?"

"_Aelfbi!"_ he screamed over his shoulder. _"Aelfbi, where are you?"_

* * *

Zantac's blood ran cold. He didn't knew who was hurt, or how badly, but from the sound of his fellow mage's voice, it sounded critical.

If not mortal.

With a yell, Zantac suddenly flung himself sidewise off the narrow ladder, catching his hands into the hard dirt of the crater wall and hanging on.

"Gemblossom!" he shouted. "Get up there!"

The half-elf was already on the move, scrambling up as fast as he could.

Zantac realized with a sinking feeling that Aelfbi was going to emerge on the southeastern side of the crater, which was on the far side of where he had heard Cygnus yell.

Then he realized his feelings weren't the only thing that was sinking.

The magic-user's stubby fingers were carving gouges in the dirt, but Zantac was starting to peel down and away from the wall.

* * *

Tolan felt the tap on his shoulder and turned around

Saxmund's eyes were red and swollen, but she was clearly seeing him. The rogue gave him a weak smile.

"Thanks for the lift."

"Your welcome, Saxmund," the officer replied, his voice grim, "but I'm afraid I must ask you to dismount. I believe I may have another passenger whose need is yet more urgent."

A quick glance at Nesco's supine form was all Saxmund needed. She swung off the horse as Tolan urged it forward again.

Saxmund hesitated for a moment and then headed towards where the new arrival was still battling the second earth mephit.

* * *

Sir Corvis was running forward again, huffing for breath as he did so.

With a cracking sound, a ten-foot section of Cygnus' ice dome crumbled into chunks and crashed to the ground as the fire mephit, its claws ablaze and its impish face grinning in triumph, stepped through.

Tojo's katana was there to greet it.

The mephit stared stupidly down at the blade stuck in its chest just as the samurai's wakazashi buried itself in the side of the creature's neck. Tojo yanked both blades free as the creature screamed in agony with the sound of a forest fire.

* * *

Cygnus had not had time to cast his _resist fire_ spell. He had in fact only memorized it because of Zantac's taunting him about the burns he always seemed to suffer, but now it seemed providence. Seeing Corvis and Tolan approaching Nesco, the mage rose to his feet, ran up behind Tojo and cast the spell on the samurai with a light tap to his shoulder.

* * *

Zantac was also thinking about a specific spell at that very moment. One that he seemed to remember promising to himself- while he was dangling over a subterranean chasm- that he was going to keep in mind every day for the rest of his life.

That spell was _feather fall._

Zantac had not kept to his promise.

The Willip wizard made a grab for the ladder but missed and once again plummeted to the bottom of the pit. Fortunately, this fall was only about half the distance of his previous one.

He did not scream on the way back down, but his curses were loud enough to make Aelfbi Gemblossom, now running at full speed towards along the crater's southern edge, blush scarlet.

The unknown man seemed a lot better at defense than he was at offensive, Saxmund thought as she moved into flanking position opposite him. The fighter had yet to draw blood- or stones in this case- but he had managed to avoid being struck in turn.

The rogue frowned. The earth mephit had no discernable anatomy as far as she could tell. It was just a moving, humanoid-shaped pile of rock. Saxmund gritted her teeth and struck.

The earth mephit moaned in pain as it felt the rogue's short sword enter its body, but Saxmund couldn't make any serious penetration and was forced to yank her sword free or lose it as the creature turned around to face her.

"Kill you," it rumbled.

"Try it," she snarled back as her weapon came up to deflect the thing's stony fists.

* * *

"Corvis!" Sergeant Tolan shouted as he saw the approaching knight eye the two remaining combats. "Help me get her onto the horse!" he said as he lifted the unconscious Lady Cynewine into his arms.

The knight hesitated for a moment, and then moved to assist.

* * *

The fire mephit hopped backwards onto a burning tree stump. A cone of fire shot forth from its mouth.

_Burned again_, thought Cygnus as the flames washed over him.

It wasn't that bad, however. Tojo's body had shielded the tall wizard from the worst of it and Cygnus had crouched down at the last second, leaving only a few first-degree burns on the back of his neck and arms.

Tojo, meanwhile, was actually unaware of the protection the tall mage had afforded him. The samurai's mind was on offense only as he whirled, swords flying, cutting and slicing.

And with a rush of flame, the fire mephit was gone.

Cygnus immediately ran back to where the two fighters were placing Nesco on the front of the warhorse. Tolan was getting ready to mount back up but Cygnus put a restraining hand on the officer's shoulder.

"I'll ride," he told Tolan. "I'm lighter. I'll make better time."

The sergeant nodded.

* * *

Zantac wearily rose to his feet again, ignoring the trickle of dirt and small stones that rained down on him from above. His curses low and muttered now, the red-robed wizard ignored the new pain coursing through his body, grabbed the bottom of the rope ladder again, and once again started to climb as quickly as he could.

* * *

Hunters and lumberjacks were arriving now to aid Saxmund and the unknown warrior, surrounding the last remaining mephit and hacking at it with axes and shortspears. While they were all able to strike the creature however, the axes merely bounced off its rocky hard and the spear points made minor holes, no more than an inch deep.

It was going to take a long time to bring this thing down, the rogue realized.

"Here!" Saxmund shouted at it, not wanting the creature to attack anyone else. She made a false show of leaving herself open.

The mephit however, rose one foot up and slammed it back down on the ground.

Instantly, the earth beneath the creature to a depth of several feet turned into a thick mud. The effect rippled outwards fast, but Saxmund, Tojo, the man in plate and the two hunters leapt upwards at the right instant, and the ground had hardened enough by the time they came back down so that it was able to support their weight again. Only the two lumberjacks were caught in earth up to just above their knees. Cursing loudly, they began to chop at their earthen cocoons with their axes.

* * *

Cygnus took off at a gallop towards the south, but after only a few seconds he saw Aelfbi running towards him. As the wizard reined his horse to a stop, the half-elf came panting up and immediately laid his hands upon Nesco's still form.

It seemed to the magic-user that Gemblossom stared for hours at the ranger until he finally looked up to meet his anxious expression.

"She'll live," Aelfbi said quietly, "but it was close, Cygnus. It was very close."

* * *

Yanigasawa Tojo roared with rage as his weapons entered the final fry, stabbing and slashing. Combined with the wounds the others had made, the creature finally disintegrated into a literal pile of rubble.

Everyone looked around, but no further figures burst out of the trees.

The unknown fighter lifted his visor. Eyes so pale blue they were nearly white gazed at them all from a face covered with sweat. He might have been in his late twenties, but it was hard to tell.

"It's over," he said. "They're gone."

"How do you know?" asked the arriving Sir Corvis. The knight's eyes were narrowed, and his voice brimmed with suspicion. "Who are you? Did you summon those fiends?"

"My name is Rashlot," the man replied, still catching his breath.

He looked around at all of the expectant faces around him, and his eyes dropped to the rubble-strewn grass beneath his feet.

"I did not summon those monsters, good people," Rashlot said softly, "but it is my fault that they came."

When he looked up again, it was in time to see Sergeant Tolan draw his sword again.

"Explain," the officer commanded. "And if your explanation is not good enough, you'll die here and now for what you've done."

* * *

It again took all of Corvis' skill at placation to convince the garrison leader to have everyone, Rashlot included, to reassemble around the fire pit near the barracks. Those soldiers who had not had the time to don their plate mail before had done so now, and were standing near Rashlot. Their crossbows were not pointed directly at him, but they were loaded and in hand.

At Tolan's order, Rashlot had removed his great helm. He had a strong chin, covered in days-old growth, and his nose was flat and wide. His hair was cut very short, and was so light blonde in color it was nearly white, much like his eyes.

* * *

By unanimous decision, Nesco had received the bulk of Aelfbi's remaining healing. Although the ranger had protested vigorously, she had been unable to avoid the cleric's healing hands as she lay in a pup tent some distance apart from the others.

"Nearly all of those mephits attacked you at one time or another, Lady Cynewine," Gemblossom said. "Healing is the reward due any meat shield."

"That's a rather cynical statement," Nesco said, while still laying back down and enjoying the soothing warmth course through her.

"It's one of Garoidil's favorites," the half-elf explained with a small smile. "Lord knows he's earned it- and today, so have you."

* * *

"Hear my tale," Rashlot was saying, "and decide as you will."

The others listened, although most of the garrison kept glancing over to the boar roasting on the spit, and licking their lips as the delicious aroma of cooking meat wafted over them. Wooden mugs of mead had been passed around, although Tolan had grabbed Zantac's hand as the mage had made to offer Rashlot one.

"He doesn't deserve it," the sergeant said. "Not yet."

"I am originally from Rauxes," Rashlot began, referring to the capital city of the decadent Great Kingdom far to the east.

The reaction to this was immediate. Those of the garrison still sitting rose to their feet as one. Weapons were drawn.

"I knew it!" one of the hunters roared. "You even carry a flail- _his_ weapon! You're a damn Scourge worshipper! A servant of Hextor!"

"Wait!" Rashlot did not stand, but raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "Would I come amongst you men of Heironeous and speak so openly if that were true? Listen before you judge!"

The others looked at Sergeant Tolan, who took a deep breath and slowly nodded. Grudgingly, his men sat back down again.

"I was indeed once as you say," Rashlot continued. "How could it be otherwise? Even here you know that worship of the Herald of Hell is the state-sponsored faith in Aerdy. From childhood, I knew no other way, and my father was more devout than most. He was a Gray Knight of the Great Skull."

This declaration provoked more scowls and mutterings among the garrison, but Cygnus shook his head in confusion.

"I've not heard of them."

"It's a militant order of the Scourge's church. The Great Skull is one of their unholy relics."

Cygnus looked over at Zantac in astonishment. He was about to ask how his fellow wizard could possibly have known that when he remembered that Zantac was originally from Rauxes as well. The red-robed mage was staring at Rashlot now, a decidedly unfriendly expression on his face.

"As you might guess, my father and the other Gray Knights travelled far and wide to oppose those who served the Scourge's half-brother. He was successful more often than not in his day, but eventually the clergy of the Invincible One decided to strike back. They sent one of their champions to our house in Rauxes. My father was away at the time. It was just my mother and I."

"How long ago was this?" asked Saxmund.

"Over ten years ago," replied Rashlot. "My father not being home, I was this so-called champion's target. He bested me in single combat. He did not kill me however, but laid a curse on my head. Wherever I went, these elemental imps would be drawn to me and cause misery and death to all those around me."

He sighed.

"Naturally I went to our church, but they could not lift the curse. They said it had been placed by a divine agent of the Invincible One, and only another of his servants could lift it. In the meantime, the mephits appeared around me again and again- sometimes once a week, sometimes two or three times a day- there was no pattern. Many of my loved ones were slain by those monsters- including my mother."

There were expressions of disbelief. Many of those assembled shook their heads, but Rashlot continued.

"Embittered, I left the faithful of Hextor, and I've been wandering westwards since that day. I've appealed to clerics of Heironeous, but they refuse to lift the curse, despite my story. They say I am paying for the sins of my father, who continues to serve the Gray Knights."

"It's hard to believe any servant of the Archpaladin would inflict so horrendous a curse upon anyone, no matter how wicked they might be," said Sir Corvis.

"Believe as you like," replied Rashlot. "You have seen the proof with your own eyes. At Crittwall in the Shield Lands, they told me that those of the Archpaladin's priesthood who dwell in the Vesve have a more forgiving attitude than most of their brethren, because they are quicker to recognize that it is better to gain an ally than slay an enemy. Especially," and here he gazed keenly at all those around him, "if that ally can provide detailed information about their enemy."

There was a brief silence, which was broken by Sergeant Tolan.

"Do you mean to tell us you are willing to betray those of the Gray Knights, including your own father?" he asked, the skepticism evident in his voice.

"I have already been betrayed by them," responded Rashlot coolly. "I was due to be inducted into the Gray Knights a mere three months before this happened. The "help" they gave me consisted of advice to hurl myself into the legions of Heironeous' faithful and die gloriously along with my curse. My father was in complete agreement with them. Priests of other faiths have tried and failed to lift the curse, so I have come here. I was heading towards Flameflower, but strayed off the path while gathering and became lost."

"Still seems like an unlikely tale to me," grumbled one of the lumberjacks.

"I did hear one of the mephits make mention of a curse," said Saxmund.

"Tell us then what you know," said Sergeant Tolan.

Rashlot raised an eyebrow. "Before my curse is lifted? I may have been misguided in my faith, but I am no fool. First I will be free of this plague. Then I shall talk."

The garrison leader shrugged. "We have no priests of the Archpaladin here. You'll have to-"

"Wait a minute," interjected Cygnus, holding up a hand to Tolan and then glancing over at Rashlot. "Have any arcanists tried to lift this curse of yours?"

The fighter raised an eyebrow in turn. "Is that within their power? I had no such idea."

Zantac looked excited. "Ciggy, you-"

"Yeah, I know," responded the tall wizard. "The one I copied off Lamonsten's spellbook. It worked well enough to rid Aslan of his collar. It might work here. Certainly nothing to be lost by trying. I don't have it memorized, though. We'll have to wait until tomorrow, that but we were originally planning on that, anyway."

"I would be forever grateful to you," said Rashlot.

"Not so fast," growled Tolan. He glared at Cygnus but jerked a thumb towards Rashlot. "By his own admission, those things could come back at any time, and I'll not risk that here. If you won't be ready to cast that spell until tomorrow, he'll have to sleep out in the woods by himself- preferably a league off or more."

"By himself?' asked Saxmund.

"He's done all right so far," replied the officer. "Those are my terms. Take them or leave them."

Saxmund started to protest, but Rashlot held up his hand. "That's quite all right, my lady. I understand the sergeant's position, and would do the same if I were he. I'll be all right," he said, rising to his feet. "I shall return around midsun tomorrow."

"At least give him some food," said Zantac to Tolan.

"He's managed on his own so far," the sergeant replied, his eyes locked with Tolan.

"I can ask for no more," Rashlot said, then gave a small bow. "I shall see you all tomorrow. May cold iron avail you."

He turned and walked off into the forest.

* * *

"So what do you think?" asked Cygnus, after he had related Rashlot's story to Nesco and Aelfbi.

Lady Cynewine considered while trying in vain to find a comfortable position to recline in.. Although she had received generous healing, red patches still dotted her skin where flames had scorched her skin. She ached all over.

"I can't help but think of Talat."

The wizard nodded. "Yes, I was struck by the parallel as well. Two former worshippers of the Scourge trying to escape their pasts. Yet I'm not sure I believe either of them."

"Nothing pleases the gods of weal so much as the redemption of a wayward soul," Aelfbi said, repeating a point he had made many times before. "Spiritual rewards such as that often require a leap of faith."

"Yes, but it isn't the gods who wind up with a dagger in their back if in the soul in question turns out to be a treacherous one," Zantac observed.

"That may be true." Cygnus had to agree. "Certainly it wouldn't be the first-"

He stopped. Zantac saw his fellow wizard's head snap up and then swivel around so that Cygnus was staring intently towards the northeast.

Zantac felt his own body start to tense up again. He knew that look.

"Your _alarm_ again?' he asked, but he needed no answer. Cygnus was already starting to run across the clearing.

"Alert the others!" he called over his shoulder.

"It's probably just another damn raccoon!" Zantac shouted back, but he was already on his way towards the barracks.

"You willing to take that chance?"

* * *

Having only one such _alarm_ spell available to cast on behalf of the garrison, Cygnus had chosen to cast it on the point just before the supply trail entered the clearing, reasoning that if orcs or some such had managed to uncover and follow the trail, they would pass through that way while tracking it back to its source. Twice the previous night the Aardian mage had received the mental signal in his head that indicated that something had entered the spell's area of effect. Both times the disturbance had been identified as small forest animals attracted by the warmth and smells of food coming from the fire pit.

Even at a hundred feet out however, Cygnus knew that this time it was no false alarm. The slanting of the setting sun showed several figures heading towards the clearing.

And one of them was very large.

Before he had even made a positive identification, Cygnus was yelling back over his shoulder.

"_It's Agarth!"_

* * *

Almost a full day ahead of schedule, the mercane and his party entered the encampment. Cygnus felt the others come up behind him as he stared at the approaching figures, who had recognized the wizard and were now heading for him.

"They must be exhausted," he heard Nesco mutter. "Agarth must have really pushed them."

That did seem to be the case, at least among the four arriving humans. Golatunt and the Journeymen were dragging, their faces mirroring the exhaustion they were surely feeling in their legs.

Agarth however, showed no sign of fatigue at all.

Cygnus heard yells and a call to arms behind him, but Lady Cynewine, showing remarkable cheek (Cygnus thought) countermanded Tolan's orders and explained that these were the rival explorers they had briefly mentioned yesterday upon their arrival here.

"That damn giant will eat that whole boar," one of the hunters growled. "He'll set us all to starving if we have to feed him."

"Don't worry," replied Zantac. "He carries what he needs with him."

* * *

Golatunt, having already been here once, was recognized by the garrison and greeted more heartily than the others. It didn't take long for the scout to find out about Rashlot and report the news to Agarth, who demanded a complete accounting. Not from Sergeant Tolan, but from Cygnus.

The wizard started with Rashlot, which necessitated going back to the mephit attack and recounting what had transpired. Agarth listened with polite attentiveness, but did not seem moved or concerned in the slightest.

But someone else was.

"Mephits?' a harsh whisper came from the darkness from beyond the fire pit. "Did you say they were mephits that attacked you?"

Bertram walked up to Cygnus.

* * *

The mage blinked in surprise. He'd thought the Journeymen were pitching camp a good hundred feet away. The sellsword must have been listening nearby from the beginning.

The young man- no older than Tojo, Cygnus guessed- stared at him. His whole body seemed to tense up with an expectation of the wizard's answer.

"Yes," Cygnus said. "According to Zantac here, they were mephits."

Bertram gulped hard and chewed his lip before he seemed to find his voice.

"It was mephits that attacked the garrison guarding Chic at Willip. I know. I was there."

The others looked at each other before Cygnus turned back to the mercenary.

"Mephits can be summoned by spells, Bertram," he explained. "That hardly means-"

"Did you hear anything before they attacked?"

Again, looks were exchanged, and Cygnus saw puzzlement on most of the faces present.

"Such as what?' Nesco Cynewine asked.

Bertram hesitated. It looked to them as if the young man was afraid of sounding like a fool, but he squared his shoulders and replied.

"A chiming. A ringing of any kind. Before the mephits burst out of the woods."

Nesco shook her head. "No."

"No," both wizards said in unison.

"No," said both Saxmund and Aelfbi.

"No," came from the assembled garrison.

"Yes."

* * *

_Why am I surprised?_ Cygnus thought to himself as his gaze slowly settled on Yanigasawa Tojo. _After all these years, why am I still surprised?_

"I was with you, Tojo-sama," Nesco said. The ranger sounded a little defensive, but the caution she was using to avoid offending the samurai was plain to those who knew her- and him. "I thought I heard a voice, although I couldn't make it out, but I heard no chiming."

"Heard voice awso, Nesco-sama," the samurai replied. "This was just before voice. Very faint. Awmost not hear it. Sound rike tiny berrs, or wind chimes."

"Yes!" exclaimed Bertram. "That was exactly what I heard right before the mephits attacked! I told Aslan all about it- didn't he tell you?"

"We were in rather a rough patch at the time," Zantac told the youth. "Aslan just gave us the bare bones of the story. He didn't mention any bells or chimes."

_Chimes?_ Cygnus suddenly thought.

The wizard rocketed to his feet.

"Chimes!" he yelled out. _"Devil Chimes!"_

He looked around him. A sea of confused faces stared up at him.

It was then the tall mage realized he'd not yet told anyone what Laertes had told him

He did so now, finishing with a flourish. "Rashlot must be this Devil Chimes the orcs were talking about!"

Lady Cynewine however, shook her head. "I'm not at all convinced, Cygnus. If Rashlot is Devil Chimes as you say, his primary interest would be in finding Ta- ah, Hilda. Why attack us?"

"You've got to stop keeping secrets from us," Zantac growled at his fellow magic-user, but Cygnus ignored him.

"I'm sure there's a connection!" he persisted. "Perhaps he hoped to capture one of us for interrogation regarding her whereabouts."

"Hilda?' interrupted Tolan, looking now from Cygnus to Saxmund. "The woman who's staying with you at Ironstead?" he asked the rogue. "Why would anyone be after her?"

"More importantly," Saxmund said, ignoring the sergeant. "Rashlot said he'd return tomorrow. Do you think he means to launch another assault?"

Tolan cursed loudly as he lumbered to his feet.

"I knew it!" the soldier roared. "Once a Scourge worshiper, always one, that's what I say! I told you we should have cut him down!" He glared at Sir Corvis.

Judging by his expression, the knight's mind seemed to be elsewhere even as he replied to the garrison commander. "I am not yet convinced of his guilt," he said. "Too many pieces of this puzzle are yet missing."

"Then we're going to find them."

Corvis and the others turned. Quthfor and Robert were now standing behind Bertram.

"Pack up," Quthfor told his two junior partners quietly. "We'll leave as soon as we're ready."

The brothers nodded, Bertram saying "Thank you," to Quthfor before they both headed off to take down the tents they had just put up.

"Where are you going?' asked Aelfbi. "You just got here, for Arvandor's sake! You're exhausted! You can't-"

"We can and will," the Journeyman leader cut the priest off. "Where the mind and heart are willing to lead, the body will follow. I have no intention of leaving tomorrow's events to unfold solely by this Rashlot's plans. You said he was clad in plate armor. We should be able to overtake him before morning."

"And how exactly do you plan to track him?" asked Zantac.

By way of reply, Quthfor turned to a nearby scraggly figure.

"Golatunt," the sellsword announced. "We wish to hire you to find Rashlot. We'll pay the same price the giant offered."

"I'm afraid not," came a rumble from the darkness and as everyone watched, the tall blue figure of Agarth moved into the fire's light.

"I have already contracted with this man to lead us both here and back to Ironstead," the mercane proclaimed before turning his bespectacled gaze up Quthfor. "And if perchance your memory is faulty, I hired you and the others for protection for that same time span."

There was silence as human and outsider regarded each other.

"Our contract," Quthfor finally announced, "ends here. I hereby terminate it for pressing personal reasons."

"Half your pay was due to you upon our arrival here," Agarth shot back, and for the first time Cygnus saw real anger in the merchant's eyes, "but that was contingent on the contract being fulfilled! Leave now, and you receive nothing!"

"Nothing but the satisfaction that my conscience is satisfied," answered Quthfor.

"A singularly foolish attitude for a mercenary," Agarth jeered before rounding on Golatunt. "Surely you will not be so misguided."

The scout licked his lips as his eyes travelled the length of the mercane's towering form. Nesco saw that in a seemingly innocuous move, Agarth had shifted his robes, and now the firelight shone off the blade of an immense falchion strapped to the mercane's waist.

Golatunt turned to Quthfor. "I'm sorry, he said," but unless you can offer me substantially more than Agarth…" he let a shrug of his shoulders finish the statement.

Quthfor clenched his fists in frustration. It was clear he didn't have the gold.

And then Lady Nesco Cynewine, formally of the Azure Order, found herself speaking up.

"Golatunt," she addressed the scout. "Sign on with the Journeymen and I will report to Major Standish that you followed every one of his security instructions to the letter."

There was a brief silence while the man known as Gold Up Front scratched his chin and then looked over to the sellsword.

"I need a good night's rest to be at my tracking peak," he said to Quthfor. "Give me that, and we're off at first light."

Quthfor hesitated for a moment, but seemed to know when not to press the point. He reached out and shook Golatunt's hand.

"Done," he said.

"This is outrageous!" Agarth roared. "I have written contracts, signed by all of you!"

"Toss 'em in there." Zantac pointed at the glowing pile of firewood. "The fire's getting a little low, anyway."

The mercane spat out something in what the others assumed was his native tongue and stomped off. The others, including the garrison, laughed and clapped, but Cygnus felt no joy in the development, even if he did understand Nesco's rationale for it.

_There goes our last chance for a cooperative investigation of the pod,_ thought the mage to himself. _I hope to Asgard Agarth doesn't find something we overlooked._

* * *

The night was quiet.

Cygnus grumbled to himself as he rolled over yet again, trying to find a comfortable position in which to study his spellbook which was propped open on the ground in front of him.

The tent Cygnus shared with Zantac was much smaller than a _shelterdome_ would have been, but neither arcanist had that spell at hand, having stocked up on useless _dispels _instead.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cygnus saw Zantac look up from his perusal of his own arcane tome and give him a sour eye for disturbing him. Cygnus was about to respond in kind when he noticed the patch of dried blood still clinging to the inside of Zantac's left ear.

Cygnus sighed and returned his attention to the arcane symbols etched onto the parchment pages in front of him. He knew it was crucial that he memorize the _remove curse_ spell in case he was wrong and Rashlot was innocent and his tale true. He knew that Aelfbi would be praying at dawn for his daily allotment of divine magics, including the ability to _detect evil_, which he said he would use on Rashlot as soon as the man appeared. A much more deserving target, Cygnus thought, than Sir Corvis.

The mage's mind was racing, however, and the symbols stubbornly remained so much gibberish.

He sighed again and closed the book. It made a poor pillow, but Cygnus rested his cheek on it anyway and stared out into the night. The rim of the impact crater, perhaps eighty feet distant, crossed all the way along his limited field of vision. The mage could just make out the top rung of the wooden ladder that still lay propped up against the crater wall.

Then two giant hands came into view, and Agarth climbed out of the pit. Cygnus was just about to start a fruitless speculation as to whether or not the mercane had gained any useful information when a second figure climbed up the ladder to stand next to the extraplanar merchant.

Cygnus had to blink several times before he recognized the man, barely more than a silhouette in the moonlight.

It was Sir Corvis.

The mercane bent low as he and the knight conversed. They were much too far away to overhear, so Cygnus could only frown and conjecture.

Was Corvis attempting to use his unique personal magnetism to wheedle information out of Agarth? That seemed the most likely explanation.

And yet Cygnus felt uneasy as he forced himself to open his spellbook again.

He could only hope that the new day would bring answers.

Answers he could live with.


	207. Together Again

**15****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Vesve Forest**

**(About 20 miles west of Ironstead)**

Nesco Cynewine made her way quietly through the woods.

The ranger chose each step with deliberation, her mailed boots making the absolute minimum of noise she was capable of. While most rangers eschewed any but the lightest armor, Nesco had learned to compensate as much as possible over the years, and the rustling of the chain links seemed at the very least, not unduly loud.

Nesco did not fear imminent attack, but here in the Vesve it was always an all-too-real possibility. She held aloft Sundancer in her right hand, while her left clutched several empty waterskins.

A few hours earlier, Zantac, the least experienced horsemen of their group, had let his stallion get a little too close to the mare that Nesco had been riding ahead of him. Suddenly, horses were neighing, rearing and kicking. Zantac had once again taken a tumble to dirt, and his horse was galloping off. Nesco had swiftly retrieved it, but the stallion had brushed by several tree branches in its flight, one of which had punctured the waterskins inside the saddlebags it carried.

Aelfbi had already cast his prayers to supply food and water for the day, so while the others had set up camp and drank their remaining water, the priest set about- by hand, Nesco noticed- to sewing the ripped waterskins, while handing the others to Nesco and asking her to find water so they would have enough until they set out again tomorrow morning.

It strictly wasn't necessary- no one was going to die of thirst in the next twelve hours or so, but as a ranger the means of surviving were always uppermost in her mind when she was out in the wild, so she had readily agreed.

Water seemed a little further away than Lady Cynewine had anticipated however. She was now perhaps a half-mile east of their camp and had not yet seen signs of any. She stopped and looked around her again.

The oblique rays of the setting sun behind her did not penetrate very far through these thick woods. Nesco's eyes, long accustomed to picking out details, strained to catch all movement around her. Fortunately, the wind was calm, so the rich orange, yellow, gold and red canopy all around her was not swaying. Here and there, cones of stubborn verdant showed the location of evergreen trees. High above her, a squirrel ran across an oak branch and disappeared into a hole in the tree's trunk.

The forest floor was a multi-colored carpet of fallen leaves, broken here and there by protruding tree roots, small rocks and pine cones. Nesco noticed the ground sloping down to the north and followed it, still taking care to move as silently as possible.

"_Who? Who? Who cooks for you?"_

Nesco smiled to herself. While city dwellers like Zantac were often startled by the sounds of the forest, they were second nature to her, and the call of a barred owl was like the voice of an old friend.

It did remind her however, that soon it would be dark. While Nesco carried torches in her backpack, she had no desire to make an absolute bulls-eye of herself as a target for any darkvision-blessed orcs that might be nearby.

She quickened her pace just slightly, skirting around a tangle of thick trees. And then stopped. The ranger tilted her head and listened.

Among the growing symphony of crickets and katydids, the ranger heard a faint but unmistakable peeping.

Lady Cynewine smiled again, even more broadly this time. They were the sounds of spring frogs.

And where there were frogs, there was water.

* * *

Despite her best efforts, snatches of the past few days ran through Nesco's mind as she continued down the slope, trying to pinpoint the frogs by ear.

_According to Sir Corvis, Agarth had, like them, come up empty in his examination of the pod. The mercane seemed to be convinced that there should exist some kind of mechanism- his word- that would serve to summon the Mary Celestial, but he had been unable to locate any sign of one. The mercane had been in a foul mood indeed as he had announced to Golatunt and the Journeymen at first light that it was bad business practice to renege on a deal with his kind._

_And then he had disappeared into thin air. Even Cygnus, who had memorized a spell to detect invisibility, had seen nothing when he had cast the spell and looked around him. _

_Agarth was gone, and soon one scout and three mercenaries had left to track down Rashlot. There was little to do now but wait for them to return._

_No one did._

_By day's end, Lady Cynewine had decided that they may as well stay the night and depart the following morning. They had all slept poorly, convinced that at any moment they would hear the call of whoever was currently standing watch, announcing the return of Rashlot and/or Quthfor, Bertram or Robert._

_But again, no one came, and so they had left the encampment at daybreak, Nesco wondering in her heart if any good at all had come of their trip._

_The only results she had seen were disappointment and now, quite possibly, death._

* * *

Nesco heard the water before she saw it.

A dark strip meandered along the forest floor where the slope finally evened out. It wasn't much- hardly two feet wide- but it was more than enough for her purposes. She was just about to jog down the remaining fifty feet or so to the brook when she stopped.

There was someone already there.

* * *

His back to her, a figure clad in either plate mail or field plate- it was now too dark to see which- was on its knees by the water's edge, filling up a waterskin.

Nesco ducked behind a tree, suddenly breathing hard.

Rashlot? It didn't seem likely. He'd had no mount. How could he have covered the distance?

Of course, he could have lied. If the man had lied about his aims, he might easily have had a horse tied to a tree back in the woods. But that explanation didn't quite satisfy Nesco. Nothing about Rashlot, from his sudden appearance to his incredible tale to his unexplained failure to return, made sense. Did he suspect- or know- that they distrusted him? If this _was_ him, was he on his way to Ironstead? There were clerics of Heironeous there. Perhaps he felt more comfortable seeking help in a settlement than taking his chances among strangers out in the middle of the woods.

Or perhaps, Nesco thought grimly as her grip tightened on her longsword, Rashlot merely wanted the chance to bring forth his curse in a more populated area.

Either way, she had to know.

Nesco Cynewine slowly sheathed Sundancer, stowed her waterskins in her backpack, drew Tojo's composite longbow that she had borrowed, notched an arrow and stepped out from behind her tree, aiming directly for the armored figure's broad back.

"You're at bowpoint!" she called out. "Don't move! Identify yourself!"

"Identify myself?" The man repeated before slowly turning around and taking a deep breath.

"Well, it all began about a quarter-century or so ago in the Lone Heath. There was this stern but dashing Ranger Lord named…"

But Nesco was already rushing down the slope. Relief swelled in her breast and laughter burst from her throat.

And this time, it was Argo Bigfellow Junior who gasped from the force of their hug.

* * *

"Where are you camped?" Nesco asked after they separated.

"About half a mile back," responded Argo, indicating the east with a jerk of his head.

"We're about the same westward," Nesco said. "Get Aslan and the others. I'll lead you to our camp. We may as well all spend the night together."

"Sounds like a plan," said Bigfellow, "but I gathered from your appearance here that you're heading back to Ironstead. If we're turning around, it'd make more sense for you to come to us."

"Oh. That's right," said Nesco, slapping herself on her forehead for her stupidity. The gesture caused her to wince from the remnants of a burn scar there.

Argo had noticed.

"You've been in battle," the big ranger noted, "and against more than orcs, I'd wager."

Lady Cynewine nodded as she withdrew the waterskins from her pack. "You'd win that bet, but it's a long story, and I expect you have one of your own to tell. Let me fill up here, and we'll save our tales for when all ears can hear them."

* * *

It was a number of hours later when both parties were together again at last.

It had been tense at the beginning. Argo had suggested, and Nesco had reluctantly agreed, that they should each return to their own camp so that their respective groups would not worry over excessively long absences and do something foolish like send out their own search parties. Bigfellow had described the path Nesco needed to take to find his campsite, but it had been dark when the ranger and her companions had finally set out. It was a clear night, and the sliver of a waxing Luna and a quarter-full Celene had aided their passage. Still not daring to use torches while traveling, they relied on Aelfbi Gemblossom's keen eyes and Nesco's tracking skills to keep from becoming lost.

But it had worked. A great roar of delight went up from both sides as Nesco and her allies entered the circle of light cast by Elrohir's campfire, which he was stoking just as they arrived. Much hugging, shouting and laughter ensued, but Elrohir insisted that Nesco's group pitch their tents before they all relaxed, and Lady Cynewine agreed. Fortunately, with extra hands to assist, that task was soon accomplished.

And now they were all sitting together. Elrohir had brought down a deer that day, and it was shared among everyone. Nesco and her band had subsisted only on Aelfbi's bland conjured food since they had left the crash site, and they were all looking forward to tastier fare, even if it couldn't be matched with a fine ale. Lady Cynewine looked over to the half-elf with a twinge of guilt.

"We are all indebted to you, Aelfbi Gemblossom," she said. "You have sustained us in the wilderness and allowed us to make speed."

He waved her off with the chunk of cooked deer meat in his head. "No need for apologies, Lady Cynewine." He smiled at the ranger. "I'm enjoying this as much as you."

"Still, you have worked miracles for us," Nesco replied, and Aelfbi could see in her eyes that Nesco was referring to his healing her wounds as much as food and water.

Gemblossom gestured to Elrohir and the others. "And do you think our reunion here with our dear friends here deep in the woods was anything less than another such miracle?"

Nesco chewed on her portion of venison as she considered that. She lifted her eyes to see Aslan sitting across from the fire at her, just finishing his own meal. His light blue eyes caught hers, and they flickered to the fire for a moment before coming back to rest on her face. The paladin flashed her a brilliant smile and Nesco knew he was recalling that first night in The Pomarj, just as she was.

She returned the smile in kind and was pleased- if a bit surprised- that the heartache that so often accompanied thoughts of Aslan did not make itself known this time.

Nesco turned around and looked to the person who had offered to stand guard at the firelight's edge as they ate. The one person who had partaken of neither feast nor laughter. The one person who spoke hardly at all.

Talat.

* * *

Lady Cynewine had been surprised to see the former priestess of Hextor amongst Aslan and his companions. The paladin had explained it to her. How, when they had finally confronted Talat in Fenlun's hidey-hole, Elrohir had insisted that she would leave them no longer. He had even wanted to bind her hands and feet, but the others had protested and eventually prevailed.

Still, Nesco saw her fellow ranger's expression darken and his jaw clench every time his eyes passed over his sister-in-law.

_What must he be feeling?_ She wondered.

* * *

_He had hurt. Elrohir had hurt. He had expected the ache, and the ranger had not been disappointed. But as he gazed down at Talat, who crouched down in the corner of a dirt cellar staring up at him, even his pain had been eclipsed by his anger. _

_It was not a blazing, white-hot rage but rather a cold, dull malice. With her hair newly-blond again, Talat looked like the ghost of Talass, gazing at Elrohir with her ice-blue eyes, reminding him every second of what he had lost._

_Or rather, what he had let slip away._

_His chest heaving as if he had just run a great distance, it had taken Elrohir nearly a full minute to get the words out._

"_You cost me my wife."_

_Even as he spoke the words, the ranger wondered if they were really true. But he did not want to question them. He wanted them to be true. He wanted this woman before him to be completely and fully responsible for his loss. Elrohir wanted his anger._

_He wanted it so it could hide his pain._

* * *

"Rashlot?"

Elrohir blinked in surprise, broken from his sulking. It was not so much the name but who had spoken it. And he had not been alone.

Accustomed to her silence, everyone present had turned to Talat. Now it was they who fell quiet and for a moment, the crackling of the fire was the only sound.

The Fruztii woman slowly walked towards Zantac, who had been recounting the tale of the mephit battle and the subsequent appearance of the mysterious Aerdian warrior.

Talat's eyes were wide, and she seemed to be trembling, although the fire was warm. Her hands were clenched at her sides- they might have clutched at the handle of a weapon if Elrohir had not ordered her disarmed- and she moistened her lips twice before she spoke again.

"You said his name was Rashlot?"

Zantac nodded.

"That name means something to you," Elrohir said. It was an accusation.

Talat nodded. She did not seem to be looking at any of them now. Suddenly her knees gave out and she half-sat, half-fell onto the ground. Zantac helped her into a more comfortable sitting position and covered her shoulders with a blanket, as she was still shivering. Elrohir frowned at this, but did not object.

The ex-cleric held up a hand, indicating that she wanted them all to wait and not ask questions yet. Elrohir found he could understand her face as rarely he had understood that of his own wife. Talat was trying to form emotions and ideas back into coherent words. Whatever the connection was between her and Rashlot, it was a powerful memory. Elrohir was forced to admit that he shared that quality, that inability to find the right words, with this woman.

Eventually, Talat began to speak and when she did so, her eyes moved directly to Elrohir.

"I am not sure exactly what my sister told you, Elrohir of Aarde, about the events which led to my departure from my home. That you know of Nitch Redarm I am certain, but do not believe that it was he who led me to flee my home. I did not meet him until afterwards, when I had fled to Spinecastle in the Bone March. It was my father, or at least my hatred and fear of him, who caused me to run away."

Talat's expression turned darker now. Her trembling lessened.

"You may wonder why I chose to take up the worship of Hextor, a god so seemingly in contrast to Forseti the Justice Bringer. But if you were to assume it was simply the rebellious act of a young woman against her upbringing, you would be mistaken."

She smiled bitterly.

"I was steeped in the dogma of truth, law and justice for as far back as I can remember, and such immersion can never be completely washed away."

"I see no sign of it." Elrohir said, his voice cold.

"The Scourge of Battle encompasses many domains." Talat went on as if she hadn't heard him. "What many outside His faithful do not know is that He is a god of law as well. Strict discipline and obedience to the law of the land is as important as strength in battle. It was to this area that I, with my background, was inevitably drawn, and it was at the Spinecastle church that I first encountered Nitch Redarm."

She swallowed hard. "Of Nitch and myself, there is no relevance now. But his closest friend in the church was another cleric; a priest who, unlike us, gloried in the six-armed manifestation of the Herald of Hell. The power of destruction, the laying waste to one's enemies; that was his special calling. It was the only thing that brought joy to his dark heart."

There was silence for a little while.

"Rashlot?" Aslan eventually asked.

Talat nodded again. "I heard your description of him. It can only be him and no other."

"What do you know about these mephits?" Caroline asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing. His association with them must have started after Nitch and I left."

"Then his story may still be true," Saxmund said, frowning. "Like I said earlier, the earth mephit did mention a curse."

"Rashlot lied to us about everything else," said Cygnus. "I doubt his tales of a curse are true. What you heard, Saxmund, was nothing more than a prescripted line given beforehand to the mephit by Rashlot."

Sir Corvis rubbed his chin. "No mephit landed a blow on Rashlot that I saw. I think it's safe to assume he was the true villain behind the attack."

"Which still leaves us with the question of _why?"_

"I don't know, Argo," said Nesco slowly, her head turning to look back at Talat. "Is he after you for vengeance?"

"No," said Talat, and the others were surprised to hear her voice crack. "He knows I'm carrying Nodyath's child. He knows it will possess the Talent. He wants…"

She hesitated, tears threatening in the corners of her eyes now. "He wants my child to grow up in the service of Hextor. A powerful champion for the forces of darkness. This," she finished, her voice a harsh whisper now, "is to be the price I pay for abandoning the Scourge of Battle."

"That will not happen," said Elrohir suddenly, rising to his feet.

For the first time, Talat looked at the party leader with surprise- and gratitude- in her eyes.

"Your unborn child is innocent," Elrohir proclaimed, his eyes locked on hers, before suddenly turning his back on her, flinging his final words over his shoulder.

"Would that I could say the same about its mother."

* * *

Elrohir had not removed his plate mail.

Brutal years of experience had hardened the ranger to where he could sleep in any kind of armor. To be sure, his sleep would be lighter; more fitful, less restful. But he did not feel safe in this forest.

He had carefully lowered himself to the ground on top of his bedroll, made a pillow of sorts from his backpack and had just closed his eyes when he became aware of a figure approaching.

Elrohir opened his eyes to see a tanned face framed by black curls looking down at him.

The ranger raised an eyebrow, "Sir Corvis?"

The knight bore an apologetic expression. "Forgive me, Elrohir. I wonder if I might have a private word with you before we turn in?"

Elrohir nodded. "Forgive me if I don't stand up," he said with a wry smile. "Takes forever to get up or down in this thing."

Corvis returned it in kind as he lowered himself to the forest floor as well. "I well understand, Elrohir. Armor such as yours is my birthright as well, but sadly one beyond my family's means at the present."

The ranger looked at him keenly. "I know little of your story, Sir Corvis. Only bits and pieces have I heard, but my friends tell me you have served them well with both sword and counsel. I am grateful to you."

"Thank you for your noble words, Elrohir. You must be a great leader to command such a disparate, yet powerful, group of allies."

_How little you know_, thought Elrohir, but he assumed a grateful posture. "Most kind. Now what is it you wish to speak of?"

The knight looked around to make sure they would not be overheard. "The pod."

"The steelsphere?" Elrohir asked, frowning. This was not what he had expected. "From all that I've heard, Sir Corvis, that's a dead issue. Even the mercane Agarth found nothing."

"It may yet have some life left to it," Corvis replied, his expression guarded.

"Speak plainly."

The knight hesitated a moment before continuing. "I suspect that Agarth may have discovered more than he let on, and his actions were a ruse to deceive us to that end. As a lifelong merchant- and Heaven knows how old mercanes live- I would assume him to be a consummate actor. Even the most honeyed words can hide duplicitous intent. Surely Rashlot proves that."

Elrohir considered. "Possibly, but even if true, what can we do about it? Agarth is gone, and my mages found nothing."

"The mercane mentioned a signaling device of some kind. He said it was not in the sphere, but I have my doubts. When I descended to the crater floor to speak with him that night, he had already finished his examinations." Corvis' eyes narrowed. "And he had that magical chest of his with him. An odd thing to summon in that pit if he hadn't found anything, wouldn't you say?"

"That does seem unusual," Elrohir admitted.

Neither man spoke for a short while.

"The potential here is enormous if this _Mary Celestial_ can indeed be summoned to Oerth, boarded and controlled," Sir Corvis went on. "It is ironic indeed that so many covet it, yet all have different motives. You and your friends seek the astralship for your interplanar voyages-"

"Few here on Oerth know that several of our band were not born here, Sir Corvis," Elrohir interrupted the knight. "I would have you keep it that way."

He nodded solemnly. "I swear it on my life, Elrohir."

The ranger nodded, satisfied, and Corvis continued.

"Agarth seeks it to find this mythical Observatorium of his. The gnome Herlendal wishes to increase his knowledge of effigies. King Belvor wants it to secure his hold on power, as any liege would do."

"And you?" Elrohir asked, studying the knight intently.

Sir Corvis again offered a sheepish smile. "I have been honest with your friends from the beginning, Elrohir. My motivation is perhaps the least pure. It is the money that the _Celestial _can offer, either by sale or exploration, that I seek. My house is desperate for gold, and it is my sworn duty to help my father obtain that which he needs to improve the fortunes of my family. While I could have sought it separately, I alone among these contenders chose to tie my fate to yours in this manner. I am willing to settle for but a share of the profits because I believe they will be large enough that a share is all that I will need."

"Your reasoning is sound, good sir knight," said Elrohir, "but you still have not revealed why you think we can recover anything out of this?"

By way of reply, Corvis pulled small object out of his belt pouch and handed it to Elrohir.

It was a small wooden chest, only three inches or so in length.

"In all aspects save size, this is an exact duplicate of Agarth's chest," explained the knight. "I suspect it may be linked to it in some arcane fashion. Perhaps we may be able to summon the mercane's stash and see for ourselves what he has uncovered."

Elrohir turned the miniature teak chest, fitted with tiny platinum fittings and nails, over in his hands as he listened to Corvis speak. But now an uneasy feeling ran through him.

"Where did you get this?'

Sir Corvis smiled. "I stole it from his tent. Are you going to turn me in for that?"

Elrohir scowled. "That would hardly be practical, but it is thievery, and what you propose is more of the same. That is not our way."

Sir Corvis' face lost its smile. The knight's manner suddenly became much more serious as he leaned in closer to Elrohir; his voice now almost a hiss.

"And what are adventurers such as yourself but corpse strippers blessed with heroic names by the bards who sing of them? Besides, is it thievery if Agarth has already taken what we traveled so long to find? Hear me, Elrohir. The necessity of possession may make even honorable men do questionable deeds. We know the mercane is not to be trusted, and if you found that gnome half as irksome as I did, I'm sure you'll agree that Fenlun will not share the _Celestial's _secrets with us either, if he is the one to claim them. And as for the kingdom of Furyondy, I heard it from Major Standish himself that the Crown has claimed ownership of the pod. I can promise you, Elrohir, that you will never lay eyes again on the astralship if King Belvor secures it. I know that your standing with the Royal Court is not now what is once was."

The knight's eyes darted over to Nesco's tent before returning to the ranger.

"Lady Cynewine is an honorable person with a strong will, Elrohir, but you alone command this combined assemblage and that is why I speak with you now. Our alliance has been one of convenience to date, but I wish now to formalize it, to both our advantages."

"In what fashion?" asked Elrohir.

Sir Corvis took a deep breath. One hand clutched the yellow _obi_ sash around his waist while the other took the small chest back from Elrohir.

"We will swear together, you and I, that we will use whatever means are needed to secure the secrets of this pod for ourselves, and to keep it out of the hands of those who are not worthy of this knowledge."

The knight's eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire. A thin smile creased his lips.

"I've heard the others speak about you, Elrohir. You have defied authority in your time. More than once, I dare say. I only ask you to place the welfare of those you love above that of those you do not."

Elrohir's blue eyes traveled from the knight's face back to the miniature chest as he thought.

"May our wizards examine that chest?" the ranger asked. "They could determine more than you could, I'm sure."

"Swear our alliance Elrohir, and by all means. I'll give it to you right now."

Elrohir thought. Possibly for a long time, but he wasn't sure.

The knight's words were convincing. He wished now that he had not agreed to come with Aslan on this blasted quest. They had gained nothing from the pod and wasted valuable time that could have been spent on the far more pressing problem of Kar-Vermin. True, they had Talat, but what were they going to do with her? Elrohir couldn't even think coherently on the subject without becoming wildly emotional. He knew this, even as he knew the others- particularly Cygnus- were waiting on him to make a decision about her.

And now this Rashlot. Yet another enemy; another problem? And what of the Journeymen? Were they merely lost in the forest, or were they lost for good? Either way, Elrohir could do nothing to help them.

Was there truly a way to salvage _something_ from this mess?

The knight's words were convincing.

Elrohir listened to his head and then, as the beautiful face of his wife came to mind, listened to his heart.

"If such time comes, Sir Corvis of Elredd," he finally said, "I will be guided by my conscience. I will do the right thing as I have always sought to do. I will swear to nothing before then."

There was another silence; this one short. Corvis' face had registered disappointment, but only for an instant.

"I respect your position," the knight stated, standing back up. "I shall seek information about this chest at Ironstead, and will inform you of what I find. I will take my leave of you now, as I am scheduled for first watch. Good evening to you, Elrohir."

"Good evening to you, Sir Corvis," Elrohir replied. He watched the knight move off to join Aslan and Garoidil on guard duty.

Sleep was a long time coming.


	208. The Necessity Of Possession

"_Strap yourselves in!" Kingus shouted._

_Saxmund, Aelfbi and Garoidil struggled with the unwieldy straps as they attempted to follow the sorcerer's example. It was hard. The turbulence was increasing._

_Kingus glanced out the small circular window. The endless silver expanse of the astral plane had vanished. The view was now that of blue sky but even as Kingus watched, more and more white flashed by from bottom to top. Clouds, no doubt._

_Gemblossom, having succeeded in buckling himself into his berth, was now praying, his eyes shut tight._

"_Lady of the Golden Heart, do not abandon your faithful, wherever they may stray. Let your love and your protection comfort them always…"_

"_Warning! Warning!"_

_The rowbaht, currently secure in its own niche, turned its head from side to side. The horizontal slit that apparently served as the construct's eyes flashed white in an intermittent fashion. Its retractable tentacles now extended and waved around wildly. What looked like a small glass disk the size of a gold coin on the thing's chest now glowed red._

"_Malfunction! Malfunction! Communications link offline! Unable to reestablish contact!"_

"_What in the name of Pandemonium is it saying?" yelled Saxmund, who had just managed to secure her own straps._

"_No idea!" Kingus yelled back before glancing over at the fourth member of their party. "Garoidil, by Hades' name, would you hurry up?"_

_The fighter however, was still struggling with his straps. They were having difficulty fitting over his plate mail._

"_Take it off!" shouted Saxmund._

"_There's no time!"_

"_Transit to Material Plane completed," the rowbaht announced, unconcerned as to whether anyone was listening or not. "Atmospheric descent in progress. Ten seconds to retro fire."_

_Cursing, the rogue began to unbuckle herself, but stopped at Garoidil's shout._

"_No! Don't! There's no time!"_

"_Hurry up!" Kingus screamed again. The pod was beginning to spin, and the sorcerer had a glimpse of a huge forest beneath them, seemingly stretching to the horizon, before the sphere resumed its former orientation._

_Garoidil was still fighting with the straps when there was a sudden roar from below and the pod's descent slowed so dramatically that the fighter was knocked to the floor with such force that only his armor saved him from serious injury. Ignoring the shouts and exhortations of his three friends, the Hellasion warrior, now cursing a blue streak, managed to climb back onto his berth. _

_He guessed it was perhaps eight or nine seconds from the time he had heard the buckle click as it latched to the time they hit the ground._

_Judging by the speed at which darkness took them, Garoidil's last thought was the sphere was still moving a lot faster than he could have imagined._

_Aslan opened his eyes._

* * *

**20****th**** Day of Harvester, 565 CY**

**Ironstead, Furyondy**

The rain was just ending.

It continued to drip off all the trees surrounding the walled hamlet, and would continue to do so for some time. The air was brisk; a perfect tonic for the night shift guards who so often battled fatigue brought on by inactivity.

Their attentions were turned outwards towards the Vesve though, as they always were. Everyone inside the thick wooden walls was either asleep or heading for home.

Except one.

* * *

Quietly closing the door of guest cabin behind him so as not to wake anyone up, Sir Corvis of Elredd headed towards the northern section of Ironstead.

There was a light fog building as cool air condensed over the damp grass. Corvis was glad for it. He used it to shield his advances from the few people still walking around. He moved in short spurts from behind one building to another.

He soon reached the gaol, a building which was currently as empty of guards as it was of prisoners. Kneeling down by the western wall, Corvis looked around again to make sure no one was watching, then took the miniature chest out from his belt pouch, held it in his outstretched hands, and spoke the phrase that he had been told.

Instantly, the larger chest appeared on the ground in front of him.

A smile spread over Corvis' face. He rapped on the chest's lid three times, then straightened back up and continued to head north.

Soon, he had arrived at the offices of Major Standish.

A lone hooded oil lamp hung from a wooden projection over the door. An infantryman walked slowly back and forth in front of the building. A young man of perhaps twenty, clad in splint mail and carrying a halberd, he looked as if he would dearly like to be anyone else but there at the moment.

Sir Corvis put on his best smile and stepped forward.

"Not a choice assignment?"

The guard spun, halberd coming into position, but he instantly relaxed when he saw who it was. He planted the shaft of the weapon in the dirt as he regarded the knight with a grimace.

"The lousiest, good Sir Corvis. Easy enough, but there's no one to talk to. I've tried convincing Major Standish to assign two guards- there's a lot of valuable items in there, after all- but he says he can't spare another one for now."

"Times are tough," agreed the knight with a commiserating nod.

"What brings you out at this late hour, Sir?" asked the guard.

In response, Sir Corvis spread his arms wide, gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

"Hello, dear old friend

I don't know what you don't know

Let us both converse."

The guard blinked at him.

Corvis walked up to the soldier and addressed him quietly. His head turned left and right as they spoke, as if making sure they would not be overhead.

"I am on an urgent mission, my friend, and I fear now only you can aid me. Traitors within these very walls, whom we once thought of as allies- and most still do- have designs upon the very same valuables you spoke of. Major Standish himself confided this to me."

The guard looked astonished and then confused, as if part of his brain readily accepted the knight's words, but the other half could not.

"Traitors! Our own people?"

"No." Corvis shook his head. "They are visitors. I dare not say names, but I wager you are clever enough to divine who I mean."

The soldier's expression grew thoughtful. "Yes," he murmured. "I believe I can."

"We must act quickly," Sir Corvis said. "Standish does not have the proof to act openly, but these thieves mean to strike tonight! These villains have already stationed some of their number outside the major's house to prevent anyone from warning him- I have just come from that area. It is up to us two, my friend, to thwart them."

"What shall we do?"

"I shall go inside, pack up the valuables and move them to another location. Stand guard here. I shan't be long."

Corvis made as if to head inside the building, then turned and stopped.

"I need the password to bypass the _glyph_ upon the door."

A flicker of suspicion crossed the guard's face. "Did not Major Standish give it to you?"

"I was due to receive it tonight," the knight replied, "but the enemy surrounds his house! I dare not tip them off that we know of their foul plans. You must give it to me!"

The young man looked torn. "The Major made me swear an oath that I would never reveal the password to anyone."

Corvis flushed red for a moment, but then sighed and nodded wearily, placing his hand on the soldier's shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

"I understand, my good man. You are a man of honor, and that is to your credit. However, I believe I have a solution that will satisfy us both. I will step away, and you have but to merely whisper the password and open the door yourself. Then I can proceed."

The guard took a few moments to process this idea, and apparently found it acceptable for he nodded.

"Stout lad," said Sir Corvis, backing up. "Make haste, now!"

The soldier did as instructed. The knight then moved quickly forward, into the open doorway.

"Hearken. I will knock on the door when I need you to open it again. If any of the enemy come before then; if they try to gain access by either force of arms or trickery-"

Corvis' face twisted into a snarl.

"Kill them."

* * *

The office interior was plunged into blackness as Sir Corvis shut the door behind him.

Undaunted, the man who called himself a knight reached into his belt pouch. His hand came out holding a piece of phosphorescent moss and a small piece of string.

"Darkness passing through  
I can count on you for light  
Since your love, it shines."

At his words, the moss vanished and a white glow emanated from the string, which Corvis tied around his finger. He then removed a small glass vial containing a bubbling green liquid. He pierced the wax coating with the tip of his dagger and then drained it in one gulp, shivering as a tingling sensation coursed through his entire body.

Ignoring the room's contents, he swiftly moved to the other door and tried the knob. As he had expected, it was locked.

"A closed door opens  
The darkness slowly lengthens  
Into slick fingers."

There was a soft _click._ Corvis turned the handle and opened the door.

* * *

The workshop looked much as he had last seen it. There was no sign of the metal hawk; Golbi, or whatever that blasted gnome had called it. Moving among the long tables and stretching his hand out for the _light_ it provided, Corvis quickly found what he was looking for.

The torso of the rowbaht was still relatively intact. Corvis hefted it up and grunted. The damn thing had to weigh at least seventy pounds, if not more. He wished he'd thought to secure a _strength_ potion or two, but it didn't matter.

He wasn't going to have to carry it very far. His escape route should be all set up and waiting for him by now.

Holding the torso to his chest with his left arm, Corvis turned around and began to make his way out of the workshop when he heard a faint hissing sound.

The Elredd native spun around to see Fenlun's oil lamp sputter to life on a table about ten feet away from his position.

But it wasn't the gnome who had lit it.

Standing in the yellow glow of the lantern were Cygnus, Aslan and Yanigasawa Tojo.

Corvis gaped.

The samurai raised an eyebrow.

"You not have haiku to detect invisibirity, Corvis-san?"

Aslan drew his sword.

"Give up, Corvis," the paladin announced. "We're more powerful than you are."

The false knight's face became a sneer.

"But you're not faster."

With the blinding speed his _haste_ potion had granted him, Corvis drew what looked like a silver chicken's egg from his belt pouch and hurled it at the lantern, which was knocked off the table and shattered on the floor.

The egg broke apart when it hit and sticky white webs exploded outwards. The mage, paladin and samurai were instantly entangled in the strands.

But only two of them were affected.

Tojo passed through the web as if it weren't there and charged Corvis, his katana clearing its sheathe en route.

Acting on either panic or instinct- he wasn't sure which- with both hands Corvis thrust the rowbaht's torso outwards, using it as a shield. Tojo, aware that Aslan had warned him against harming the item, was forced to adjust the angle of his slash at the last instant. The katana's keen edge still cut across the greaves protecting Corvis' legs, deep enough so blood dripped down both of them. Corvis roared with pain, but still turned and ran, the encumbrance of his load neutralized by his _haste_. A second strike by the samurai missed by a hair's breadth.

As he ran into the outer office, Corvis could hear the sounds of battle coming from outside.

"Open the door!" he shrieked. "_Open the door!"_

* * *

Once again, Zantac shouted and cursed.

His_ sleep_ spell had proven ineffective against the guard, who now moved to the door and yanked it open. Nesco was on him in a moment.

"Don't hurt him! He's charmed!" yelled the mage, now fervently cursing Cygnus, Aslan and Tojo for acting without his knowledge. If the red-robed wizard had not woken up, noticed Cygnus' cot empty beside him, deduced what had happened and roused the others, he'd still be sleeping peacefully.

Without a weapon in hard, it was harder for Lady Cynewine to close with the guard, who kept jabbing at her with his halberd.

"Help!" the soldier shouted. "Thieves! Traitors! To arms!"

Nesco didn't dare turn around, but the pounding of mailed boots coupled with Elrohir and Argo's curses told her what she feared. More guards were entering the fray.

A shape blew past her, moving fast. Corvis.

And he was carrying the section of the rowbaht.

* * *

"Not happening!" cried Zantac.

The two rangers were already battling arriving guards, using nothing but their mailed fists.

They didn't dare risk hurting the duped soldiers, but Corvis was another matter entirely.

Zantac incanted and the _magic missiles_ shot from his fingers and unerringly zeroed in on their target.

Corvis screamed in agony and staggered a few steps, but did not fall. He began to run again, now heading south.

Zantac uttered another oath and headed off after him.

* * *

Corvis was thankfully easy to keep in sight, as his hand was still emitting _light_ from the piece of string tied to it. Zantac's chest burned as the wizard drew great lungfuls of cold air with every breath. The pounding of his feet seemed to merge with the pounding of the blood in his ears. The sounds of battle grew fainter as the two continued to run; hunter and prey.

Then Zantac saw him.

By the western wall of the gaol was Agarth's large chest, the lid flipped open.

Standing next to it was Agarth himself.

* * *

The realization cut through the magic-user like a knife.

_The chest! Agarth was hiding in his damn chest the whole time! Corvis must have summoned it here with that small chest Elrohir told me about!_

And indeed, Corvis was now holding that same small chest in his outstretched right hand, keeping the metal torso clutched tight with his left.

"I've got it!" he screamed to the mercane as he ran. "Get us out of here!"

Agarth looked upon this frantic scene with utter impassivity. It was then that Zantac noticed the mercane holding something in his own hand, but it wasn't his falchion.

Agarth was holding a wand of some kind, and it was aimed directly at Zantac.

Zantac would have shouted in frustration, but he didn't have the wind. He couldn't cast anything while sprinting, and the mercane had the drop on him anyway. He wasn't going to be able to catch up to Corvis in time. That damn knight was going to get-

Someone burst into the radius of Corvis' light from the west.

And Corvis of Elredd went down as the muscular figure of Laertes plowed into him with a flying tackle.

The fake knight and the half-orc hit the ground with a thud and clatter. The rowbaht torso rolled off while the small chest went flying off, landing directly at Agarth's feet.

The mercane, who had pointed his wand at Laertes when he took his human ally down, seemed to reach a decision in an instant. As Zantac pulled up, Agarth reached down, scooped up the small chest and touched it to the larger one, which instantly disappeared.

Zantac pointed at the giant, but before he could begin the incantation for his _lightning bolt_, the planar merchant vanished into thin air.

Corvis and Laertes were wrestling, rolling around on the ground. The human was faster, but the half-orc stronger and more experienced in hand-to-hand-combat. He pinned Corvis down on the ground, holding the man's arms splayed out and ignoring his wildly kicking legs.

The false knight's panicked expression suddenly gave way to one of calm.

"In the pre-dawn mist

The white blossom sleeps and-"

Laertes' fist smashed into Corvis' mouth with full force.

A tooth flew out and blood welled up.

Zantac, still huffing and puffing, shook his head sadly at Corvis.

"Nothing like a tough poetry critic."

* * *

"Once more," Major Standish growled. "From the top, and try to make more sense this time."

Aslan sighed, but kept his composure. It was their good fortune that they hadn't already all joined Corvis, stripped, bound and gagged under heavy guard in the Ironstead gaol.

Their whole party, plus Saxmund's group, Laertes and even Talat/Hilda were in the main assembly hall of the Ironstead garrison. Two dozen heavily armed soldiers surrounded them all. Their weapons were sheathed, but they were under orders to attack at the first sign of aggression.

"All right," the paladin said. "I told you about the conversation Corvis had with Elrohir the night that we had met up with Nesco's group. When Elrohir recounted that to us, I grew suspicious. Corvis never registered as evil, either to Aelfbi here or myself, but I've had far too much experience to be lulled by that. Many people do what they think is best for themselves, without regard for others. That may or may not be evil as the Fates decide, but it's sure as sunrise not good."

"So? Was Corvis lying to you the whole time?"

"I don't think so, although of course I can't be sure. I'm sure he altered the story of his past that he told to Nesco and the others to cast himself in the best light, but he openly admitted he was after the astralship. I think he mixed just enough truth in to keep himself looking honest."

"And for him, that was easy," added Cygnus, gesturing at Tojo. "we just didn't know how easy."

Aslan however, held a restraining hand up. "I'll get to that Cygnus, but I want to keep things in chronological order as much as possible, for the Major's sake."

"Go on," said Standish, who didn't seem very placated.

"I knew Corvis wasn't going to wait and see if Elrohir would fall in line with his schemes. Especially with a paladin such as myself around. He must have decided to try and go it alone."

"What do you mean, alone?" the major snapped. "I thought he was in league with that damned blue giant!"

"Forgive me," replied Aslan contritely. "You're quite right in that regard, although I'm guessing they only formalized that alliance that last night at the encampment, when Cygnus saw them talking together. They must have decided then that Corvis would smuggle Agarth back to Ironstead using those magical chests. Clearly, Agarth was to profit by this, but as to whether Corvis was planning to keep Agarth on as a silent partner or simply murder us all with the mercane's aid once we had control of the _Mary Celestial_ is a question only he can answer."

"So his story that he saw Agarth with that chest of his inside the crater was a lie?" Standish asked.

Aslan nodded. "Of that I'm sure. What ties all of this together is this so-called summoning device. It was Saxmund here who first told me that Kingus had hypothesized the existence of one onboard the sphere. Certain things Fenlun Herlendal had said about the rowbaht seemed to suggest this as well, and what Corvis related about what Agarth had told him confirmed the issue, at least in my own mind. I was confident that such a device actually did exist."

"Where is that damn gnome anyway?" Elrohir asked.

"He left two days ago," Standish waved the ranger off. "Don't interrupt. I want to hear this whole story before I decide whether to lock you all up or not."

Elrohir growled deep in his chest, but held his tongue.

"I had no proof of course, and was loathe to involve the others in this. Forgive me major, but Corvis had exceptional ways of getting not only information out of others, but their cooperation as well. You yourself know this first-hand."

Now it was Standish's turn to growl as the memory of his authorizing horses to Corvis came back to mind. He covered up his embarrassment with a grunt.

"Get on with it."

"I even kept my idea from my own group, taking only Cygnus and Tojo into my confidence. I was confident that the three of us would be sufficient to handle whatever Corvis might try."

"Aslan," Elrohir harrumphed. "When you said months ago that you wanted Cygnus to stop acting unilaterally, I didn't know you meant that you and he were going to act unilaterally _together!"_

The paladin gave his friend a sheepish smile. Nesco looked hurt at the idea of being excluded from Aslan's plans, but the major made another impatient gesture.

"So," Aslan continued, taking the hint. "Tonight, after we had arrived and settled in, I _teleported_ Cygnus and myself into the workshop. Picking the largest piece of the rowbaht, I utilized my Talent."

Here Standish looked confused, but it was Cygnus who explained.

"Those knowledgeable in the study of Talents call it _object reading_. Aslan has the ability to handle an object and gain flashes of insight, sometimes even actual visions, of its past. Using a different discipline, he can do the same with a given location."

"I don't use these abilities very often," the paladin said. "For some reason I don't understand, those disciplines attract psionic creatures to my vicinity more often than any others, although thankfully they did not do so tonight."

"Aslan told us about what he'd seen," Cygnus added, now looking over at Saxmund. "Your arrival on Oerth and crash-landing in the Vesve."

Saxmund nodded but said nothing. The rogue looked grim and Cygnus guessed he knew who she was thinking about.

"The signaling device is inside this rowbaht, but it's broken," the paladin continued. 'That's why it doesn't radiate magic. As to whether it can be repaired, I do not know, but we will try."

"Major Standish." Now Saxmund spoke up.

The officer glanced over sharply at her.

"We have no further interest in the pod itself," the rogue announced, "but that rowbaht was destroyed by us. We claim it as we would the spoils of any orc we slay here in the Vesve."

Standish glared at her for a moment, and then shrugged.

"It's not like it has any value to me. I want my damn conference room back anyway. Take the accursed thing."

Saxmund nodded in gratitude, and Aslan took the opportunity to continue his tale.

"Certain now that Corvis would try to steal it, I _teleported_ back outside and came back with Tojo. However, this depleted my Talent for the evening. I didn't think it was going to be a problem, however. Cygnus turned the three of us invisible, and then all we had to do was wait. Our villain appeared on schedule, but he had a little surprise with him I didn't expect. That egg."

"A gift from his friend Agarth, no doubt," added Zantac wryly.

"Entangled as he was, Cygnus couldn't cast any spells that would help him escape the _web_, and I could not _polymorph_ into a form that could do so."

"So how did he do it?" Standish asked, jerking a thumb at Tojo. "He cut his way loose with that fancy sword of his?"

Tojo's only response was to hold up his right hand. The light of surrounding lanterns glistened off a silver ring with an almost oily appearance.

"It's called a _ring of free action," _Cygnus told the officer. "Tojo took it from a gnoll arcanist he'd slain in the subterranean passage we took en route to Suderham. Rather useful, really."

"Meanwhile, I saw Cygnus had gone on a midnight stroll," Zantac broke in. "I knew he was up to no good, so I gathered the others and headed out to the office to see if anything was amiss."

"I notice you didn't alert _us_," Garoidil commented snidely. "Saxmund, Aelfbi and myself."

Zantac shrugged. "There wasn't time, Garoidil. Besides, if I had, you'd be at the major's tender mercies right now, along with the rest of us."

"Good sir," Aslan addressed Standish directly. "We took every precaution to avoid hurting any of your men unduly."

Some of the soldiers surrounding them muttered at this, rubbing black eyes and clutching bruised ribs, but Standish ignored them.

"Use magic if you wish to confirm it, but you must know I am speaking the truth," Alan said.

Standish considered, biting his lip. Then he looked over to Cygnus.

"How could Corvis have done all that magic? He wore chainmail- he can't be a mage, can he?'

"I believe he knows some of the bardic arts," the wizard said. "Cross-trained as a fighter no doubt, and perhaps even a thief. Odin knows he's sneaky enough."

Saxmund smiled, but remained silent.

The major still looked as if he were trying to sort this out. "That poetry he was always spouting? Haiku, or whatever you called it?"

"Most crever." Tojo now spoke for the first time. "Easy way to disguise his powers. It confirm what I hear about ord regend."

"Old what?' asked Standish, but Cygnus, fearing that the samurai would take offense if the officer began to mock Tojo's accent, stepped in.

"While we were waiting, invisible, in your office, Tojo explained it to Aslan and me," the tall mage said. "It seems that back in Tojo's homeland, there was once a minor noble who used a magic item given to him by an oni- a demon- to rise in power in the Imperial Court, and to use this power subtly for wicked ends. It did not bestow the power to _charm_ per se, but it granted the wearer a silver tongue, easily able to sway the viewpoint of others."

"It carred _obi of the coutier," _Tojo said, and now the samurai held out his left hand, which held the black and yellow sash Corvis had worn ever since they had first seen him.

Major Standish glared at the silk belt as if it had personally done him harm and then rounded on Laertes.

"And what about you? Were you in on this mad scheme as well?"

The young half-orc shook his head. "No. I couldn't thleep tho I was going over to vithit Hilda. I," he shrugged, "I mithed her."

Some of the soldiers sniggered at his speech but fell silent under a glare from their commanding officer.

Talat, who had remained silent, seated on a bench during this entire time, now smiled sadly at the youth.

"I thaw Thir Corvith running and Zantac chathing him, and acted without thinking."

"I'm glad you did," said Zantac. "You might just have saved my life, Laertes."

The half-orc smiled at him. "Actually," Laertes said, looking around now at Elrohir, Nesco, Cygnus and the others, "I gueth I kind of mithed all of you."

They all looked at him curiously, which caused some red to mix into the grey of his face. The half-orc dropped his gaze to the wooden floor.

"None of you care how I thound."

"So what say you, major?" Elrohir asked, facing the officer with his arms crossed across his chest.

Major Standish stared at them all for what the ranger and party leader was sure was an unnecessarily long time, and then inclined his head towards the front door.

"Go," he said.

* * *

"Well, that was an exciting, if completely pointless, three weeks spent," Elrohir griped as everyone gathered outside the garrison building in the chilly, foggy hours of the early morning.

"I don't know," said Argo Bigfellow, frowning as he looked around him. "Something's missing here, but I don't quite know what it is."

"We've still got some loose ends to tie up," announced Garoidil, as he struggled with the weight of the rowbaht torso. "For instance, how in Hades did _I _get stuck toting around this stupid thing?"

"Knowredge is arways heavy burden, Garoidir-san," Tojo said without the slightest hint of a smile.

The Hellasian warrior gaped at the samurai. "Are you-"

But Aslan shook his head. "Don't even try asking, Garoidil. He'll never admit it."

"Admit what, Asran-sama?" Tojo inquired, but Zantac cut across the samurai to address Saxmund.

"I don't begrudge your claiming ownership of this hunk of scrap, Saxmund, but I think it's clear that a proper examination, let alone repair, of this thing is beyond our capacity. As much as I'd like to trod him underfoot, that gnome Fenlun was more knowledgeable in this area than any of us, and even he couldn't fully understand it. I think we need to bring this thing back to the Brass Dragon for safekeeping while we discreetly search for someone who can crack its secrets."

"I agree completely," said Saxmund, stepping forward as she replied. The rogue's gaze shifted from Zantac to his team leader.

"That's why I'm entrusting it to you and your people, Elrohir."

The ranger frowned. "You're not coming back with us, Saxmund? That doesn't make sense. If we're unable to have this thing repaired- and despite all our hopes, I think that's the most realistic outcome- you can still get back to Rolex by going to Lancoastes in Willip."

Saxmund hesitated before replying. "We can't do that, Elrohir."

"Why not?"

Before the rogue could reply, Elrohir felt a hand tap his left shoulder. He turned around to see Argo Bigfellow Junior, looking uncharacteristically somber.

"You've forgotten someone, Elrohir," the big ranger reminded his friend. "Sir Stuck-Up and his Merry Band."

"Dorbin will kill Talat on sight," Cygnus added, "in order to slay her unborn child."

"I won't permit that," Elrohir snapped back.

Aslan raised an eyebrow.

"Are you prepared to go up against yet another Talent, Elrohir- and all nine of his friends?"

Elrohir stared at the paladin. What Aslan was saying seemed too incredible to be true.

"You really think it would come to that?" he asked. "After all we've been through with Sir Menn, Sitdale and Unru? After all we've done for them?"

Aslan looked troubled.

"In this one matter, I don't think Sir Dorbin can be reasoned with. I believe he considers it a holy undertaking."

Elrohir turned away to stare up at a darkened sky. Thoughts collided in his brain like rain clouds; ideas churned like thunder.

Could they possibly wind up in battle against the Aardian knight and his companions over this? It seemed impossible, despite what the ranger's friends were saying. Even Nodyath professed not to want to hurt his child.

How could Sir Dorbin, a worshipper of the Archpaladin, consider so horrific an act? Was he so bound to hold onto what he considered his sacred duty that he would commit murder upon the most innocent of all?

The words of Corvis came back to Elrohir.

_The necessity of possession may make even honorable men do questionable deeds._

Aslan, Argo, Cygnus, Nesco, Caroline, Tojo and Zantac waited patiently.

* * *

It didn't feel like much of a decision to Elrohir.

Always, he felt inadequate, as if he were merely delaying the inevitable. He looked again at Talat.

She was staring back at him now, but her face was now as hard to read as his wife's had ever been. He knew only that, like the others, she was waiting.

Waiting for Elrohir, the man who always knew what to do but never what to say.

The ranger wrested his gaze back to the waiting woman from Rolex.

"Saxmund," he said quietly. "Keep Talat with you. Get out of Furyondy- there's too much risk of her secret being exposed here. We'll find a way to get in contact with you once we know if we'll be able to summon the _Celestial."_

The red-haired rogue nodded. She said nothing, but Elrohir thought he saw satisfaction in those green eyes.

The quartet made to leave, but Elrohir made sure he caught Talat's eye.

"I still have questions for you."

"I know, Elrohir," she replied softly. "I hope to be able to answer them, but more so, I hope you'll have the opportunity to ask them."

The ranger frowned, but what felt like a stone suddenly plunging into his stomach gave Elrohir a stark realization of what Talat meant.

In all probability, Elrohir and his friends were soon going to cross paths with Nodyath again, and more often than not those who did that wound up dead.

* * *

After Saxmund, Aelfbi, Garoidil and Talat had left the rowbaht torso, said their goodbyes and returned to their cabins, Cygnus brought up another point.

"One more loose end to tie up before we all go back to bed. Who winds up with that?"

He pointed at the silk sash in Tojo's hand.

Aslan frowned.

"I'm uneasy with the idea of that thing. I don't think we should even sell it, and keeping it is out of the question. We should destroy it."

"Not so fast," Argo replied. "You're a bit too sword-happy when it comes to destroying magic items, my friend. That obi could be invaluable. Besides, you heard Cygnus. It's not like we'd be charming anyone."

"The ends never justify the means, Argo," replied the paladin.

"If the means is survival, I'd say that yes, sometimes they do," Bigfellow retorted, and Elrohir saw what little was left of the big ranger's ever-present casual attitude rapidly draining away from his face. "You and Dorbin can debate ethics until you're both blue in the face. Meanwhile, your friends are in trouble and about to step in a lot more. We need every edge we can get."

"Well, Elrohir?" Cygnus asked, turning to the team leader with a sad smile. "Are you up to another difficult decision?"

"What did you think of my last one?'

The two men locked eyes. Then slowly, the wizard smiled.

"Not too bad, Elrohir, considering the circumstances. I guess we both changed our viewpoints when push came to shove more than we cared to admit."

"I might not have had I known you'd already done so." Elrohir smiled back at the tall mage, before turning back to Argo and Aslan, who looked ready to lock horns once again.

"Simple decision," Elrohir announced. "Tojo decides."

* * *

It was rare indeed for anyone to catch the samurai so off-guard, but Tojo's eyebrows threatened to leap off his forehead.

"Me, Errohir-sama?"

"This belt may not have come from Nippon, Tojo," Elrohir said, "but Kara-Tur is close enough for me. I think you have a better handle on its moral implications than anyone of us. Whatever you decide will stand."

The Yanigasawa samurai clasped his hands behind his back and stared off into the distance for perhaps a minute, and then he turned around to face his tomodachi again.

"Is indeed simper decision," he stated, nodded.

And then as everyone around him gasped, Tojo stepped forward and held out the sash to Laertes.

* * *

The half-orc looked as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to breathe. His eyes seemed to double in size, and his mouth hung open as if something had come loose in his jaw.

"Muh… me?" he stammered. "Buh… but why?"

Tojo raised his eyebrows the way he always did when he thought a question had an absurdly simple answer.

"You say we not care how you sound, Raertes-san," the samurai said and then he favored the youth with one of his all too-rare smiles.

"Now, no one wirr care."

Tentatively, as if the silk sash might be hiding a scorpion within its folds, Laertes took the obi from Tojo and gazed at it in wonder.

When he looked up again, six men and two women were smiling at him.

Laertes' trepidation however, suddenly seemed to increase rather than abate. He took deep but ragged breaths and moistened his lips and his tusks. The youth looked like he had words in his head that would explode if they couldn't find their way out of his mouth.

"May," he eventually managed. "May I trade thith?"

"What?" Caroline said, her expression halfway between surprise and anger. "You want to sell that after we just-"

"No! No!" Laertes cried. "That wathn't what I meant!"

Caroline looked doubtful, but her husband held up a restraining hand.

"Let him talk, love. What did you mean, Laertes?"

The young half-orc was still breathing hard. He shook his head violently as if trying to shake off his doubts and start over again.

"You give me a gift I don't detherve." His voice was quieter now. "It maketh me happier than I could ever imagine, but I'd trade it back to you for thomething that would make me happier thill."

"What would that be, Laertes?" asked Cygnus curiously.

By inches, the teenager's eyes slowly jerked in the wizard's direction until they were looking directly into Cygnus' own.

"You'll be going home soon, won't you?"

"Yes," the magic-user replied, his forehead still creased in puzzlement, "but I still don't under-"

"May I come with you?"

* * *

Now it was six men and two women who gaped.

Perhaps not Tojo, although Cygnus thought he'd seen it out of the corner of his eye. The mage still couldn't keep his gaze off Laertes' face, remembering how it had seemed to him so close up in his cabin at Laurellinn.

Somehow, even though it sported a fresh cut on his cheek from where Corvis had scratched it, it didn't look quite so hideous now.

"Why?"

"Laertes."

Aslan did not seem inclined to wait for the half-orc's reasons. The paladin's face was not unkind, but it had a hard cast to it that Cygnus recognized. It happened when Aslan knew his beliefs as a paladin were about to make him wildly unpopular among his colleagues.

"I think I can speak for all of us when I say I'm flattered by your request, but I think you'd wind up disappointed. You'll find neither riches nor glory with us."

"And adventuring for its own sake is ultimately a hollow pursuit," Elrohir added. "Take it from someone who took decades to learn that."

"Is there something here you're trying to escape from, Laertes?" asked Nesco Cynewine. "You'd be better served by-

"No! It'th none of thothe thingth!" he shouted. A spray of spittle shot from his mouth, but the young half-orc wasn't bothering to choose his words so carefully now. "Pleathe, at leath lithen to me!"

"Go ahead, Laertes," Zantac said, and shot a disapproving glare at the others. "I for one owe you the courtesy of hearing you out. That and a lot more."

The others, chastened, nodded and fell silent again.

"I don't want any of those thingth," Laertes said. The youth looked like he was on the verge of tears, but with a deep breath he cut them off and began haltingly to speak.

"My life here hathn't been a bad one. I know I'm luckier than many of," he swallowed hard, "my kind. But," he still seemed to be struggling for the right words, "thomehow the world theemth to me to be a lot _bigger_ to me than it wath before I met you. Not in termth of being more exciting," he hastily added, seeing the look on several of their faces, "but in termth of there being more important thingth in it that need to be done."

The half-orc stopped, the exasperation of his face evident for what he considered his inability to communicate.

"Go on, Laertes," said Nesco gently.

"You're doing fine," Caroline Bigfellow added.

Heartened, he continued. "I thill don't know much about you people, or the danger that you're in. But I know it'th real, and I can thee the way you rithe to the challenge, not for reward of any kind, but juth for the chanth to help otherth. Thomhow," he paused. "Thomhow when you're conthentrating on otherth more than yourthelvth, it maketh you thronger. Thronger than me, or even an ogre. It'th the thrength of conviction."

Now the youth looked to each face in turn.

"_That'th_ the kind of strength I want! I don't want to be juth another brawny half-orc! I don't care about being rewarded, either!" He shook the obi in his hand for emphasis. "I don't care where I do thith, either. If you were to thay here in the Vethve, that would be fine, but-"

Laertes seemed unsure how to finish.

"I don't care where I am."

Again the tears threatened.

"I juth care _who_ I am."

He made a gesture of helplessness and his head sunk to his chest.

"Did any of that even make thenth?" he mumbled.

"A moment please, Laertes," Elrohir said.

* * *

Once they were out of earshot, the ranger turned to address his companions.

Elrohir always felt inadequate with words- and Laertes' speech had slammed home this failing of his even more forcefully than usual.

But somehow, it didn't seem to hurt this time.

And the others seemed just as dumbstruck as he was.

"Well?" It was Aslan who finally spoke first. "Am I right in thinking we're all of one mind here?"

"Agreeing with you so readily goes against my principles," Argo Bigfellow said while flashing his famous pained smile, "But I guess I'll have to make an exception this time."

"Always the martyr," Aslan replied, a thin smile leaking through his lips despite his attempt to stop it.

"All right then," said Elrohir.

* * *

Laertes had not moved an inch from the spot where they'd left him. His head was still facing downward and he did not look up as they approached. Only the clenching of his fists gave an indication that he knew they had returned with news of his fate.

"Laertes," Elrohir took a deep breath and spoke loudly and clearly. "We've decided. You're going to keep the obi."

The boy shuddered. A whimper started and then died in his throat.

"And start making whatever arrangements you need to," the ranger continued. "Aslan is going to start teleporting us later this afternoon. It'll take several days to get us all home to the Brass Dragon."

Laertes' face shot up. His lip trembled as his brown-grey eyes sought first one face and then another, and found the same acceptance in each one.

The half-orc looked like he wanted to hug all of them simultaneously. It was Caroline Bigfellow who made the first move, and soon he had hugged most of them, although Cygnus and Tojo deferred, settling instead for a hearty handclasp.

Laertes ran off towards the cabin he was currently staying at, punching the air in joy and yelling at the top of his rather impressive lungs, which pretty much woke up the entire encampment at Ironstead about three hours earlier than planned.

"_Shut the hell up!"_ came a voice from within a darkened building. _"We're trying to sleep here, you pack of leprous, mangy, flea-ridden, nasty curs! I hope you all rot in the Abyss for eternity!"_

Argo nodded while smiling, satisfied. "The accolades we always receive. That's what was missing. All's right with the world now."


	209. Two Months At The Brass Dragon

**13t****h**** Day of Ready'reat, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

The three horses thundered across the plain.

White Lightning, currently galloping for all she was worth, could see Perlial keeping abreast of her, about twenty feet to her right. The blue roan horse they were chasing was keeping a distance of perhaps twice that in front of them.

Elrohir walloped the rear of the roan with the palm of his hand, and it swung sharply to the right.

White Lightning and Perlial followed suit. Divots of dirt and grass flew into the air as the two heavy warhorses veered and tried to close the gap. Elrohir now ran his steed through a series of evasive maneuvers, but his pursuers mirrored his every move, and had now gained ten feet or so on him.

Steam burst out of White Lightning's nostrils with every breath she took. The mare tried to find some extra reserve of energy within her that she might have overlooked before. It galled the horse immensely that her master was riding another animal and worse yet, that animal was as yet proving impossible to overtake.

_Even,_ White Lightning thought, _if it is not really an animal at all._

Knowing without even looking that Perlial was thinking these same thoughts, White Lightning now began angling slightly off to the left.

Elrohir looked back and frowned, but continued to ride straight on.

The ruin of the Jones farm was getting closer now as the three horses continued running to the northwest. White Lightning took in the sagging roof, rotting walls and missing front door in an instant, even as Elrohir blew past the building without slowing.

White Lightning pulled up to a halt and, still huffing, kept the building between herself and her master. She could see Perlial continuing to chase the ranger.

A rotted front porch was located on the farmhouse's southwest side. Slowly, taking care with each step, the warhorse entered the building.

* * *

A quarterstaff stood incongruously by itself, planted in the hard earth. As Elrohir rode past it, he leaned precariously to the left and slapped it with his hand. As he began to arc in a wide circle, the ranger glanced back at Perlial, then leaned forward to shout into his horse's ear.

"She'll never catch us!"

* * *

White Lightning only had twenty feet or so to travel to reach the far side of the house, but it was difficult. The mare had to test each step to ensure that a hoof would not fall crash through the floorboards. She had to squeeze herself through two narrow interior doorways, using her head to push aside rotting doors on rusty hinges.

But now she was there, by the open window that faced to the northeast. White Lightning caught a glimpse of Elrohir heading back to the southeast now, Perlial still some thirty feet back. White Lighting quickly backed up and out of view.

She hoped she had guessed right about her master- and about the strength of these walls.

* * *

Elrohir wasn't quite sure what was going on.

Perlial, having rounded the staff, was still behind. The roan horse Elrohir was riding would normally be significantly faster than its pursuer, but the ranger was armored and in full pack, and that was slowing it down.

_But this far ahead?_ Elrohir wondered. _Our horses have always seemed like the wind to me_._ Perhaps they have been idle too long. Maybe when we do ride to the north- to Molag- they should not accompany us._

The old farmhouse was coming up fast. Elrohir knew White Lightning had to be hiding behind it.

She had to be by the building's southeast face. Where the front door was. He could see the other three sides of the square house's walls, and there was no sign of his steed.. Undoubtedly, she was planning to rush out as he galloped past and startle him enough for Perlial to catch up.

Elrohir shook his head, not without some that he was ready for it, he knew he'd have several seconds to react, and so wouldn't be startled when it happened.

_Not much of a plan, _the ranger thought to himself_._ He was coming up past the farmhouse's northeast side when it happened.

An immense shape crashed through the window on that side, taking a good section of the wall with it. Like an approaching storm cloud- complete with a bolt of lightning- White Lightning was upon Elrohir and his steed in an instant.

Elrohir didn't have time to signal his horse, but he didn't need to. It instinctively turned to the left and missed the approaching equine juggernaut.

Perlial thundered past the ranger, heading southeast.

Elrohir cursed and slammed the rear of his mount repeatedly, screaming at it to hurry up. The animal issued a sound of protest that was not very horse-like, but obeyed.

* * *

Perlial, the mounted Elrohir and White Lightning formed a line now, all galloping full-out. Not having rounded the staff, the latter horse was not eligible to win the race, but she could still act as spoiler, and seemed determined to fulfill that role.

Shouts came from above. Three horses and one ranger looked up to see Argo Bigfellow and Caroline, flying astride Gylandir and Sequester, paralleling their course about fifty feet overhead, shouting encouragement.

Elrohir could not make out their exact words over the thundering of hooves, but he knew the Bigfellows' encouragement was not meant for him.

"Come on!" he shouted again at his steed. "You want to lose? Give it all you've got!"

* * *

The Brass Dragon came into view. Cygnus, Zantac, Nesco, Laertes and several of the inn's workers were standing outside, yelling and screaming. Tojo stood apart some distance, quietly observing.

Froth was forming over Perlial's mouth now from the force of her exertions. Pieces of bubbly spit broke off and flew into her eyes, but the mare just shook her head and galloped on until she thought her lungs would burst. Her master had told her not to hold back, so she wasn't going to.

And now she was almost there. The horse could almost see the invisible line on the frost-bitten grass between Cygnus and Zantac that marked the finish. She risked a quick glance backwards. Elrohir and his mount were still behind and not gaining. Perlial was going to do it. She was going to win! She-

Both Elrohir and his steed disappeared.

Perlial whipped her head around back to the front, already knowing what she would see.

Having _teleported_ forward, Elrohir thundered over the finish line.

Perlial crossed seconds afterwards, White Lightning perhaps five seconds behind her. The sound of her own breathing was so loud to the horse that she barely heard the boos and catcalls of those present.

"Not fair!" Perlial shouted as soon as she was able to. _"You cheated!"_

Elrohir swung off the blue roan horse, which immediately reared up on its hind legs and shrunk in size, its forelegs already turning back into arms.

Aslan, his smile a fair copy of Argo's pained grin, moved forward, breathing heavily, his arms held out in supplication, but Perlial turned away in a huff that was only partially false.

"I warned you!" Argo shouted even as Gylandir's hooves touched the ground, Caroline close behind him. "He hates to lose!"

"And I do not?" asked Perlial. She had to keep shifting her position and moving her head to avoid Aslan's gaze, as the paladin, now wearing his most disarming smile, kept trying to get in front of her.

"I thought paladinth weren't allowed to cheat," observed Laertes.

Lady Cynewine smiled. "You'd be surprised by what they can do."

Even from twenty feet out, she could see Aslan blush at her words.

Seeing White Lightning finally consent for Elrohir to close and console her, Perlial finally allowed Aslan to do the same. The paladin pulled his helm off and laid his dusty and sweaty cheek against the grey mare's neck.

"Despite my cheating, you are the clear winner, Perlial," he said. "Let not my moment of churlishness cloud that fact. No horse I have laid eyes on before or after you can ever match you in speed, cunning," he paused, "or loyalty."

From the expression on Aslan's face, Perlial thought that her own voice managed to sound coy, which was her intent.

"Is this regret only because I pout?"

The paladin leaned in close to whisper his reply into Perlial's ear.

"I hold no regret anymore than I think that you truly sulk, my good and faithful servant. We are both blessed with gifts from Lord Odin. My Talent, your good heart-"

"-and each other," Perlial finished for him in as close to a whisper as she could manage.

They leaned into each other for a moment and then Aslan straightened up.

"I'll be back presently," he told his steed, patting her side as he moved off. "There's an important point that needs to be made first."

* * *

Elrohir had just finished apologizing and consoling White Lightning as well and was about to join the others when he saw Aslan striding towards him, a stern and cold glare on the paladin's face.

"What?" Elrohir asked, looking surprised.

Aslan stopped right in front of him; arms crossed and light blue eyes blazing.

The others all stared at him in silence.

"Don't slap me on the butt, Elrohir," Aslan said. "Never slap the paladin on the butt."

* * *

"That lookth good," Laertes said, licking his tusks in anticipation.

It had been decided to eat outside the inn to celebrate what had been universally decided as Perlial and White Lightning's victory in the race. The two mares as well as the two pegasi munched contently on oats while three fat geese were roasting in an enormous fire pit that had been dug outside. Hot mugs of coffee, tea, ale and cider were passed around to help the fire ward off the early winter's chill for those gathered around.

Elrohir was grateful for his hot tea- as much for its smell and warmth as for its taste, but the ranger found it impossible to keep his mind with the others as they celebrated. The ranger's mind, as it always seemed to do, wandered.

* * *

It had been two months since they had returned to the Brass Dragon, and while some things were going well- perhaps better than he'd dared hope- others were far behind schedule.

There'd been no further dreams, from either horse or human, about Kar-Vermin. That was encouraging, but Elrohir was frustrated by what he considered the slow pace of his friends in preparation for their journey north, to the Horned Society. He felt like they were dragging their feet, hoping the problem might never materialize if they did not confront it. To be sure they had reasons they offered- not enough information gathered yet, the impossibility of a direct assault on the city of Molag and so forth. But while Elrohir knew there was some sense in what they said, he was dead certain that delay was dangerous; that the Hierarchs were moving ahead with their plan to resurrect- if such a word could truly be used here- the deadliest and most implacable foe they'd ever faced.

They'd had no luck at all with the rowbaht torso. Not able to trust the Willip Wizards' Guild, they'd been forced to rely on low-level divinations from what local churches they could put their faith in- those of Heironeous and Zeus. It used up what little coin they'd had left from their Suderham adventure, and netted them nothing. For all intents and purposes, the rowbaht was a piece of metal gathering dust in their cellar.

Even more troubling was news of Nodyath and his Outlaws. Although there had been no attack yet upon their home, a _sending_ he'd received yesterday from Monsrek, who along with Sir Dorbin and the rest of their band had moved to the Castle Chauv after Elrohir and the others had returned home, had been very disquieting.

_Outlaw assault on Castle Chauv will occur within week. Believe it to be diversion to tie up Talent, so will be simultaneous with attack on you._

Elrohir didn't know how Dorbin had come by this knowledge, but he accepted it, just as he recognized the implication. It made sense. Nodyath wouldn't want to face two Talents at once- he'd tried that before- so he'd split his forces. Force Dorbin to defend Castle Chauv while the remainder of his band attacked the inn.

And what were his forces? Perhaps four or five dozen brigands by now, but they were of less concern than the others; the dark priest of Nerull, the wizard Frill, Sbalt, a powerful warrior no doubt, and the little man called The Runt. Although Dangerous Hands was dead, the others were powerful; powerful enough to stand up to Sir Dorbin's entire party.

And what of Nodyath himself? Would he lead the assault upon the Brass Dragon, or would he give that responsibility to Sbalt and join the attack upon Chauv, hoping to kill Dorbin, a weaker Talent than himself?

Elrohir had started to turn to Talass to ask her opinion before his breath caught in his throat and he stopped himself.

Two months had done nothing to dull the pain.

Where was she now, Elrohir wondered? Approaching the Rakers, he guessed.

Unless something had happened to her.

If he closed his eyes, Elrohir could see his wife, and the sight threatened to swamp his eyes with tears behind his closed lids.

Deep now in his almost daily brooding, it never occurred to the ranger that some of his friends might also not be enjoying the feast to its fullest; that worries and concerns of their own were nagging at them.

* * *

Aslan could still vividly picture Sir Dorbin's face.

_The Celtiac knight, along with all his companions, had been overjoyed to see Aslan and his friends, all together again after so many months. While Argo and Caroline, oblivious to the rest of the common room, engaged in an embrace passionate enough to turn everyone's face red, Dorbin filled the victorious adventurers in on what had transpired while they had been away. Then Elrohir began his tale, and had just gotten to the point where they had met up with Saxmund and her companions when Dorbin interrupted._

"_What about Talat? Was she still with them?" he demanded._

_Aslan glanced over at Elrohir. There had been no consensus or even discussion as to how this inevitable question would be dealt with. The paladin saw his friend take a deep breath and begin to reply but he was cut off by another voice._

"_No. She wasn't. Saxmund said she'd left them when they returned to Furyondy."_

_Apparently, Argo Bigfellow Junior had been listening after all._

_Aslan turned. His right arm still wrapped around his wife's waist, the big ranger gazed impassively at Sir Dorbin, his face a study in casual neutrality. It was a lie told with the ring of truth. If Aslan hadn't known better, he might have believed it himself._

_But then Dorbin did exactly what Aslan was afraid he would._

_The knight's gaze travelled the room until it met that of the paladin._

"_Aslan." Sir Dorbin's tone was sharp. "Is this true?"_

_In the sudden silence which descended upon the room, Nesco Cynewine's sucking in her breath was faintly audible._

_Aslan the Paladin. Paladins never lie._

_The rest of the Brass Dragon faded out of existence for Aslan. Only Sir Dorbin's face; the deep blue eyes. Small weathered lines around his mouth. Strong jaw line._

_Three steps brought Dorbin directly in front of the paladin._

"_Aslan," the knight repeated softly but no less sternly, "is this true?"_

_Paladins never lie._

_Aslan did not look at his friends, but he knew they were watching him. Waiting to see which Aslan would speak. Aslan their friend or Aslan the paladin._

_How little they know sometimes, he thought._

"_Sir Dorbin." Aslan's deep voice was calm and measured, but it carried the unmistakable tone of reproach. "You are a good and true friend, but I would very much appreciate it if you would stop doubting the veracity of my friend Argo Bigfellow."_

_With that, Aslan turned his back on Sir Dorbin, walked over to the bar, eased his armored bulk upon one of the stools and ordered a wine from Jack the bartender._

_Paladins never lie, he thought to himself as the fruit-laced alcohol poured down his throat._

* * *

_Of course, he hadn't really fooled Sir Dorbin. Aslan hadn't intended to. He'd simply wanted to get the point across to the knight that Aslan, Elrohir and all concerned were all of one mind concerning Talat._

_Apparently the message had been received and understood. The very next day, Dorbin began teleporting the members of his party away to the Castle Chauv. A week later, they were all gone._

* * *

"Copper for your thoughts." Argo nudged his wife.

Caroline smiled back but merely shrugged and said nothing, choosing to make a show of eating her goose drumstick rather than replying to her husband. Lady Bigfellow's head was full of thoughts, but she didn't have the capacity to put them into words. Not yet.

She again pulled the tiny crumpled piece of parchment from her belt pouch and examined it again, although she had read the brief message it contained.

The day before, a small red bird (not a cardinal- Caroline did not recognize the type) had perched over the front door of the Brass Dragon and squawked loudly until Argo had approached it, whereupon it landed on the ranger's forearm and presented its leg, which had a small piece of parchment strapped to it.

_Back in the Welkwood. Near Fax. Heard Alabin lost Dak's castle to creditors. Had to vacate; was last seen heading north. Wainold._

The druid hadn't bothered to date his note and Caroline had no idea how long it had taken the bird to fly the three hundred or so miles. A week? Two?

It didn't seem of much consequence now, she thought. Scurvy John was dead- she wished she'd been there to see that- so the fate of his former ship's wizard wasn't even worth the effort to dwell on it. If he perished in the wilderness, it'd be no more than he deserved, she thought. Alabin was a cruel and savage man, no better than his brother- the late "Lord" Dak- or his former master John.

Caroline stole a covert glance at Laertes, who was devouring his own drumstick. Indeed, as Lady Bigfellow watched, the half-orc cracked the bone in half and began sucking out the marrow.

_This_ was where her true concern lay.

_Despite all their best hopes, the addition of a half-orc to the regular management of the Brass Dragon had not gone unnoticed. Although neither Wescene nor Sitdale had so much as batted an eyelash, an elven traveler who'd been sitting in the common room when Laertes had first walked into it had gotten up and left the inn to fetch his horse, stating coolly but politely that he'd lost his appetite._

_Then their thirteen year-old serving girl- the one who'd help save the barkeep's life- had failed to return to the inn when her shift came around. Investigation revealed that the girl's mother had, over the girl's protests, forbidden her to work at the Brass Dragon anymore. Even worse, a visit to the Willip laborers guild found no one was seemingly available to replace her. "Safety regulations," the officious clerk had sniffed at Argo. Caroline had thought her husband was going to choke the man on the spot without a word but the big ranger had simply spun and walked out of the guildhall, his wife hustling to keep up._

_Argo had spread the word around the streets of Willip that the Brass Dragon was willing to hire and train anyone, even beggars, to act as servers, but as yet there had been no takers._

"_Guess it's you then, son," Argo had shrugged as he held an apron out to Laertes._

_The half-orc was outraged. _

"_What? Why am I being punithed for their prejudith? Thath not right!"_

_His hairy hand came out of his belt pouch clutching the obi of the courtier but a hand, slender but strong, grabbed it by the wrist._

"_No," Cygnus said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry Laertes, but if some wizard or priest should detect that sash as magical and realize its properties, we'd be bankrupt within a month. Without the trust of our customers, we're out of business."_

"_Let them earn your trutht!" Laertes had shouted back. The half-orc looked around and saw many sympathetic faces, but none that backed his view._

"_Fine," he groused, yanking his hand out of Cygnus' grip, shoving the obi back in the pouch, snatching the apron and storming off to the kitchen. His parting words tore a hole in Caroline's heart, even though she had not known the half-orc as long as the others._

"_I thought it might be different here."_

* * *

While everyone assisted to some degree, Caroline Bigfellow had been assigned as Laertes' primary combat trainer, much as she'd been with Tad. It was here where she'd learned another surprising thing about Laertes.

In every way, the half-orc was the ideal student. He was strong, smart, reliable, full of endurance, learned quickly, and an obedient, never-complaining pupil.

He just didn't seem to enjoy the idea of combat at all.

This floored Caroline. True, she hadn't known many half-orcs. There had been some back at the Lone Heath, but she'd never been close to any of them, but they'd all relished battle, seeking it out when they could and losing themselves in the joy, the release of combat.

Laertes tolerated it because it was a means to an end. That was all.

"_When can I put all this training to good use?" he'd ask constantly. "Why don't we try to find Nodyath before he comes for us? When are going north to the Horned Society? You people are in danger! Let's take the fight to our enemies first! Let me help! Let's do some good!"_

_It was a refrain she had heard many times before._

"_Elrohir," Caroline had announced as her team leader had been walking by one night on the way to his cabin._

_The ranger looked at her. "Yes, Caroline?"_

"_I think you've got a son you've never told us about."_

* * *

Wainold's letter had not been the only message the party had received. Not twenty feet away from Caroline Bigfellow, Lady Nesco Cynewine sat quietly and thought about the letter she had received. Its appearance had not been magical in any away. Delivered by a king's Mail Rider and dated almost six weeks ago, it had taken nearly three weeks to arrive.

_Dearest Sister;_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I wish those sentiments were common here in Ironstead but alas, such is not the case. Last night, we came under attack by horrid monsters that I later learned were called mephits. To me though, they seemed no less than denizens of The Pit. Composed of fire, earth and other elements, they flew over the walls and descended directly upon the jail. They slew the guards stationed there and one of them, which seemed no more substantial than a wisp of fog, nevertheless carried the prisoner Corvis up and back over the walls. Although we slew some of the fiends, we lost almost a dozen good men._

_It was as we were dealing with the aftermath of this terrible assault that the mercenaries who had earlier been accompanying the blue giant Agarth arrived here, looking much the worse themselves. They said that these mephit monsters had been summoned by a priest of the Scourge named Rashlot. They further stated they had come across this cleric in the forest as he conversed with another man he called Excel, apparently also a servant of Hextor (I must grit my teeth to even put that horrid name to ink!). Rashlot was telling this Excel of his plan to free Corvis in exchange for gaining the latter's aid in some foul plot, the details of which they were unable to overhear but must surely prove unsettling to anyone of virtue. Alas, the sellswords, who call themselves The Journeymen, arrived too late to warn us. They soon set off, accompanied by Golatunt (you remember him, Nesco- Gold Up Front?), determined to track down this foul villain. They left with our good wishes, but we could spare them no further aid beyond some mundane items, as orc ambushes and skirmishes continue to increase. For now, we hold our own, but I cannot help but wonder…_

_Ironically, the four Master Elementalists of Chendl had arrived two days prior to the attack to take charge of the steelsphere, which had been transported here via sled a week ago. Somehow, they managed to magick it away, but this meant they were not present when the mephits attacked. It is a tragedy, for they could have slain the monsters easily, but they seemed a surly lot, eager to be off. As per their reputation, they seemed most unhappy at having been forced out of the Royal Palace, even briefly. How your Aslan ever managed to persuade Karzalin to travel to the Pomarj, I'll never be able to fathom._

Nesco had paused. Stared at that two-word phrase for some time before continuing.

"Your Aslan…"

_And finally (I know you've been scanning this letter looking for this, Sis), I bring you news of our family. Joseph and Lencon are fine. The former has even won some praise in a recent action in which he, I and about six others battled orcs twice our number as they attempted to ambush and slay one of our hunting parties. Joseph certainly does not lack for bravery dear sister, but I must confess his lack of caution worries me. For his part, Joseph mumbles only about "regaining lost honor." I even hesitate to tell you this, Nesco, for I know the grief it will bring to your heart, but you have always told me to trust in honesty as its own virtue, and so I will. Know well that no other Cynewine holds this view. As an aside, a brief letter from Bretagne in Chendl tells me that Mother and Father are doing fine. Each in their own way, I suspect._

_I eagerly await return news from you, Sis. Send your reply to Ironstead. If I have been reassigned ere it reached here, I have left instructions for it to be forwarded. Take care._

_I remain your loving brother,_

_Grimdegn Cynewine_

* * *

_The others had quickly read the letter (in fact, Argo had even read it over Nesco's shoulder). Elrohir, looking grim, spoke first._

"_Talat. Rashlot wants Corvis' aid in tracking her down."_

"_I don't doubt that, Elrohir," Aslan had said. "But don't forget that long before this, Rashlot broke Chic out of prison as well, and Chic's primary enemy was us, not Talat."_

_The ranger stared at him._

"_You think Rashlot may be a link in that chain we talked about back in Chendl?"_

_If possible, Aslan's face looked even more severe than that of his friend._

"_Now that I'm finally looking for them, Elrohir, I see more and more connections the more and more I look. And all of them are bad."_

* * *

Zantac sighed with satisfaction and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. The Willip wizard looked over to where a new stone cabin stood, about fifty yards from the Bigfellow residence. It was slightly larger than that residence or the one where Aslan lived, but it needed to be. Three people were going to live there.

Nesco Cynewine, Laertes and a certain red-robed mage.

The interior walls and interior finishings were still being constructed. The cabin would be ready for occupancy in two day's time, the builder said.

Zantac smiled to himself and shook his head. _These_ were going to be some interesting living arrangements. He had thought that Cygnus would move out of their room at the inn and into the new cabin in order to be closer to Nesco, but that had not been the case.

He shrugged. _Maybe I was wrong about Ciggy_, he thought.

Then Zantac slowly looked down to the small brown leather pouch that hung beside his red salamander-skin spell component pouch. The pouch that held several small bone dice of varying shapes. Dice that were used in the game of gemsnatcher.

This pouch and the dice within had once belonged to Hengist, who had left it behind at the Brass Dragon when Aslan took him and the others back to Suderham. Sitdale had claimed possession of it upon their return, but when his party was returning to the lands of Baroness Chauv, he had handed it to Zantac.

Zantac thought of Hengist. A good man who had died for nothing more than a piece of glow-fungus. A piece of moss that at the time meant the difference between life and death for all of them.

They had lived. Hengist had died.

Zantac's fingers tightened on the pouch as he thought of the last time he had played a game of gemsnatcher. Several days ago.

_I wonder,_ the wizard thought, _if I'm wrong about everyone…_

* * *

_The atmosphere at Dialamen's in Willip was loud, smoky and uncouth, but not unfamiliar to Zantac. It was an occasional revelry spot for a number of the local mages. Zantac himself hadn't been back here since he had left the guild._

_Correction, he reminded himself. Since he had been thrown out of the guild for failing to recruit Cygnus._

_Zantac rolled the polyhedral dice idly back and forth across the wooden surface of the table when he heard the voice of the person whom he had come here to meet. That voice that never failed to affect him._

"_It's not nearly as much fun playing with yourself, Zantac."_

_Wearing a smile and flashing white teeth that seemed to cut through the pipe smoke like a sunrod, Aimee glided effortlessly among the people moving around the small tavern and gaming house. She wore a red dress with a relatively high cut for her, but it still clung to her body like spider silk._

_Aimee stopped beside the chair that sat across the table from Zantac. Her dark eyes bore into him while her smile became coy, even playful._

_Zantac stared blankly at her for a moment and then with a start, got up from his own chair, rounded the table and pulled Aimee's chair back for her. With an exaggerated gesture of gratitude, she seated herself as Zantac tried to pull his eyes away from staring down her front._

"_Chivalry is not dead," the female mage sighed. "I'm so glad."_

_Trembling now, Zantac lowered himself back into his own chair. "Shall I order us drinks?" he managed to ask._

_She nodded while bringing out her own gemsnatcher pouch. "Whatever you want. I trust you, Zantac."_

_That was a big fat lie, but he didn't really trust her either, so Zantac guessed that made them even._

_So why in Hades had he set up this meeting in the first place?_

* * *

_Zantac rolled his cube while The Succubus, ahead as usual, rolled her octahedron. They both sipped at their ales._

_Small talk, news of the Guild, had been exhausted. Aimee seemed more subdued now. Her hair, currently blonde, remained a constant hue._

_Sweating now, Zantac knew he had to get to the point. He wasn't even sure he'd have enough gold to pay Aimee if they played this game to the end._

"_I'd like to ask you something, Aimee," he said, hoping his voice sounded calmer to her ears than it did to his._

_She looked at him, her expression casual. "Mmm?"_

_By the gods, those lips!_

_He tried to focus on some part of his fellow mage that wasn't attractive, failed and settled for staring just over the top of her head._

_Somehow, he got the words out._

"_I want to know if you're working for the Emerald Serpent."_

_She flashed him a dazzling smile, and he knew then she'd already anticipated his question._

"_Why, Zantac," she purred. "Why on Oerth would you think that?"_

_Her hair slowly turned green as she spoke, but Zantac ignored that distraction. "I could give you a list of the evidence I've gathered, but I'm sure you'd have some valid-sounding explanation for all of it. Do you want me to begin anyway?"_

_Aimee's smile remained on her face but drained from her eyes._

"_One game at a time, Zantac," she said quietly. "One game at a time."_

_She pointed at her die. It showed one pip._

_Zantac sighed as he picked up his cube while Aimee switched to her ten-sided die._

_They both rolled. Sipped._

"_Just because I may know things, Zantac," Aimee abruptly said, "doesn't make me complicit to them, or even sympathetic. Knowledge is just like arcana."_

_She gazed at him, her face neutral now._

"_Worth a lot to the right people."_

_For an instant, Zantac felt like he was holding onto the roper filament again, dangling over a dark chasm. So easy to make the wrong move. So easy to just let go.  
_

_He looked at the Succubus again, and suddenly Zantac thought it was Marisee staring at him. The younger sister Aimee had never had. Then it was Shayla._

_Then Aimee's hair turned a deep chestnut brown, and her eyes turned pink…_

"_No!"_

_He knew it hadn't really happened. He knew it was all in his mind, but he could feel himself teetering anyway, his brain feeling like it was on fire. He knew he had jumped to his feet, although he didn't remember doing it. Zantac kept his right hand clamped over his tightly-shut eyes while his left hand gripped the back of his chair for support._

"_Are you all right, Zantac?" he heard Aimee's voice._

_She's a good actress, the wizard thought to himself. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was really concerned about me._

_Zantac nodded and removed his hand from his face. He had to will himself to open his eyes._

"_I'm tired," he found himself saying to The Succubus, even as he stared down at the dice. "I'm tired of games and I'm tired of fear and I'm tired of worrying about the lives of Cygnus and the others. They're all good people, Aimee, and they don't deserve this. The Emerald Serpent brings nothing but woe and misery to everyone around them and they need to be destroyed down to the last member. And I really hope that what you're saying is true Aimee, because I'd hate to think that, for all your posturing, that'd you really align yourselves with such monsters."_

_The Willip wizard sat back down again, took a deep breath, and forced himself to look back at Aimee again, whose hair had returned to its normal dark brown. At that woman who might be the most beautiful sight on Oerth if there weren't so much going on behind those dark brown eyes._

_Aimee shook her head. Now there was a sad little grin on that heart-shaped face._

"_I never figured you as the hero type, Zantac."_

"_Makes two of us," he replied. "But things change. Any first-tier transmuter can tell you that."_

_They rolled their dice and sipped their ales, but when Zantac looked up again, Aimee's eyes were bearing down on him._

_No smile now._

"_And if I am allied with the Serpent, Zantac? Will you kill me as well?"_

"_Probably not," he heard himself say, the words spilling out before he knew it. "I'm sure you'd kill me first. Zelhile always says I'm too slow on the draw. But The Hells take me if I'm not going to go down casting."_

_The Succubus took a deep breath and tilted her head, regarding her former Guild partner._

_Then she suddenly stood up, made a gesture with one hand and began gathering her dice with the other, her words coming out in a rush. "I'm not with the Emerald Serpent, Zantac. Of course if I am, I'm lying, so I suppose that doesn't help you very much. However, unlike you I'm not the heroic type, so I have no intention of crossing them. Forgive me, but I have other business to attend to. Hopefully, we can continue our game another time."_

_Zantac said nothing. All he could do was wonder if Aimee was rushing off to tell the Emerald Serpent all about this conversation._

_Aimee drained her drink and headed towards the door. After two steps though, she stopped and turned around._

"_Do you remember that night in your chambers, Zantac?"_

_He had to take a deep breath, although all the smoke he inhaled did nothing to calm his nerves. "First or second?" he eventually managed._

"_Second," she replied. "When you wouldn't have me, all to protect that silly little witch's formula? She didn't even like you, you know."_

"_Do you?"_

_She didn't answer, although her eyes dropped down to the floor. For a moment, the legendary Succubus seemed smaller, frailer. Almost trembling._

_The she looked up again. That sad little grin was back._

"_I treated you like dirt after that, but you never gave in. All for principle. I think you had that little noble seed in you even back then, Zantac."_

_No smile again._

"_Unless someone does their work for them and kills you first, the Emerald Serpent will come for you, Zantac. For all of you. You need to be prepared. Find out where the real enemy lies."_

_And then Aimee's hair changed color again. Not to black or blonde or scarlet. Not even to green._

_It turned a dark grey._

_And then Aimee turned and, her own self again, sashayed seductively out of Dialamen's, turning mens' heads toward her as surely as if they had been attached to her by strings. Her hair had turned a shade of red to compliment her dress before she crossed over the threshold and back out onto the street._

_Zantac looked back down at the table. Aimee's prestidigitation cantrip had turned all his dice to show one pip facing up._

_He was a winner._

* * *

Cygnus sat, turning the flask of thick green glass over and over in his hands. The tall mage was oblivious to all around him, even to Grock and Dudraug polishing off the mage's portion of roast goose that he'd neglected to eat.

_This bottle shouldn't exist_, Cygnus thought. _I destroyed it. I know I did. It was in the chest and I destroyed the chest. Fireballed it. I remember doing it!_

But then, he realized with a heavy sigh, considering the nature of this flask and what might be contained within it, his own recollections might be less valuable- or reliable- than he had thought them to be.

Everything had been fine- or at least normal- until yesterday. Cygnus had been withdrawn for the most part since their return to the inn two months ago. Aslan had, on his request, taken him to see Thorin at Hidden Jewel, and he'd briefed his son on the latest developments, as well as his plans for the two of them to go away together after Nodyath had been dealt with.

"_But," Thorin had argued, "why would we have to leave after you kill Nodyath? Isn't Nodyath the reason me and Barahir have been here all year anyway?"_

"_Originally, yes," his father agreed. "But Kar-Vermin is a thousand times more powerful than Nodyath. If the Hierarchs do manage to return him somehow, our lives wouldn't be worth a copper. The way I reason it, if I help the others out against Nodyath, they won't be so upset when we leave afterwards."_

"_But," Thorin said again. It seemed to the wizard to be his son's favorite word. "Couldn't you just stop the Hierarchs from performing that Ritual in the first place?"_

"_Impossible. Far too dangerous."_

"_But-"_

"_That's it!" Cygnus roared. "End of discussion!"_

_He'd cut short his visit after that._

And then yesterday, it had happened. Cygnus and the others had been present when Elrohir informed the inn's staff that, once again, their home was likely to come under attack soon. If they had sufficient warning ahead of time, they'd send the staff to Willip until it was all over. If not, the staff would hide in their quarters below ground.

It was less than five minutes after that when the young stableboy had come running up just as Cygnus was climbing the stairs to his room.

"_Master Cygnus, sir?"_

_He stopped. "Yes?"_

_The boy held out a flask composed of a green substance, either thick glass or a crystal, possibly quartz. It was about twice the size of a potion flask._

_Cygnus gaped, open-mouthed._

_And then he turned to glare at the stableboy._

_A hot rage flashed over him._

"_Where did you get this?" he bellowed._

_Patrons in the common room below, as well as Jack the barkeep, lanced up at them._

"_I-"the boy stammered, but Cygnus grabbed the youth by the shoulders and shook him so hard the child nearly fell down the stairs._

"_You stole this out of the chest before I destroyed it, didn't you?" he accused. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this can be? What else did you steal from the chest? Answer me!"_

"_Master Cygnus!" the boy squealed. "I- I didn't! I'd never! You locked the chest yourself before you destroyed it! You told me you did!"_

"_Then where did you get this?" Cygnus shot back._

"_It," the boy began, unable to look Cygnus in the eye now. "It was given to me, sir!"_

"_Liar!" The wizard slapped the youth across the face, hard enough to slam him into the back wall. The mage's other hand dug into the boy's shoulder, keeping him upright. "Do you have any idea how transparent your lies sound? Who could have gotten this flask out of the chest? Who gave it to you? Answer me that!"_

_The boy gulped and swallowed hard. The tears that rolled down his dirty cheeks may have been from either pain or fear, but Cygnus decided they were from shame._

"_You did, Cygnus sir," the stableboy croaked out. "You gave it to me and told me to hide it and not to speak of it to anyone, and then to give it back to you when you said that you'd soon be off to face Nodyath."_

"_Then why don't I remember any of this?" Cygnus ground it, clamping down on the boy's shoulder so hard he could feel the bone under his fingers._

"_You said you wouldn't remember, Master Cygnus sir," the youth replied softly, more tears trickling down. "You said you wouldn't."_

_Cygnus gasped and let go of the stableboy, who just stood with him on the staircase, rubbing his shoulder and wincing. Seeing the mage's eyes turn to the flask, he handed it out to him._

_The mage took the flask and tried to peer inside its translucent surface. It looked like there was some very viscous, smoky liquid moving around inside._

_It couldn't be. But it was. Cygnus knew what this flask was, even if he'd never told the others about it. _

_He'd finally done it, the tall wizard realized. He'd finally taken his habit of keeping secrets and acting unilaterally to the final extreme._

_Cygnus had acted. He'd done something and erased his own knowledge of the event, entrusting only this young boy to bring it back at the appropriate time._

_And that meant, Cygnus now realized with a horrible, sickening lurch in his stomach, that he'd not only put this boy's life in danger, he'd done it without the child's knowledge or consent._

_He gazed at the stableboy. Only a few years older than Thorin._

_Cygnus wondered, not for the first time, just what kind of a father he really was._

_What kind of a human being._

_The boy's cheek was already blotchy red where Cygnus had struck it. Tiny capillaries broken under the skin._

_Cygnus slowly reached out his hand, his long fingers trembling. Trying not flinch, the youth just stood there and trembled. He gently laid his hand on top of the boy's hair and gave it a gentle tousle, like he used to do with Thorin._

"_I'm sorry, boy," Cygnus whispered. "I've done a terrible thing. Please forgive me."_

"_That's all right, sir," the stableboy replied. A shaky smile appeared on his freckled face._

"_You said you'd say that, as well."_

* * *

And so now, a day later, Cygnus continued to stare at the magic item called a _thought bottle_, one of several items the party had scavenged from the dungeons of Venom, back on his home world of Aarde.

He got to his feet and went back to his room, pausing for a moment on the staircase where that terrible scene had taken place yesterday.

Once there, he sat down in his chair and stared intently at the bottle. It had no stopper, but the contents remained inside, even when Cygnus turned it upside-down.

Almost hidden within the rough exterior of the bottle' surface were what looked like several scratches. They were more than that, though. Cygnus could read them.

He knew the language of the Infernal.

"Well," Cygnus said aloud, somewhat startled by the sound of his own voice, "let's see just how ruthless a son-of-a-bitch I am, shall we?"

"Master," he murmured in the fiendish tongue as he pressed the opening of the thought bottle against his forehead. At the utterance of the bottle's command word, what was inside poured out against Cygnus' forehead.

And through.


	210. Cygnus' Thoughts

_Flond had cast his spells and left the room. Cygnus slowly trod over to his bed, removed his robes and trousers, and lay down. He pulled the blankets up over his head. Everything seemed so unreal, so… devoid of feeling. Even if they were to finally catch and kill Nodyath, Cygnus knew he would find no joy in it anymore. He knew his friends back in Highport were counting on him. His son was counting on him. _

"_I wish you were here, Hyzenthlay," Cygnus whispered. He rolled over on his side and hugged the goose down pillow tightly to his chest. _

"_Is this a sign, All-Father?" Cygnus whispered. "Have I been too prideful, too manipulative? Would you have me change? Or not? What would you have me do? Tell me, and I shall do it. All that I have done, all that I have planned, has come to naught. Please, Lord Odin. Guide me."_

_No voice answered back._

_A new thought now came to Cygnus. Having kidnapped Tad, Nodyath would be sure to read his mind. He might well learn about the contents of the chest. If he were to gain them…_

_No. That could not be allowed to happen. Cygnus didn't know whether his friends would agree or not, but he couldn't take that chance. In fact, in a matter of this importance, he couldn't trust anyone._

_Not even himself._

_Moving as silently as possible, the mage got up, donned his clothing again, left his room and descended the stairs._

* * *

_None of the people or staff in the common room took any notice of the mage. Of Sir Dorbin's party, only Aiclesis was still present. The elf sat at the bar, sullenly downing an ale. He glanced up at Cygnus, who had been about to pass him by without comment on his way towards the Tall Tales Room, but then stopped, as if suddenly struck by an idea. _

_"Aiclesis?" the mage asked in elven._

"_I speak the Common tongue just fine, Cygnus," the thief scowled at him. "Even when drunk, which I hope to be shortly. You don't need to speak elven."_

_"Actually, yes I do," replied Cygnus. "I don't want anyone around us to be able to understand us. Can you come with me to the Tall Tales Room, please?"_

_Despite himself, the elf couldn't help but feel curiosity, which in his case had long been his constant companion. He sighed, nodded and slipped off his bar stool to follow the wizard._

* * *

_Aiclesis watched as Cygnus opened the wooden chest with his key and then began rummaging through it, eventually extracting two items; a large iron flask and a small vial composed of some kind of green glass or crystal. He slipped both flask and bottle into a pocket in his robes, tossed the key inside the chest and locked it again._

"_Hey!" exclaimed Aiclesis. "Why did you do that? Now you won't be able to-"_

_But Cygnus interrupted him with a staying hand. "I need to destroy this chest, Aiclesis. Help me carry it outside where I can fireball it. Out a ways, past Argo's cabin."_

_Aiclesis stared at the magic-user, his forest green eyes narrowing._

"_You're strong enough to carry this chest by yourself, Cygnus. I've seen you. There must be something else you want from me."_

"_As a matter of fact there is. Grab hold of that end and let's go. And not a word to anyone about what I took out of the chest, Aiclesis. Not to anyone. Ever."_

* * *

_The sound and smoke from the fireball had not yet died away when Sir Dorbin and the others came rushing out of Flond's shelterdome, weapons drawn. Cygnus explained to them that he had decided to destroy the chest, along with all the magic items inside, to prevent Nodyath from obtaining them, much as he had attempted with the gate scroll._

_When the knight and the others had departed again, Cygnus looked over to the rogue and held out the green vial to him. "Aiclesis, this is very important. I have to go back to Highport tomorrow with Aslan, but sometime in the future, maybe the very near future, Nodyath is going to come back here. When he does, if I'm here I want you to give this bottle back to me. Don't mention it until then, because I won't have the faintest idea what you'll be talking about. Do you understand?"_

_Aiclesis nodded slowly as comprehension filled him. "A thought bottle, eh? Torlina's told me about them."_

_The Aardian wizard nodded. "Another of Venom's little trinkets."_

"_No wonder there wasn't any good swag in those dungeons," the elf groused. "You swiped it all first." He made no move to make the vial. "Despite everything that we learned today, Cygnus," he said slowly. "About Tovag Baragu and thirty generations passing, I'm still going to try and get back to home to Aarde. We have no way of knowing when Nodyath will make his move. What if I'm not here when he does?"_

_Cygnus considered that. "Hmm, you're right, Aiclesis." The tall mage then turned to look towards the Brass Dragon. "Change of plan, then. As long as you're here, you make damn sure that our stableboy comes to no harm."_

_An angry look flashed over Aiclesis' face. "What, I failed to protect one child, so you want to make sure I don't fail again? Why, you-"_

"_Aiclesis!" Cygnus, who had started to walk towards Aslan's cabin, spun around to face him again. "I'm going to give him the bottle. I'm going to hide that iron flask and then erase my memory of it. Of all of this. That stableboy's going to be the only person besides you who knows about the bottle. Nodyath can read our minds all he likes with that damn helm of his. He won't know that the flask still exists."_

"_What's in the flask?"_

"_What may be our only hope of defeating Nodyath, perhaps."_

_Aiclesis shook his head. "You're still putting that boy at risk, Cygnus. Nodyath will be suspicious if he uncovers his memory of you giving him that bottle."_

"_I need someone who's always here," Cygnus replied stubbornly. "Our staff changes rapidly, but that boy lives here full-time. He's here even when we're not. I doubt Nodyath will waste time on our staff, anyway. It's us he wants. Me in particular," he finished, grimacing as he remembered Nodyath's earlier assault upon him._

"_I'll do what I can," replied Aiclesis, "and now I know why you choose me out of all of Dorbin's band. I'll admit I've got less scruples than the others, but your plan is still-"_

"_Yeah," Cygnus cut across him. "Manipulative and selfish. I'm sure there's a special place set aside for me in Niflheim."_

* * *

"_Do you understand?" Cygnus repeated to the wide-eyed stableboy, his voice a whisper so as not to awaken Perlial or White Lightning. "As soon as I put my memories in this bottle, I won't remember any of this. You have to take this and hide it, and only return it to me when Nodyath is about to attack!"_

"_Yes, Master Cygnus," the boy replied quietly. He looked at the bottle as if it were a viper, but then squared his shoulders. "I won't fail you."_

"_Good boy." The wizard straightened up and held the bottle up close to his face. He then glanced back down at the youth and his features softened._

"_If I'm cross or rude to you in any way when you come to me," the tall mage said softly, "I apologize, boy. Just make sure you make me take this bottle back."_

_The boy gulped but answered in a squeaky voice. "Yes, sir."_

_Cygnus then uttered something the boy did not understand and tipped the bottle to his forehead. The stableboy gasped as he saw what looked like a thin vapor pour out of Cygnus' forehead and into the flask._

_The wizard's face suddenly went blank and he swayed on the spot. The bottle fell from his fingers but the boy caught it and stood staring at his employer._

* * *

_What the-_

_Cygnus glanced around him in confusion. He was in the Brass Dragon's stables! How in the Nine Hells had he come to be here? The last thing he remembered was lying on his cot, praying to Lord Odin._

_Their stableboy was bending over some straw, but now he straightened up and looked at the mage. "Master Cygnus?" he asked. "Are you all right? You seemed to be sleepwalking, sir, but I dared not awaken you."_

_Cygnus frowned. He hadn't sleepwalked since he was a lad of no more than ten or eleven, no more than this boy's age. Still, here he was, with no memory of walking here, so he must have done so._

_He gave a brief nod at the boy and strode out of the stables, heading around to the front of the inn. Sir Menn, holding a bottle of wine, was coming out as he reached the doors. The knight gave a guilty start._

"_Just to help me sleep!" he protested, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Please don't do to me what you did to that chest of yours!"_

_Menn's laugh was that of a drunkard, devoid of real mirth. With a slight stagger, the knight moved off towards the shelterdome while Cygnus stared after him in astonishment._

_A faint whiff of burnt wood reached his nostrils. The mage turned to see the barest hint of smoke rising from a point a hundred yards off or so._

_Had he fireballed their chest? It was something he had considered doing, to keep the treasures within out of Nodyath's hands, but he had no memory of doing so._

_Was it possible to cast a spell in one's sleep?_

_Cygnus felt exhausted, drained. He was too tired to deal with this now, and he needed to get back to bed. His friends were still back in Highport; still in terrible danger._

_He slowly ascended the stairs and returned to his room._

* * *

**13****h**** Day of Ready'reat, 565 CY**

**The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy**

_Well, _Cygnus thought. _Now I know._

The mage sat there for a while, rubbing his forehead with his hand. Then he looked up, seeming to stare into empty space for a minute or so.

Then he rose to his feet, stretched and went downstairs to fetch a spade.

* * *

**HYZENTHLAY**

**Beloved of Cygnus**

**From Death, Life**

Cygnus stared at the tombstone that marked the memory of his wife, if not her actual body. He did not cry outwardly; his eyes felt too dry and sore for tears. But he could feel the sorrow welling up anew within him. A liquid sadness that felt like it could- and perhaps would- one day rise up and drown him from within.

He gripped the spade tightly and began digging at a spot just past where Aslan's dog Mirage lay buried.

He didn't know how long he'd been digging before he realized it had started snowing.

Large white flakes drifted lazily downward and dotted the hard soil and dying grasses underfoot. There was no wind. It was almost unnaturally silent.

Cygnus continued to dig. The ground was cold enough for a thin layer of permafrost to have formed, but Cygnus' wiry frame threw his strength into every stroke of the shovel, down and away, down and away.

And then he heard the _clink_ of metal striking metal.

* * *

Cygnus held the iron flask in his hand, his expression grim.

Not only did the flask itself contain a great evil, but the wizard had to wonder again just how far he had one to safeguard that evil. Trusts abused, friends deceived. Again and again.

An image of Aiclesis. The rogue had died in a _fireball._ The same spell which Cygnus had used to destroy the chest had ended the thief's life. He had taken Cygnus' secret to the grave.

_How many will take your secrets to their grave, Cygnus? How many will your secrets carry there?_

He tried to shake the bitter thought. Looked up into the grey sky, growing darker now. Feeling more than seeing the snowflakes land upon his face. Their coolness was refreshing. He let himself bask in the moment, trying to let the snow cover the thoughts of his own treachery like a white tarp over a shallow grave.

The voice of Aslan coming up towards him from behind jolted him back to reality.

"Cygnus," the paladin was saying. "A scout just arrived from the Earldom of Farlyow. I couldn't get specifics of individuals, but a mounted force at least two dozen strong is heading this way. They might be here as soon as tomorrow. We need to be making-"

Aslan stopped. Cygnus had swung around to face him, forgetting all about the flask in his hand.

The paladin stared at it for what seemed to Cygnus to be a very long time. When he looked up at the magic-user, Aslan's face seemed to hold the same feeling of sadness that Cygnus had on staring at Hyzenthlay's tombstone. The same sense of mourning.

"Cygnus," he whispered, and then stopped, apparently unable to say more.

The mage stepped up and squeezed the paladin's shoulder. "Come on, Aslan," he said, trying desperately to sound as if everything was all right. "We need to get ready."

Aslan bit his lip and then shrugged wearily.

"Yeah," the paladin said. "We need to get ready. You never know when or from where the forces of evil will strike next."


	211. The Devil And The Third Pegasus

**14****h**** Day of Ready'reat, 565 CY**

**The Barony of Willip, Furyondy**

**(About 1 Mile NW of the Brass Dragon Inn)**

The landscape had already turned white, but the snow continued to fall.

Nearly a foot of snow lay beneath them, but the sure hooves of seven horses and two pegasi plowed through without difficulty. Elrohir shifted his weight on White Lightning, trying to keep his legs from going numb. He held her reins with one hand, but that was little more than a formality. His faithful steed knew their course as well as he did. As far as the ranger could tell, they were still on the road that led northwest to Gorsend, but there were no tracks visible other than the ones they left behind them. The last landmark they had seen was the old farmhouse, now perhaps half a mile back.

To his left, Aslan sat astride Perlial. The paladin shifted his gaze constantly, scanning for the enemy, but was disinclined to make conversation, even with his own horse.

Elrohir knew the reason. Aslan was quietly furious at Cygnus for having lied to them about destroying the _iron flask. _The mage had explained the whole story, including the use of the _thought bottle._ Technically, the tall wizard explained, that meant he hadn't lied to them. He really had no memory of saving the flask.

Oddly, no one else in the party besides he and Aslan seemed to mind this to any great deal. As far as they were concerned, they now had an extra, powerful weapon at their disposal. This fact galled at the ranger even more than Cygnus' actual deception. Yet another example of their failure to be a real team- to be more than the sum of their parts.

Another example of his failed leadership.

Just to hear his own voice, Elrohir addressed the paladin again.

"It might work out to our advantage nonetheless, Aslan. The best case would be that the devil in the flask is a lesser devil of some kind. Strong enough to do great harm and wound, if not kill, our adversaries. And if they're not able to slay it, it may be weakened enough afterwards that we can finish the job."

Aslan shook his head, not looking at Elrohir as he spoke. "Venom was Kar-Vermin's counterpart, Elrohir. That would make him an archmage of the highest order. Someone that powerful would have no use in imprisoning such a weak servant in that flask. It could be put to better use." He paused. "Whatever fiend is in there could well be capable of killing us all."

Now the paladin turned to face his friend. "Using evil to fight evil _is_ evil, Elrohir, no matter what Cygnus- or anybody else- says."

With that, he looked past Elrohir to the ranger's right. Elrohir knew Argo, atop Gylandir, had probably heard that remark. Knowing Bigfellow, Elrohir guessed his fellow ranger was probably making a face at the paladin now, but he didn't turn to confirm that.

Elrohir took a deep breath to try and steady himself, although he quickly wished he hadn't as the freezing air flooded his lungs. Not able to counter Aslan's proclamation, he turned to look behind him again.

Laertes and Zantac were riding light warhorses that they had previously purchased in Willip. The Willip wizard, easily the least experienced horseman among them, had insisted on taking one, saying it would be less likely to throw him in battle. Perlial had assured him that she had spoken to all the horses in their party about this, but Zantac would not be assuaged.

Their combined funds had once again run out. They had managed to purchase heavy horses, reputedly of Zeif stock, for Cygnus, Tojo, and Nesco, with the last of their gold stores. Elrohir had a sudden, distasteful vision of himself leaning over the bodies of Nodyath and his outlaw band, stripping them of all their valuables. Both Wainold and Sir Corvis had used different words to express the same sentiment- that Elrohir and his like were nothing more than corpse robbers, clothing themselves in noble sentiments to hide their disreputable deeds.

Argo's voice jolted Elrohir out of his thoughts.

"I wish Grock were here. He's been aching to sink his teeth into something other than a rabbit for a while. I can tell."

"You don't think I wanted Dudraug along?" Elrohir asked. "Our dogs would get bogged down in snow this deep. Easy targets for arrows."

"I guess," Bigfellow sighed, reaching back to scratch an itch on Gylandir's rump that the pegasus' flicking tail had apparently not been able to quell. The horse flapped its wings in appreciation, and then folded them up again.

"Nesco?" That was Caroline, currently astride Sequester, to the right and slightly behind her husband. "Are you sure that _sending_ from Monsrek said nothing else?"

Lady Cynewine sighed and shook her head. She'd been asked this question before, and Elrohir knew the noble-born ranger wasn't so much exasperated with Lady Bigfellow as she was with the brevity of the magical message she'd received from the priest of Trithereon less than an hour ago.

_Dorbin says the attack has begun._

Zantac shook his head. "You can get four times as many words in a _sending_," he said, repeating the same point that his fellow mage already had. "You'd think Dorbin might have given Monsrek a clue as to how many bandits were attacking, or whether Nodyath or his followers were with them."

"He was probably responding to a first report," Aslan responded. "Possibly from villagers on the outskirts of his fief. He didn't have any specifics, and just assumed we'd want the earliest warning possible. I agree with Dorbin that our enemies are heading towards us right now. Best to meet them in the open, far away from the Brass Dragon."

"But you don't agree him about Talat," Elrohir said, giving his friend a tight smile.

Aslan gave a weary shrug, as if the answer to that was self-evident.

"Which is probably why he had Monsrek send the message to Nesco instead of any of you three," Cygnus spoke up, indicating Aslan, Elrohir and Argo with a sweeping gesture. "I don't think Sir Dorbin is as fond of us as he used to be."

Her expression turned grim, her eyes looking down. "A lot of people aren't."

"Dorbin still wouldn't betray us," Aslan insisted. "or even put us at greater risk. He omitted nothing, I'm sure."

"Today is Thorin's birthday."

Everyone, even Laertes, turned to look at Cygnus, who for a moment seemed unaware of any of them. Then he blinked, seemed to come around, and regarded them all with a rare sheepish smile.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I just remembered that."

"It's okay, Cygnus," Elrohir gave a reassuring smile to the wizard before facing front again. He knew how much power- how much hidden meaning was contained in those few words, and how it wasn't very surprising that Cygnus had remembered this date at all.

_Today is Thorin's birthday._

_Two years ago on this date, my son was born, aging six years in an instant._

_Two years ago on this date, my wife died horribly before my very eyes._

_Two years ago on this date, six of us saw a god with our own eyes._

For a while there was only the sound of the horses' feet. Elrohir again looked at the rest of his party. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of envy as he saw Cygnus and Zantac riding along; completely inured to the cold around them thanks to spells they had cast on themselves that allowed them to endure the elements without discomfort. They had offered them to everyone else, but the opinion of the group had been unanimous that their magical contingent needed as much room as possible for battle spells. So the rest of them shivered and endured. At least there was no wind, and it was still daytime, hidden as the sun was behind thick clouds.

Laertes gave a deep sigh. Looking at the half-orc, Elrohir saw that the youth was gripping his reins so hard even his grey knuckles were turning pale. Although Laertes had been as vocal in his support to meet their attackers head-on as any of them, and had insisted on coming along, it now occurred to Elrohir that. For all his toughness, this was probably Laertes' first time in real battle.

Lady Cynewine, riding alongside Laertes, seemed to have the same idea. She leaned over to place a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll be fine, Laertes," she told him. "Remember, we're here to aid you, should you need it. Don't hesitate to call out. We do it all the time." Her face lit up with a momentary smile. "Do the best you can. Try not to control everything that's happening on the battlefield. You can't. None of us can. Battle is never a certain thing."

"Yes," Aslan spoke up, seemingly to Elrohir, as if the words were forced out of him. "Just as Cygnus isn't certain he can recall whatever monster he pulls out of that flask back into it."

Cygnus' lips tightened, but he made no response.

"We're heading into certain doom," Argo announced cheerfully. "Doesn't that count?"

"Argo," Nesco chided him.

Aslan rounded on Bigfellow. "Can't you ever be serious, Argo?"

The big ranger shrugged. "I tried it once. Everybody laughed."

"In any case," Nesco continued. "I think-"

Tojo suddenly held up his hand, stopping his horse. Acting as one, the rest of the party did likewise.

"Enemy is ahead!" the samurai announced.

Elrohir guessed, as did the others, that if they waited, there would be no need for Tojo to explain himself, and he was correct. To their ears soon came the sound of horses- lots of them- and of indistinct shouting, carried to them across the snow.

"How far?" Zantac, closest to Tojo, asked.

The samurai squinted, his hand over his eyes to shield them from the snow.

"Two hundred fifty feet, perhaps three hundred. Cannot be sure, but I think they have stopped."

"Numbers?" Elrohir asked.

Tojo peered for a moment further, and then shook his head. "Too far to be sure. Severar dozen, at reast. Bereive they are dismounting."

"Damn it," Aslan said sharply. "They know we're here."

"But how?" Laertes looked bewildered. "We haven't been making that much-"

"Divination magic," Cygnus interrupted, his expression dour. "It wouldn't be hard."

"Which means either the priest or the wizard- or both- is with them," Zantac added.

"Don't worry. I'll know them if I see them," Caroline said, her voice grim as she readied her longbow.

"Why are they dithmounting if they know we're here?" asked Laertes.

"They've acquired their horses through banditry," Elrohir explained. "Most of them wouldn't be mounts trained for battle."

As if to illustrate the point, Tojo swung off his horse to the ground and readied his composite bow. After a moment, Cygnus and Nesco did the same.

"All right," said Aslan. "Remember our battle plan. We-"

"To the Hells with your battle plan!" Argo called out suddenly. The big ranger suddenly dismounted Gylandir, although Elrohir didn't know why. Their pegasi were no stranger to battle, even if it had been a while.

Aslan no longer made any attempt to hide his anger. "Damn you, Bigfellow! You'll _not_ be endangering us with your impulsive ideas! Even you agreed back at the inn that-"

"Use that thick skull of yours for something other than holding your helm up!" Argo retorted, with more irritation than the big ranger usually displayed, even under stress. "I would have agreed back at the inn to anything you said. Didn't it occur to you that Nodyath might have been- might _still_ be- spying on us, and using that accursed _helm of telepathy_?"

"I've been scanning," Aslan scoffed. "I would have known."

"You have more faith than I do," Argo shot back. "You still might have missed him, or perhaps they can cover up his aura with magic. Don't know, don't care. The thing to do know is hit them with what they don't expect."

"Meaning what?" Elrohir asked, his arms folded across his chest. He too was chafing at Bigfellow's sudden call for chaos, although in his case he felt- again- that his leadership was being questioned, as opposed to Aslan's eternal annoyance at the big ranger.

"They'll be expecting me and Caroline to come flying in on our pegasi, relying on the snow for concealment, and start strafing them from above, right?"

Elrohir and Aslan both nodded. "And?" the latter added.

Argo smiled.

"So we'll do that- but we'll lead with our third pegasus."

"_What_ third pegasus?" asked Elrohir, completely baffled.

Argo said nothing, but merely smiled at Aslan. Elrohir saw the paladin's features brighten momentarily in comprehension, and then his features sagged in resignation.

Slowly, Aslan dismounted from Perlial.

"Aslan!" his horse cried out, but the paladin placed his gauntleted hand on the mare's neck.

"It is best for all us this way," he said softly. "Argo has all the tact of a troll, but what he says is true. Do not despair. You shall be in the thick of battle- and we will be reunited before it ends."

He looked around. "I need someone to ride Perlial into battle. Someone I can trust with her life."

The paladin looked around, and caught the eyes of the person he had hoped.

"I would be honored, Aslan." Nesco's voice sounded small and tinny to her ears. "If she will have me."

Perlial turned to look at her.

"I am yours to command, Lady Cynewine," the mare said in her odd accent. "By my master's wishes…"

The horse tossed her mane in what Nesco recognized was Perlial's version of a smile.

"… and by my own."

Smiling, Nesco climbed aboard and readied her composite bow.

Caroline, not looking happy at all at this latest turn of events, gestured to the now rider-less Gylandir.

"Who rides him?"

Argo, now walking ahead of everyone else with Aslan, turned around to eye the possibilities, but it was the paladin who spoke first.

"How about it, Cygnus?" he asked with a tight smile. "At least this time, you'll have a saddle to work with."

The magic-user considered for a moment and then sighed.

"On foot in deep snow, or atop a target with wings," he grumbled. "Who said no choice was a good choice?"

But he mounted Gylandir, who accepted the mage with a confirming nod.

After Cygnus had taken the reins and adjusted himself to the exotic saddle the pegasus wore, he looked around- to find everyone staring at him.

He knew at once.

"Well," he said, swallowing hard, "I guess this is it."

As he said those words, Aslan used his Talent, and an instant later, a third pegasus stood among them.

Argo quickly mounted Aslan- Cygnus couldn't help but smile at the image- but that was quickly cancelled out by a more sobering thought. Aslan had no saddle. It wouldn't require a _returning spear_ such as one Rezshk had possessed to knock Argo out of the sky- and Cygnus knew neither he nor Zantac currently had a _feather fall_ spell memorized.

_Nothing for it_, the wizard realized. He nudged Gylandir closer to Aslan and Argo, so that they might benefit from the intangible yet real aura of courage that the paladin always seemed to radiate, even when in a polymorphed form. Cygnus knew the terrifying fear that devils- if it was indeed a devil he was about to loose- often generated.

The mage reached down to a belt pouch that contained only one item, and with some difficulty, extracted the item.

The iron flask seemed warmer in his hand than it had an hour previously, despite being outside in the cold for an hour.

_Does it know?_ Cygnus wondered. _Does it know it's about to be freed? Is Aslan right? Am I about to do a terrible thing- something which will cause more woe than weal?_

Cygnus stared at the runes, inlaid with silver, which encircled the flask; at the brass plug that sealed it, also engraved with tiny glyphs.

_I'll kill it if I have to,_ Cygnus decided. _If our enemies don't destroy it and I can't get it back in the flask, I'll destroy it._

The thought came to him that this was a rather manipulative, if not outright wicked, course of action to take. Using a summoned servant, only to destroy it afterwards.

Could such an act ever be construed as evil, even if the servant in question was an embodiment of evil itself?

Cygnus glanced over at Aslan. He could read no expression in the pegasus' eyes, but it was watching him.

_Lord Odin, Father of Victory,_ Cygnus prayed. _Protect us._

He grasped the stopper, twisted it until it began to turn and then pulled it out.

The mage recoiled. A stream of thick, greasy black smoke shot forth from the flask as if its contents had been under pressure. It carried a horrible stench of sulfur. Cygnus almost dropped the flask, but he held on, grateful beyond words for Aslan's presence nearby.

The stream of smoke arced downwards, and hit the snow about five feet directly in front of Gylandir.

And then it was there.

Gylandir recoiled, but Cygnus, expecting the reaction, held fast to the reins and the pegasus stood his ground. Dimly, Cygnus could hear the horses that he, Tojo and Nesco had abandoned neigh in terror and gallop off, but that made no impact. Still looking down, the wizard was staring at a sickly, grayish-green, naked body, covered in scales.

And spikes.

Astride Gylandir as he was, Cygnus' head was a good seven feet off the ground, but when he looked up, the thing was staring him face-to-face.

Sharp spines covered almost every inch of the creature's body. It's long arms were capped with hands featuring four-fingered, impossibly long claws that flexed constantly.

Its tail, also spine-covered, flicked from side to side like that of an angry cat.

The face was the worst. The top of its head, even the elven-style ears were festooned with spikes. Sunken, dark eyes, with small pupils that seemed to flash from white to red, glared at Cygnus with undisguised hatred.

Cygnus had been to Baator before. He had seen this type of fiend before, although- thankfully- he had never had to engage it in combat. He didn't know its scholarly name, but he knew one thing for certain.

Aslan had been right. This was no lesser devil.

From somewhere, he heard Zantac's horrified voice, little more than a whisper.

"My god. Hamatula."

"Um, Cygnus?" Argo's voice.

The barbed devil snarled at Cygnus. Its mouth opened, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

"Not that I'd ever dare tell you your job or anything," Bigfellow's voice continued, now unnaturally nervous, "but isn't there something you should be saying right about now?"

_The command phrase!_

Cygnus thrust the now empty flask out at the creature- he didn't think that was necessary, but he wasn't going to take any chances- and squeaked out the words in the Infernal tongue.

"Serve the flask master!"

Hoping beyond hope that only the words, and not the pubescent squeak they were being delivered in, were all that mattered, Cygnus pointed behind the creature.

"Those back there are our enemies. Destroy them!"

The hamatula turned its head around to look where Cygnus was indicated, and then turned back to stare at him.

It didn't look like it was going anywhere.

A terrible, ear-shattering roar suddenly issued from the devil's maw.


	212. The Outlaws

**14****h**** Day of Ready'reat, 565 CY**

**The Barony of Willip, Furyondy**

**(About 1 Mile NW of the Brass Dragon Inn)**

An explosion of thick, foul-smelling smoke filled Cygnus' view.

Even while choking, the mage instinctively thrust out his right arm, ready to activate his _ring of shooting_ _stars_ before he realized that not only would it have absolutely no effect on this fiend, but that he would be caught in the backlash, as well.

But the devil was gone.

After a tense moment, the party exhaled as one.

"I don't think that thing is going to go gently back into this flask," Cygnus mumbled, fitting the iron jar back into his belt pouch.

"No point worrying about it now," Argo announced with his faux cheerfulness. "To battle, my faithful mount!" he called out to Aslan before slapping the paladin on the butt.

Aslan rose up, rearing just enough to force Bigfellow to throw himself forward and clasp his hands around the neck. With a clear neigh of annoyance, the pegasus flapped his wings and galloped forward, swiftly launching himself into the air.

* * *

"You were _serious_ when you told that to Elrohir?"

Aslan twisted his long head around. Even as a pegasus, he managed to give Argo the stink-eye.

"Touchy," Bigfellow responded ruefully, but the big ranger made no further move to annoy his transport. He hadn't realized how much he had come to depend on Gylandir's saddle until he no longer had it beneath him.

Argo looked behind him. Cygnus and Caroline, riding Gylandir and Sequester, were flanking him. He guessed they were about at sixty feet- that was a good cruising altitude for their pegasi- but the snow made it impossible to get a good estimate. He could just make out four dark blurs on the ground that he knew were horses carrying Elrohir, Nesco, Laertes and Zantac. Argo hoped that someone had retained the presence of mind to offer Tojo a lift. Otherwise, it would be a long time before the Yanigasawa samurai joined the battle.

Argo readied his composite bow and notched an arrow, looking for shapes ahead. The first one to emerge out of the snow, off to his right, was large and indistinct- a blotch nearly a hundred feet across that could only be the brigands, fanning out now through the snow, bows undoubtedly out and arrows nocked as well. Argo tried to make his silhouette as small as possible, trusting in Aslan's white coat to conceal them among the falling snowflakes for as long as possible.

Then, to his left, Bigfellow saw the creature that Zantac had called a hamatula. The barbed devil was trudging through the snow towards two figures who sat on horses, apparently awaiting its arrival. Argo could just make out five streaks of light emerge from one of the figures and strike the fiend, but the devil continued advancing remorselessly, not even breaking stride.

There was no sign of Nodyath, but for someone who possessed the same Talents as Aslan; if he was here they would be very lucky to spot him indeed- before he struck.

Now the big ranger saw a horse galloping below, directly ahead. The rider jerked sharply on the reins, halting the animal. Argo could only see it was a big man, perhaps his own size. Not Nodyath, unless he was polymorphed. The man raised a composite bow- shorter than his own- up at him and fired.

The distance was well over a hundred and fifty feet, but even through the snow the missile sped true and struck the polymorphed paladin in the chest. Aslan jerked and cried out in pain, Argo holding on only with his knees. The wound didn't seem to be a serious one, but Bigfellow couldn't tell from his angle. He was about to start guiding Aslan downward- no point staying aloft with a marksman of _that_ caliber on the ground, but the paladin was already starting to dive.

Aslan flung himself forward again; holding on now with both arms and legs.

_Maybe following a battle plan would have been a better idea after all_, the ranger thought, before reminding himself that since he would never admit that to Aslan anyway, there wasn't any point in dwelling on it.

The wind screamed past his face as the ground rose up fast.

* * *

Aslan came down in a steep, tight circle, intending to land next to the large figure- which he had now identified from Caroline's description as Sbalt- so that Argo could immediately engage him in combat. Just as he came down however, Sbalt suddenly reared his warhorse up, and the animals' left front hoof struck the pegasus squarely on his right cheek. Argo, who had just put away his bow and was preparing to draw Harve, was caught unawares and went flying, landing on his back in fresh snow which did little to cushion the impact. Out of the corner of his eye, the ranger saw Aslan, now human again, whirl around to face Sbalt, who was now resheathing his own bow and drawing a massive great axe from the strap which ran around his back.

A shadow passed overhead. Argo could spare only a glance to see Cygnus launching a _fireball_ from atop Gylandir, before pulling the pegasi to the right and climbing higher. The spell landed directly where the barbed devil's two targets were standing, but the resulting cloud of steam from melting snow prevented Bigfellow from seeing the results, although he heard two screams and the sound of at least one horse dying. A momentary peek at their unwilling ally showed it shaking off drops of what Argo initially thought was water but quickly realized was acid- remnants of a spell cast at it, the ranger guessed. It continued to move inexorably foreword. If it was grateful for the assistance Cygnus had provided it, there was no sign.

Aslan screamed. Sbalt's horse, under the brigand leader's command, was trampling the prone paladin. Argo staggered to his feet and drew Harve when from some point ahead, beyond his vision, a voice cried out, "Leave him! He's mine!"

Not Nodyath's voice. Unknown. Perhaps the poison-dagger wielder they called The Runt?

Now the twang of bowstrings and the sounds of arrows filled the air.

"Argo!" yelled Aslan, who had just managed to regain his feet, deflecting a lunging hoof with his shield.

"I've got him!" Bigfellow yelled, moving forward and catching Sbalt's steed with a long gash along its flank. While Argo would not normally bothered attacking his enemy's horse first, the deep snow severely reduced the ranger's mobility, and he wanted to make things equal. But as he brought Harve around again in the second half of his U-shaped stroke, Sbalt suddenly leaned way over in front of his mount, his feet wedged underneath the cinch strap, and intercepted Bigfellow's blow with his axe.

_He's good,_ thought Argo. _But then, these are the same people who killed Torlina and Aiclesis. And if we're not careful, us as well._

* * *

Almost all of his wounds vanished.

_It's good to be a paladin sometimes_, Aslan thought, allowing a grim smile to cross his features as he tightened his grip on both sword and shield and slowly advanced on the figure now walking towards him, perhaps sixty feet distance.

The man was even shorter than Aslan- an inch over five feet at best- but his build suggested neither elf nor dwarf. He wore plate mail of some kind, and carried a longsword and shield.

Fifty feet.

"Not trying to sneak around in the snow, Runt?" Aslan shouted as the distance between the two decreased with agonizing slowness. "There'll be no more of your backstabbing today! How good are you in a fair fight?"

The Runt did not reply.

Forty feet.

Aslan noticed the composite bow slung over the man's shoulder. It was about the same size as Aslan's, who had a good four or five-inch height advantage on this man. _That doesn't make any sense,_ the paladin thought, frowning. _He's had months to acquire the perfect weapon for himself. Why would_-

Aslan suddenly spun around. He could only see Argo, but he hoped with all his heart that all of his friends would be able to hear him.

"_It's him!"_ he screamed. _"It's him! It's not The Runt! It's Nodyath!"_

When the paladin turned forward again, he had just enough time to register his exact likeness standing thirty feet away before the _psionic blast_ hit him.

"This time, paladin," Aslan somehow heard his counterpart say, "it's to the death."


End file.
